Time on horseback was a rare pleasure. Abigail’s cart horse was biddable enough under saddle, but his gaits were miserable, and his sidesaddle manners nonexistent.
“I haven’t a habit with me.” And I won’t be here this time tomorrow.
“A pity. Would you care for tea or chocolate?”
His lordship was a gracious host. Abigail took the place to his left—sitting herself at the head of the table—and settled in to enjoy a fluffy omelet, crisp bacon, buttered toast, stewed apples, and her very own pot of chocolate.
“Your breakfast buffet is impressive,” she said when her plate was empty but for one triangle of toast. “Is this the prisoner’s last meal before you put her on the rack?”
“I am profoundly relieved to know you are feeling more the thing. To see you in less than fighting form daunts a man’s faith. Do you prefer to acquaint me with the facts of your situation in here, or shall you take your cup of chocolate with you to my study?”
Abigail wanted to see his study. From the outside, Lord Stephen’s home was just another staid Mayfair façade, but inside, no expense had been spared to create a sense of order, beauty, and repose. The art on the walls—northern landscapes full of billowing clouds and brilliant blue skies—was first rate. The spotless carpets were decorated with fleur-de-lis and crown motifs that suggested an antique French provenance.
And yet, the house was also stamped with his lordship’s personality. A mobile of lifelike finches and wrens hung over the main entrance, and the slightest breeze made the birds flit about. The transom window was a stained-glass rendering of roses and butterflies that left dots of ruby, emerald, and blue on the white marble floor.
Stylized gilt gryphons had been wrought into candelabra, and a carved owl—the symbol of Athena’s wisdom—served as the newel post at the foot of the main staircase.
Lord Stephen led the way down the carpeted corridor, his progress brisk for all he relied on two canes. Abigail trailed after him, sipping chocolate and frankly gawking.
So many winged creatures for a man who had trouble with earthbound locomotion.
“You pretend to admire my landscapes while you concoct a taradiddle,” Lord Stephen said when Abigail had closed the door to his study. “Your tale will include enough elements of truth to be convincing and enough fabrication to obscure your secrets. It won’t wash, Miss Abbott. I can hardly help you defeat Lord Stapleton if you keep me in the dark.”
The study had a vaulted ceiling across which a fantastic winged dragon trailed smoke and fire. The image was startling for its novelty and also for the peacock brilliance of the dragon. How many solicitors and business associates had sat all unsuspecting beneath the dragon’s fire and fangs?
“A beautiful rendering, isn’t it?” Lord Stephen said, gesturing Abigail to a wing chair. “At night, when firelight illuminates the ceiling in dancing shadows, that dragon seems more real than my hand in front of my face.”
“What’s his name?” Abigail asked, taking the indicated seat.
“Why do you assume the dragon is male?” Lord Stephen remained standing as he posed the question, the picture of tall, muscular English virility and a testament to Bond Street’s highest art.
An illusion, or the real man? And that smile…his smile was sweet, playful, and warmhearted, the opposite of how his mind worked.
The conundrum of his mental processes, charm juxtaposed with calculation, fascinated Abigail. She was counting on his calculating mind to keep her physically safe, while the charm imperiled her heart.
“I assume the dragon is male,” she said, “because most violent destruction is rendered by male hands, is it not?”
His lordship sat and propped his canes against the arm of the chair. He carried a matched set, softly gleaming mahogany, elegantly carved with leaves and blossoms. Either cane could knock a man dead with a single blow if wielded with sufficient force.
“Violent destruction or effective protection?” his lordship mused. “You have come to me for the latter, apparently, while I’d prefer to indulge in the former. Out with it, Miss Abbott, and not the embroidered version that flatters your dignity. How do you know Stapleton is after you, and what motivates him?”
Abigail finished her cup of chocolate—she would not be hurried even by Lord Stephen Wentworth and his pet dragon.
“The first incident escaped my notice until the second occurred. My companion keeps a dog. A smallish terrier sort of fellow with a mighty bark. She says we are safer thanks to Malcolm’s vigilance, while I maintain we simply get less sleep. In any case, Cook was preparing a roast for our Sunday dinner and because cheaper meat tends to be tough, she typically marinates any large cuts for some time before they go into the oven.”
That much was truth and Lord Stephen looked as if he accepted it as such.
“I received a fancy bottle of burgundy as a gift,” Abigail went on. “The note accompanying the bottle suggested a former client was making a gesture of appreciation, but the signature was a single letter—R. I have several clients from whom the bottle could have come, so I thought nothing of it.”
Lord Stephen propped his chin on his fist. “One of those would be my brother-in-law, His Grace of Rothhaven?”
“Precisely, and His Grace is a generous and thoughtful man. A fine bottle of wine sent on the spur of the moment would be like him or like your sister.”
“Do go on.”
“After the prescribed time, the roast went onto the turnspit, and Cook set aside a bowl of burgundy marinade thinking to use it to baste the meat. When her back was turned, Malcolm got to the bowl and began to slurp up the contents. The dog regularly consumes ale. A few swallows of wine ought not to have laid him low, but he was asleep within minutes.”
“Asleep?”
“Cook used a feather to bring up the contents of his stomach. He survived.”
Lord Stephen traced the claw-foot carved into the head of one of his canes. “Are you fond of dogs?”
“What has that to do with anything?” Abigail was very fond of dogs and cats and of her stalwart cart horse, Hector. Had Malcolm suffered permanent harm…“Malcolm is a dear little fellow, for all he’s terribly spoiled.”
“We dear fellows enjoy being spoiled, Miss Abbott.”
“Malcolm nearly died because his bad manners go unchecked.”
“Did he? I ask if you care for the dog because I’m trying to discern motive. Was somebody trying to poison you, your companion, and your staff—because a roast would feed the whole household—or merely trying to frighten you? Did the perpetrator know you allow your dog kitchen privileges, and was poison involved, or had the burgundy gone off somehow and the whole business is merely an unfortunate culinary accident?”
“I dismissed it as such. My dimensions are much greater than a terrier’s, and poisoning a marinade is an unreliable way to administer an effective dose of many drugs. My companion, however, is a more diminutive specimen, though how could anybody know we’d use the burgundy for a marinade? If we’d consumed the wine directly, as a good burgundy deserves, the results might have been different.”
“Does your companion have enemies?”
“Not that I know of, but allow me to continue.” This part of the tale, the attempted harm, was more of the simple, truthful part, and the part Lord Stephen must be made to focus on. “I did not connect the poison and Lord Stapleton until his second call upon me. He believes I am in possession of some letters and asked me for the return of them. I declined to accommodate him for reasons having to do with client privacy.”