Stapleton left the seat behind his desk, swung the marchioness’s portrait forward on its hinges, and opened the safe.

“The money’s all—blasted hell. Blasted, infernal…” Stapleton reached into the safe, though Harmonia could see plainly enough that it held only money and jewels.

No papers. Poor Papa-in-Law.

“You put him up to this,” Stapleton said, advancing on Fleming. “You put that Wentworth jackanapes up to stealing back your sister’s vowels and my entire store of leverage in the Commons.”

“I wish I had,” Fleming replied, pushing to his feet. “But the Wentworth jackanapes, as you refer to him, can barely negotiate a set of steps, and I have no means of making a ducal heir do anything. You have many, many enemies, Stapleton, no friends, and only a handful of paid-for allies. You had best be careful about whom you accuse of what.”

Oh, that was well done. Just a hint of boredom in Fleming’s tone, a hint of amusement—and a hint of threat.

And if Papa-in-Law no longer had Lady Roberta’s vowels…Harmonia rose and smoothed her skirts.

“You gentlemen will doubtless wish for privacy if you’re to discuss delicate matters. I’m expecting my portraitist for an afternoon sitting, so I will leave you to your plotting.”

Fleming bowed cordially, while Stapleton closed the safe and positioned the painting over it.

“I am not plotting, Harmonia,” Stapleton said. “The Abbott woman must be dealt with. I had thought to negotiate with her, but she’s clearly intent on getting above herself. Don’t be like her. Keep to your place, or I’ll give you cause to regret it.”

Harmonia merely stared at him. He’d apparently set Fleming to spying on Miss Abbott and Lord Stephen. He’d collected up the vowels of various MPs as a means of buying votes in the lower house of Parliament. He’d even ensnared Fleming in his intrigues by virtue of buying Lady Roberta’s gambling debts.

Now he was threatening Harmonia before a witness, and not with a long holiday in the north.

She tipped her chin up, rather than let Stapleton think her cowed. “I beg your pardon, Papa-in-Law.”

“What I do,” Stapleton said, “I do to safeguard the boy’s future. I owe him that future, and so do you.”

The marquess was much given to pomposity, but in that last pronouncement Harmonia heard only weary determination, and—was she imagining this?—a hint of worry.

“I’ll see you at supper,” Harmonia said, curtsying. She left the study at a decorous pace and closed the door quietly behind her. The walls were too thick to make eavesdropping in the corridor possible, and besides, she’d already heard more than she wished to.

She gathered her skirts and pelted up to her private sitting room, where she changed into the flattering ensemble she and de Beauharnais had chosen for her sitting.

Chapter Twelve

“He’s reading your letters,” Ned said, taking the place beside Abigail on the garden bench. “Also cursing a lot and staring off into space.”

Abigail moved her skirts aside to make room for Ned, though she’d rather be alone. “I assume you refer to Lord Stephen.”