“In my head, he’s Lord Pontifical, Lord Impossible, Lord Limping Lover…but yes, I refer to the gentleman who has stolen your heart and not set foot in the family home for the past three days.”

Hercules peered up at Abigail from the flagstones. His chin rested on his enormous paws, and his eyes held the reproach of a poor wretch for whom the ball had been tossed for a mere half hour.

“I have endless privacy among the Wentworths,” Abigail said, “but no secrets.”

“We all have secrets,” Ned replied. “I suspect his lordship has confided more than a few of his to you. Did you know he hadn’t been to a fancy dress ball for years before you showed up?”

“Whereas I had never been to a fancy dress ball.” Pacing would have been unladylike and rude, but the sheer, endless waiting was fraying Abigail’s nerves.

“That bothers you?” Ned asked, holding out a hand toward the dog. “That you’re new to the London social whirl?”

“Yes, it bothers me. I’ve attended a house party or two in pursuit of an inquiry, but this…this…extravagant idleness. I cannot fathom it, and I will never approve of it.”

Hercules rose on a sigh and ambled over to sniff Ned’s fingers.

“You think Stephen enjoys extravagant idleness?”

“He appeared to be enjoying himself at the Portmans’ ball.”

“And we know Stephen Wentworth is as transparent as Venetian glass, don’t we? He hated every minute of the whole excursion. He wished desperately that he could have come housebreaking with me, but he instead kept to your side like yonder hound, guarding you against all perils.”

Abigail did get to her feet and walked off a few paces. “I guard myself against all perils.”

Ned studied her while he petted the dog’s head. His expression put her in mind of the Duke of Walden, though Ned was no blood relation to His Grace.

“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Ned said. “You can’t respect the fancy wastrels who make up the aristocracy, and your Quaker heart isn’t keen on a fellow who’s a genius with firearms, but the real issue is, you are too stubborn to throw in your lot with anybody, even somebody as contrary, smart, and unconventional as you are—maybe especially that sort. Would you rather have a loyal lapdog?”

Hercules craned his head back, the better to revel in Ned’s caresses. Abigail felt exactly like that damned dog when Stephen touched her.

“You are impertinent, Mr. Wentworth.”

“And here I thought you hadn’t noticed my finer qualities, so besotted are you with his lordship.” He rose, and Abigail resisted the urge to step back.

Ned Wentworth was only slightly above average height, and he was slender. He had no title, and Abigail hadn’t heard any mention of Ned possessing independent means, though he was clearly well dressed, and yet…When Stephen had needed a housebreaker, Ned had apparently been able to get into, toss, and get out of not one but three dwellings in the course of a night.