“We will not be disturbed again,” Stephen said. “For you to resort to sixteenth-century legislation for your obfuscations means, my dear, that you are very rattled indeed. Miss Abbott—Abigail—you are safe with me, as you knew you would be. I cannot help you if you refuse to apprise me of the nature of the challenge before you. Who has presumed to menace you?”
She had taken off her gloves to eat. She smoothed them against her skirts now, one glove atop the other, matching the right and left, finger to finger.
Why was the one glove resting atop the other vaguely erotic?
“I have apparently angered a peer,” she said. “Infuriated him, though I haven’t wronged him that I know of.”
Why come to the brother of a duke for aid unless…? “A marquess is after you?” They were few in number, particularly if the Irish and Scottish titles were eliminated from consideration. “An English marquess?”
“I think so.”
“You know so, but how do you know?”
She tucked the gloves away into one of those invisible, capacious pockets sewn into women’s skirts.
“Do you promise not to repeat what I tell you, my lord?”
“You are exhausted and afraid, so I will overlook the insult you imply.”
Her head came up, like a dominant mare sensing an intruder in her paddock. “I am not afraid. I am vexed past all bearing.”
She was terrified, and that was such a rare prospect that Stephen himself became uneasy. “Give me a name, Miss Abbott. I cannot scheme effectively on your behalf unless you give me a name.”
She had the prettiest gray eyes. All serious and searching, and those eyes were worried. That some fool had given her cause to fret vexed Stephen past all bearing. He’d not enjoyed a rousing fit of temper for ages, and the pleasure of putting a marquess in his place appealed strongly.
“You won’t believe me, my lord.”
“If somebody told me a mere marquess had blighted the confidence of Miss Abigail Abbott, that I would find hard to credit. The ranking imps of hell could provoke you to brandishing your sword cane, and for the massed armies of Britain you might slow your stride a bit. St. Michael the Archangel flanked by the seraphic host could inspire you to a respectful pause. But a marquess? A lowly, human marquess?”
Her hands bunched into fists. “He has tried to harm me, twice. Before he tries again, I will simplify matters by having you commit an arranged murder.”
Like an arranged marriage? “Who is this pestilence of a marquess?” Stephen mentally began sorting through Debrett’s. This one was too old, that one too young. Several were on the Continent, a few were simply too decent or too arrogant to resort to intriguing against a female of common origins.
Women were easy to ruin, and a female inquiry agent with a tarnished reputation would be ruined indeed.
“Lord Stapleton,” he said. “He’s an idiot. Arrogant, wealthy, nearly ran off his own son, God rest the earl’s randy soul. Stapleton has made his widowed daughter-in-law’s life hell. You needn’t die. I’ll kill Stapleton for you and the world will be a better place all around. Shall I ring for another tray? You’re still looking a bit peaky.”
Lord Stephen Wentworth displayed a strange blend of chilling dispassion and surprising graciousness. Abigail hadn’t spent much time with him, but her observations suggested his intellect worked like the mechanism of an automaton—ruthless logic turned mental gears unimpeded by sentiment. If a marquess was attempting to murder somebody who hadn’t committed any particular crime, then murdering the marquess was both just and advisable.
That taking a life was illegal, immoral, and contrary to Abigail’s values did not seem to occur to his lordship, or trouble him if it did. Then too, Stapleton hadn’t precisely attempted murder—yet.
“You cannot kill a peer of the realm, my lord, though I am touched by the offer.” Abigail was also unnerved that Lord Stephen would so easily guess the identity of her nemesis.
“You are appalled at the very notion, even as you tell me this man has twice attempted to do you harm. His bloodthirsty behavior is merely vexing while my gallantry appalls you. Female logic at its unfathomable finest. I need details, Miss Abbott, and I suspect you need another tea tray.”
And there was the odd flash of consideration, at which Lord Stephen also excelled. “You attempt to confuse me. Spouting offers of murder one instant and proffering more sandwiches the next.” Abigail could eat more than most farmhands and still be hungry. Trust Lord Stephen to sense that unladylike trait and remark upon it.
“Can you be confused by sandwiches? Good to know. The bell pull, Miss Abbott. Thrice.”
She rose to comply, because with Lord Stephen one chose one’s battles—and she was hungry. The inn fare on the Great North Road had been unfit for feral dogs, and stagecoach passengers seldom had time to finish a meal, in any case.
“Do you promise you won’t kill Lord Stapleton?” Abigail remained on her feet to ask that question, which was petty of her. Lord Stephen was cursed with an unreliable leg. To stand for any length of time pained him, according to his sister, and walking a distance took a heavy toll. With this man, though, Abigail would use every means available to gain and keep the upper hand.
Bad enough she needed his help. Worse yet if she could be befuddled by a plate of warm, toasted cheese sandwiches that had cheddar dripping over the crusts and smelled of butter with a hint of oregano and chives.
“If I did finish the old boy off,” Lord Stephen asked, “would you spank me for it?” He batted his eyelashes at Abigail, such an absurdity she nearly burst out laughing.
“I suspect Bow Street would see you punished were you to murder the marquess, and I don’t want their inconvenience on my conscience. I simply need to be left in peace and allowed to go safely on my way.”
The discussion paused again as two footmen wheeled in an entire trolley of comestibles. One fellow lifted the lid of a tureen, and the scent of a hearty beef barley soup wafted to Abigail’s nose. The other footman set a second tea tray on the low table, except that the offerings also included a pot of chocolate, a carafe of claret, and a mug of cider.
“Would miss care for anything else?” the footman asked.
“What else could I possibly…?” She left off speaking as the footman ladled a steaming serving of soup into a delftware bowl.
“Lemonade?” Lord Stephen suggested. “A syllabub, a posset, orgeat? Three tugs on the bell pull means the kitchen is put on full alert. Battle stations, present arms, forced marches to the pantries and wine cellars. Tell Thomas your inmost culinary desire and he’ll convey it directly to Cook.”
Only a very wealthy man had the resources to put a kitchen on full alert at a moment’s notice. Abigail had made discreet queries into the extent and sources of Lord Stephen’s fortune, and the sums he was said to possess were nearly as staggering as those attributed to his ducal brother.
“The available offerings are more than sufficient,” Abigail said, as the footman set out cutlery on a tray and added the bowl of soup, thick slices of buttered toast, and a spicy mug of hot mulled cider.
“That will be all, gentlemen,” Lord Stephen said. “Though please have the fires lit in the blue suite.”