“This is not good,” Jane said, coming to rest on the arm of Quinn’s chair. “Stephen loves his weaponry. Cranes for the navy and circulating saws and the like are all well and good, but he delights in the intricacy of firearms.”
Quinn took her hand and kissed her fingers. Never had a woman been more fiercely devoted to family, and never had a family benefited so greatly from a lady’s loyalty.
“Stephen loves his weaponry, but he loves Abigail Abbott more. He can now delight in the intricacy of the female mind, or one female mind in particular.”
“He seems content to delight in Miss Abbott’s body, Quinn. I heard laughter when I passed by her sitting room last night.”
Quinn tugged on Jane’s hand, and that was enough to bring her down into his lap. “Jane, what is this about? Stephen never laughs. He is ironic, sarcastic, and droll, but he doesn’t laugh. If Miss Abbott provokes him to laughter, we should rejoice. Napoleon has been reduced to a bad, soon-to-be-glorified memory, and the military has more soldiers and guns than it needs. He should be selling off his military investments. I’ve been telling him that for three years.”
Jane scooted around, which did nothing to quiet Quinn’s doomed longings. “A composer doesn’t stop hearing orchestras in his head,” she said, “just because symphonies have gone out of fashion. Stephen is selling off his firearms businesses because Miss Abbott has Quaker leanings. She isn’t above carrying defensive weapons, but the taking of human life always violates a Commandment in her theology.”
Quinn waited for Jane to settle, which she eventually did, her legs over the arm of the chair, her bottom nestled against his…lap.
“You think Stephen is selling up to placate his future duchess?”
“Stephen doubtless thinks that’s what he’s doing.”
“Jane?”
She rested her head on Quinn’s shoulder and quieted against him. “I miss you, Your Grace.”
“We can last another three weeks, Jane. We’ve managed before.” Though they would be the longest three weeks in marital history.
“I feel like a heifer. I’m suited for nothing of late but grazing and production. I will never fit into my dresses again, and that child has the appetite of a dragoon.”
Oh, how I love you. “You are beautiful to me, Jane, and you always will be. That our baby is healthy and thriving is my second greatest joy after being your husband.” As a younger man, Quinn had been too shy and backward to give his wife the words she needed. Thank heavens Jane was, indeed, a patient woman.
“It’s not fair.” Jane sighed against Quinn’s neck. “With every child, you grow more handsome and distinguished. I become fat and irritable.”
Quinn kissed her cheek. “You talk this way when you’re tired. It’s very bad of Stephen to be courting his Abigail while you are recovering from childbed. Duncan is grumbling because Stephen hasn’t spared him even a single game of chess.”
“Stephen will have time for chess again soon. I do believe I am about to steal a nap.”
“Jane, what aren’t you telling me?”
She was silent for a moment. Quinn had learned to wait for her replies.
“Ned is fond of Miss Abbott.”
“We all are.” Quinn did not understand exactly what drew Stephen and Abigail to each other, but the lady was clearly a match for Stephen’s intellect and for his heart.
“She asked Ned to procure her a ticket on the Wednesday night Northern Flyer. Ned had sense enough to make it an inside ticket. She booked two seats all the way to York—one for Hercules, if you can imagine that—and asked Ned to tell no one.”
But Ned, like Quinn, was entirely the Duchess of Walden’s creature, and had thus apparently tempered his silence with a judicious slip of the tongue in Jane’s hearing.
“And Stephen has no idea,” Quinn muttered. Neddy’s slip of the tongue neatly placed upon Jane the burden of telling Stephen this news.
She yawned delicately. “This is not how I envisioned their situation resolving, Quinn. You had better have a word with Stephen.”
Well, of course. “Go to sleep, my dear. I will have a word, and love will prevail, if I have to rap Stephen over the head with his own canes to ensure the outcome my duchess prefers.”
Jane dozed off, a warm, beloved weight in Quinn’s arms. Her naps were deep and usually brief, and this one gave Quinn a chance to ponder his brother’s situation with Miss Abbott. They were profoundly in love, of that Quinn was certain. Stephen would not part with his manufactories for any other motivation, but as for Miss Abbott…
Quinn would have a word, and not with Stephen.
Chapter Sixteen
“You are abandoning my brother,” His Grace of Walden said, taking the place beside Abigail on the garden bench. “Why?”
One did not tell a duke to take himself off, not in his own garden, but Abigail dearly wanted to.
“My reasons are my own, Your Grace. I am very appreciative of your hospitality, but my errand here in London is concluded. The time has come for me to return to York.”
She would have called for Hercules and retreated to the house, but His Grace went on speaking as if she’d remarked nothing more significant than the mild weather.
“I have four daughters.” The duke offered this observation with the sort of relish that suggested he stood to inherit the crown jewels.
“Lovely little girls,” Abigail said. “Very dear. I’m sure you’re quite proud of them.”
“I am besotted with my womenfolk, and Stephen is besotted with you. Yet you turn your back on him. Is this your Quaker heritage taking a stand against firearms, Abigail?”
She should scold him for using her given name, but with His Grace of Walden, etiquette worked in reverse. If the duke condescended so far as to use familiar address, the person so addressed was honored, and, besides, Abigail liked that he’d not stand on ceremony with her. Stephen would make the same sort of duke, adept at navigating social subtleties, devoted to his wife and children—blast him to Hades.
“I do not approve of warfare,” she said. “Particularly not aggressive warfare. Stephen is welcome to involve himself in whatever business he pleases. His commercial undertakings are no concern of mine.”
The duke was a larger specimen than Stephen. He was more heavily muscled and took up more of the bench. His scent was pleasant, though not as enticing as the beguiling fragrance Stephen wore. Abigail would not have noticed these differences, but becoming Stephen’s lover had changed how she experienced the world.
Men were either Stephen or not Stephen, and those who were not Stephen could never match the standard he set. For wit, loyalty, fierceness, passion, tenderness…
“Stephen,” His Grace said, “whose affairs are no concern of yours, is arranging the sale of any interest he holds in ventures related to making or repairing firearms of any stripe. I have been urging him to diversify for three years. You come along, and in little more than a fortnight, he’s set about dismantling an empire that could re-arm the French military.”
Oh, Stephen. “His lordship has a flair for drama, and he is a man of dispatch. He will make a fine duke, should that day ever come.”