Papa-in-Law gazed off across the room. “I never said the objective was to kidnap the woman. The objective is to inspire her to surrender some letters, and that apparently requires a pointed, face-to-face discussion. She must have a price, and she can’t possibly know what the letters are worth. With whom is she staying?”

“I only caught sight of her an hour ago. How should I know where she’s biding?”

Stapleton rose, but went only so far as to prop a hip on the corner of the desk. This was another ploy to mask his lack of height, to ensure that he never went literally toe-to-toe with taller men.

“Miss Abbott comes from Quaker stock,” he said. “She’s not wealthy, and she charges only modestly for her snooping services. She’s probably staying with some widowed third cousin or in a boarding house run by a Quaker goodwife. Start looking in those sorts of places. She doubtless has the letters with her, and she’s probably planning to call on me to discuss them.”

Fleming went back to studying the marchioness. “What if she’s given the letters to Lord Stephen for safekeeping?”

Oh, dear. Papa-in-Law’s face turned the shade of a ripe pomegranate.

“Why would she do that?” he asked. “Stephen Wentworth is nothing but a randy, tinkering, lame ornament. He and his brother should have been consigned to the mines in childhood, and the entire peerage would have been spared the embarrassment the Walden title has become.”

Fleming lifted the stopper from a decanter of brandy on the sideboard and sniffed. “The navy buys cranes from Lord Stephen, and the army won’t approve a new rifle pattern without asking his opinion first. He’ll become the next duke in all likelihood. You might dismiss him, Stapleton. I do not.”

Well, well, well. Fleming wasn’t entirely dunderheaded, for all he wore bay rum. In Harmonia’s opinion, Lord Stephen was every bit as formidable as his ducal brother, though his lordship did a creditable job of playing the part of a frivolous heir.

And—Harmonia was well informed regarding such matters—Lord Stephen was a devilish good kisser with more stamina in bed than any lame ornament ought to have.

A woman looking for a prospective second spouse did not account that a detail, though Stephen Wentworth was too shrewd for her taste. The damned man noticed everything and kept too much of his thinking to himself.

“Find Miss Abbott,” Stapleton said. “That’s the next step, and I rely on you to take it.”

Fleming let the stopper fall back into the decanter with a clink. “I rely on you to insinuate me into Lady Champlain’s good graces. You have thus far disappointed me, my lord, and my patience will soon be at an end. I bid you good day.”

“She’s at home,” Stapleton called as Fleming marched for the door. “Her ladyship can receive you now.”