“I couldn’t possibly hate her, though she probably hates me. I’m accustomed to people resenting my work, because I wreck their blackmail scheme or reveal them to be unfaithful. I’m not used to being ashamed of myself because of foolish decisions I made years ago.”

“Harmonia does not hold you responsible for Champlain violating his marital vows,” Stephen said, emerging from the privacy screen. “She disregarded the same promises, and didn’t hold Champlain accountable either, more’s the pity. I suspect she and de Beauharnais will keep company for a time. Stapleton won’t allow them to marry, and for all I know they aren’t inclined to marry.”

Abigail propped herself up on her elbows. “I thought you said de Beauharnais…?”

“He likes some men, he likes some women. There’s no accounting for taste, is there? You like me, for example.”

Abigail flopped back the covers rather than admit that she’d fallen in love with such a magnificent wretch.

“Come to bed. Tell me about the letters.” Because that was a far simpler topic than the dalliances of Mayfair sophisticates—also more important.

Stephen paused by the side of the bed to move the stack of his clothing to the clothespress. “Ned gave it a good try. He and his minions searched Stapleton’s study, bedroom, library, and sitting room. They searched his mistress’s home, and they searched Fleming’s abode. No letters. Plenty of IOUs from stupid MPs, even some impressive sums owed by Fleming’s sister to the wrong sorts of venues, but your letters were not to be found.”

He hooked his cane on the night table, climbed onto the mattress, and sat with his back propped against the pillows.

“I am tired, Abigail.”

She rested her cheek against his thigh. He’d left his satin knee breeches on, which was thoughtful of him, given that she needed to focus on the situation with Stapleton.

“I never realized,” she said, drawing a pattern around his knee, “how exhausting a wealthy life can be. The dancing alone takes stamina, and the gossiping and flirting and wagering.…The whole business struck me as a stage play put on for the amusement of the actors. A very expensive stage play.”

“And your Quaker heart railed against that display.” He stroked her hair. “As somebody who frequently went three days without eating in my childhood, I’m not too keen on fancy dress balls myself.”

“I thought you didn’t like the crowds and the dancing?”

“I loathe the whole farce. Do you have anything that bears Champlain’s handwriting?”

Abigail focused on the question, though she was physically and mentally exhausted and sadder than she could recall being in years.

“I don’t think so.”

“An old invoice from a gun purchase? A note bidding you to meet him beneath the trysting oak?”

“I destroyed my father’s business papers three years after closing his shop, and Champlain was inclined to do business in coin and show up unannounced.” Then he’d expected her to drop everything, sneak away to the stable, and hoist her skirts for him. There had been occasional trinkets—a plain ivory comb, a man’s pocket watch that kept unreliable time—nothing of great value.