Not if I’m waiting for Endymion de Beauharnais to call, I can’t.

“My sister expects me to drive out with her this afternoon,” Fleming said. “Perhaps we’ll encounter Lord Stephen and Miss Abbott in the park.”

“Give them both my cordial regards, and find out where the hell the woman is staying. She’s kept the letters from me long enough.”

Fleming looked, if anything, amused at that pronouncement. “I will call on Lady Champlain tomorrow. You need not join us.” He bowed—ironically?—and withdrew.

Stapleton returned to his desk and took out pen and paper. Harmonia went to the window and watched as Fleming and de Beauharnais exchanged polite bows on the walkway. They chatted for a moment, a study in gentlemanly contrasts.

Fleming was stolid, plain, and apparently dogged, though wellborn and a conscientious brother. De Beauharnais was gorgeous, talented, a commoner, and interesting company. Watching them converse, Harmonia felt a sense of sympathy for Champlain’s wandering eye. He’d wanted everything—a wife, a lover, adventure, another lover, the familiar company of his fellows, the management of his own wealth, the inane ritual of drinking away the dawn in a duck blind or galloping half-inebriated after a fox. He’d sought to live every second of his life.

Not to hide in empty parlors listening at vents.

Harmonia’s goal in life was to see that Nicky had the same opportunities Champlain had had, though she hoped her son also possessed a bit more sense by the time he was enjoying those opportunities.

De Beauharnais bowed again to Fleming and jaunted up the porch steps, using his walking stick to rap on the door.

Harmonia really ought to remarry. She needed an ally who could take on Stapleton and best him easily. Perhaps de Beauharnais would have some ideas. He knew everybody and knew a few interesting little secrets too. Best of all, he knew how to make a lady smile and how to keep his mouth shut about the lot of it.

Stephen could not recall the last time he’d been so purely pleased with life. Abigail in a toy shop was a revelation. Beneath her pragmatic, self-contained veneer lay a female who’d not been cosseted or flirted with half enough. She’d turned the pages of pretty storybooks one by one and marveled at the softness of a doll’s hair. A child-sized tea set put longing in her eyes, and Stephen knew she was thinking of his nieces.

The moment she’d spied Stapleton’s damned coach, the softness and wonder had gone straight out of her, and Stephen had been forced to all but drag her away from the scene.