“But you didn’t take him into your confidence, did you?” Stephen mused. “The problem with the letters isn’t that they confirm Champlain’s reputation as a”—he spared Lady Champlain an apologetic smile—“bon vivant, but that they prove he was kicking his heels in France at the time his son was conceived. The current heir to the Stapleton title is a cuckoo in the nest, and the letters, dated and highly descriptive of the locations in which they were written, prove that conclusively.”
Lady Champlain’s complexion went from pale to translucent, confirming that Stephen had deduced the why of the whole imbroglio. Champlain could have been the world’s greatest libertine and merited only a few raised eyebrows.
Not so, Lady Champlain.
“You can’t know that,” her ladyship said, sinking onto the sofa. “Nobody can know that. I met Champlain in Paris that year, and we found a country house to rent until summer. Nobody can know…”
“We know it now,” Abigail said gently.
At the desk, the marquess was silent, his gaze fixed on the portrait hanging over the mantel.
“Well, hell,” Fleming muttered. “If I’d known that’s why you were looking for—”
Abigail hefted her reticule. “Hush, lest I heed his lordship’s guidance regarding where I aim my second blow. You are a walking verification of the theory that excessive inbreeding has rendered the aristocracy mentally unfit.”
“I wanted to destroy the blasted letters,” Stapleton said. “That’s all I sought, to destroy them. I would have never known about them, except Champlain kept journals of his travels, for posterity, I suppose, and he noted when he wrote to whom. Her ladyship was his Sunday correspondent, Miss Abbott he wrote to twice a week. As if he feared she’d forget a marquess’s heir the moment he took ship.”
Would that I had. Stephen was watching Abigail, and she realized he had more to say but was waiting for her permission to say it.
“You’ve had Champlain’s journals for years,” Abigail observed. “Why set your highwaymen and housebreakers on me now?”
Stapleton, who’d aged about twenty years in five minutes, twisted a ring on his fourth finger. “The boy turns six next week. He’ll soon be old enough to be interested in his father’s—in Champlain’s—journals. I read through them to make sure there’s nothing a lad ought not to see regarding his father. The journals are surprisingly dull given my son’s proclivities, but then I noticed the pattern of his correspondence, and I knew something had to be done.”
“But the boy isn’t your grandson,” Fleming said. “Why go to all that trouble when the child isn’t even your blood?”
“I didn’t realize he wasn’t my grandson until recently, and what does that matter? He’ll be the next Marquess of Stapleton, and he’s just a little boy. I want to blame Harmonia, but Champlain was…he was a difficult husband. One must concede the obvious.”
Lady Champlain had regained some of her color. “Champlain wasn’t a bad man, he simply had more growing up to do.”
Abigail could not be so generous, but she could keep her judgments to herself. Champlain’s character, or lack thereof, no longer interested her.
“I don’t have the letters,” she said. “Somebody stole them earlier this year. By the time Lord Fleming was plaguing me and holding up stagecoaches, I no longer had them. I had read them often enough to be able to reconstruct them fairly well, hence, Lord Stephen was able to divine the impact of the dates.” Perhaps Abigail in some corner of her heart hadn’t wanted to see the possibilities, but then, she’d had no idea of the precise age of the Stapleton heir. “I would like the letters back, though. They are all I have…they are mementos of…”
All I have of my son. That reality was too personal to be aired in this company—too personal, and too painful.
Stephen held out a hand to her, and Abigail took it.
“Miss Abbott wants her letters back. Lady Champlain, you will please return them.”
Abigail rested against him, and perched as he was against the desk, he provided a sturdy support. The impact of his conclusion—that Champlain’s wife had stolen the letters—frankly caught her unaware.
But it made sense. Her ladyship would do anything to protect her son, and Abigail respected that.
“You took them to safeguard the boy,” Stephen said, “or perhaps to get Stapleton under control—God knows that thankless task should fall to somebody. The letters have served their purpose, Stapleton knows the slender thread by which his consequence dangles, but he also knows your own reputation will suffer should you disclose the child’s origins. Give the letters back, or I will take matters into my own hands.”
Abigail had missed Stephen, missed the scent of him, the hard, muscular feel of his body. She might have, eventually, suspected the petite, pretty Lady Champlain of taking the letters, but not in time to use the knowledge effectively. Knowing who had violated Abigail’s household and why should have given her a greater sense of satisfaction.
“You owe Miss Abbott much,” Stephen said. “You have stolen more from her than a batch of maudlin old letters. You stole her peace of mind and set in motion an interruption of the business she relies on to provide necessities. Worse yet, you imperiled her reputation. You sent her fleeing to virtual strangers for aid, and for that, she will require recompense. Give her back the letters. Now.”
Abigail straightened and Stephen let her go. “I would like them back. They are my property, not yours.”
A quiet knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Stephen called.
The butler took one step into the room. “His Grace of Walden and Mr. Duncan Wentworth, to call upon the marquess.” The man’s voice had quavered a bit, which Abigail understood only too well.
Duncan and Quinn strode into the room, resplendent in morning attire, gold winking at their cuffs and from the abundant lace of their cravats. Both men wore boots polished to a mirror shine, and, by contrast, Lord Fleming looked frumpy and Stapleton positively mildewed.
Hercules greeted them with a few thumps of his tail, but remained at Abigail’s side.
Abigail was enormously glad to see both Wentworths, not that she should have ever, ever doubted that Stephen had the situation in hand. He looked of a piece with his kinsmen, and in his casual posture, perhaps even a bit more elegant.
“Walden, Cousin.” He nodded graciously. “Greetings. Miss Abbott, it appears your artillery has arrived. Perhaps somebody should ring for tea, or—given the occasion—break out the brandy. I might instruct the butler accordingly, but it is hardly my place to do so.”
Stapleton glowered at his butler. “Stop eavesdropping and get thee to the kitchen.”
“My letters?” Abigail said. “I will have them back now.”
Lady Champlain got to her feet. “I keep them in the nursery. You may have the lot of them.”
“I’ll come with you,” Abigail said, unwilling to let her ladyship roam free without supervision.
“That will not be necessary.” Lady Champlain made a good try at looking down her nose, but for once, Abigail was delighted to be nearly six feet tall.