“And Napoleon was never at our doorstep.”

Ned passed her the parasol. “He was a mere fourteen miles away, across the Channel, but because Nelson sank the French fleet that’s as close as he came. One sea battle away. Would you like to see more of Hyde Park?”

“You are changing the subject, Mr. Wentworth.”

“That seems a prudent strategy while I am winning the argument.” He cocked his head in a mannerism Abigail associated with Stephen. “As it happens, I agree with you. A hundred years of war hasn’t solved a blessed thing, and it has made Britain all manner of deadly enemies. Thanks to the likes of Lord Stephen, the weapons grow more sophisticated, the slaughter worsens, and all the while, the Lords debate how long the surviving populace will be starved by the Corn Laws. We ought to be taking care of our own instead of plundering the four corners of the earth so a few nabobs can become still wealthier.”

A boy who’d killed his own father to keep his sisters safe would understand war as a defensive necessity. Abigail would never change Stephen’s mind on that score.

And what did it matter? Stephen needed a prospective duchess, and a lapsed Quaker inquiry agent was not that woman.

“A walk in the park sounds lovely,” Abigail said, “but you aren’t to bring a brace of pistols, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Guns are too noisy. A well-aimed knife is just as effective, quieter, and can be thrown a thousand times. Stephen taught me that, and you do not want to stand between that man and a target when he’s wielding a blade or a firearm. I’ll meet you by the front door in ten minutes.”

He bowed and strode into the house, leaving Abigail in Hercules’s company on the terrace.

“I meant that comment about the brace of pistols as a jest,” she said, stroking the dog’s ears. “Ned took it seriously.”

Which suggested Stapleton still posed a danger to her, and that Stephen had made no progress uncovering any clues hidden in the letters.

“Why, Miss Smithers,” Stephen said, “what a fine establishment you have here.”

Betty climbed down from the ladder that slid along the shelves of tea. “Tom, take yourself off for a pint, there’s a lad.”

The clerk had been holding the ladder and gazing adoringly at Betty’s ankles. He bobbed his head at Stephen, grabbed a cap, and bolted out the door.

“You’ve made another conquest,” Stephen said, leaning on the glass-topped counter. “I own I am jealous.”

Betty dusted her hands and looked him up and down. “I thought you were leaving for the grouse moors. You haven’t been sleeping, your lordship.”

Stephen had slept little and badly since the Portmans’ ball. “No hug for an old friend, Betty? No gesture of affection?” She looked happy, rosy, and quite at home in her shop. Stephen would not have allowed her business to fail, but neither could he have made the place a success if she wagered away all the profits.