Not what she would have predicted, but then, with Stephen predictions were pointless.

“Now we can have a nice sleep,” he said, using his handkerchief on his belly. “And our minds can work on the puzzle of how to thwart Stapleton while we dream of candlelit waltzes and naughty kisses.”

Abigail curled down to her side, more than willing to let the day finally end. Stephen wrapped himself around her and commenced rubbing her back.

“I can’t keep my eyes open,” she murmured.

“You have earned your rest. Go to sleep and dream of me.”

She would, blast him, and though it was a poor reflection on her pious upbringing, Abigail had wished desperately that she could have waltzed with him too.

He was right, though—they needed a plan for thwarting Stapleton, and when that plan had run its course, she would return to York, and Stephen would remain in Mayfair, where he’d probably…invent the world’s first repeating rifle.

“Wentworth took her to the ball?” Stapleton muttered, tapping his spoon against his teacup. “He took a professional snoop to Portman’s do, paraded her before all of society, casual as you please?”

Harmonia pretended to idly rearrange the linen napkins on the tea tray, though she’d rather be anywhere but in Stapleton’s study as he interrogated Lord Fleming.

“Wentworth not only paraded Miss Abbott before all of Mayfair,” Fleming replied, “he did so in the company of his older brother, who chatted graciously with Miss Abbott and partnered her at whist. The Wentworth cousin and his lady were present as well, and had the duchess not recently been brought to childbed, she’d doubtless have been showing the family colors too. Lord Stephen and Miss Abbott were firing a warning shot across your bow, sir.”

Stapleton took a prissy sip of his tea, then held the cup out to Harmonia. “This is too weak. You should know how I like my tea by now, Harmonia.”

The marquess sat behind his desk like a lord justice at the bench. His display of pique was strategic, intended to belittle her before Lord Fleming. She considered for a moment spilling the tea by accident in Stapleton’s lap, but denied herself that pleasure.

Papa-in-Law was angry, and when he was angry he was particularly unmanageable. She retrieved his cup and saucer and set it on the tray.

“My apologies, sir. Lord Fleming, is your tea acceptable?”

Fleming smiled at her from the reading chair. “Bitterness is an acquired taste, my lady. My tea is lovely and suits me quite well, thank you.”

She subsided onto the sofa, while Stapleton’s frown became a scowl. Fleming had danced an interminable quadrille with her last night, his movements correct and surprisingly graceful. She had sought solace with de Beauharnais in the garden when the dance had finally ended—and solace she had found. Lovely solace.

“Something must be done,” Stapleton said. “I cannot have that woman flaunting herself before polite society. Harmonia, you will attach Lord Stephen’s affections. Bed him if you have to. He’s not to fall into the clutches of the Abbott creature.”