Betty patted his lapel. “Here’s my gesture of affection, old friend: I’ll give you a ten percent discount on my best gunpowder, how’s that?”

A few weeks ago, Stephen might have patted her bottom in return and bantered about giving her something for free. She was a respectable shop owner now, and thank heavens for that.

“Have you any gunpowder flavored with jasmine flowers?”

Betty glanced around the shop. “If you were tossing me over for another lady, you might have just said. You’ll be taking a wife now, or you should be. Jasmine green tea is a woman’s choice.”

“Might we sit?” Stephen asked, because fatigue—and missing Abigail—made his knee hurt worse.

“Come into the back with me,” Betty said. “Frisky Framley told Marie you were at the Portman ball, and you escorted a lady. An Amazon, but nobody knows much about her. Miss Abbott from Yorkshire. Marie heard a rumor that she’s a professional snoop.”

The back room was a combined office and parlor. The fragrance of tea was punctuated here with the scent of a bouquet of roses sitting on the battered desk. The blooms were fresh and the thorns had been clipped from the stems.

“Miss Abbott is an inquiry agent,” Stephen said, sinking into a venerable armchair. “She has provided my family loyal service, and I have reason to believe her welfare is in jeopardy.”

The kneehole desk faced the wall, papers stacked over most of its surface. Betty turned the chair to face the room and took a seat.

“You’re sweet on her,” she said, without rancor. “You would not escort her to a society ball unless the lady mattered to you. Who’s after her?”

Abigail and Betty would get along famously. “The Marquess of Stapleton, a nasty, aging arachnid of a peer, who—”

Betty waved a hand, displaying ink-stained fingers. “Ophelia Marchant has other names for him, none of them complimentary. She’s been his fancy piece for ages, but he never takes her to the theater, and hardly ever buys her a trinket. But then, she’s not really earning his coin, is she?”

“Anything you know about Stapleton could be useful, Betty. Miss Abbott had a brief affair with Stapleton’s son years ago and can think of no reason why the marquess should take up against her now.”

Betty worried a nail. “Did Stapleton’s son marry her? Some of these dashing blades think sham weddings are quite entertaining. A sham wedding that wasn’t a sham might be a lark for such as them.”

“Stapleton’s heir was properly married at the time.” Or improperly, given the lack of fidelity on both sides of the union.

Betty wrinkled her nose. “And this lordling either lied about being married or he promised Miss Abbott his harridan of a wife was expiring of consumption. Men have no imagination.” Another inspection of Stephen’s person followed. “Some men. Lord Dunderhead sent Clare a very nice sum. She bought a one-third interest in this shop, though this is her day off.”