“Did you invest the money?”

“Half in the cent-per-cents, like you told me. Half in a little business that employs fallen women to make parasols.”

Betty was engaging in charity, in other words. “Give me the name of the parasol shop and I will offer it my custom.”

“You’re buying parasols now, my lord?”

“As it happens, I am, as are the womenfolk in my family. I also have a few designs involving parasols that might sell quite nicely. I am not, however, here to discuss investment opportunities with you.”

“And you aren’t looking to get under my skirts,” Betty said, gaze speculative. “So what are you doing here?”

Guarding my dragon. “Stapleton must think that Miss Abbott knows some nasty family secret,” he said. “That she’s come across documents or facts that reflect badly on Stapleton. Would your friend Ophelia be willing to talk to me about Stapleton?”

Betty pushed a stool over toward Stephen’s chair. “She shouldn’t talk to anybody about the man who’s putting a roof over her head. Rest your foot.”

Stephen did, because it seemed the polite thing to do and because his knee was throbbing.

“The jewels Stapleton has given Ophelia are paste, Betty. He set ruffians on Miss Abbott in an attempt to drag her off a stagecoach, and he’s searched her house at least once. Stapleton buys up vowels to extort compliance from MPs and younger sons, and now he’s made Miss Abbott’s life difficult.”

Betty passed him a square pink pillow to place under his calf. “A mistress who gossips is soon no longer a mistress. To you it’s a matter of curiosity to talk to her, but for her it’s life and death to keep her mouth shut. She already sees other men on the side just to make ends meet. Stapleton cut back her allowance because he can’t…he doesn’t…”

Betty Smithers was blushing.

“His lordship can’t perform?” Stephen suggested.

“You are awful,” Betty muttered, but she was smiling. “He’s useless, according to Ophelia. She’s tried everything, and I do mean everything. The bindings, the whips, the elixirs, the toys…His lordship stops by for a late lunch, has a nice lie-down, sometimes fondles her bubbies a bit, then goes on his way.”

Ironic. The son had been a rutting hound, the father was impotent—now. No wonder Stapleton hadn’t remarried a woman of childbearing age.

“I’ve heard of keeping up appearances,” Stephen said, “but to maintain a mistress merely for show…” No wonder Ophelia had other customers. “Does she frolic with Lord Fleming?”

“She cares for him, the fool. He’ll never marry her, and he started calling on her just to keep an eye on Stapleton. Fleming is decent to her, but the men are all gents at first, aren’t they? Fleming has to marry—he’s an only son—and Ophelia will never be wife to a lord. Ophelia thinks Fleming will marry Stapleton’s daughter-in-law, the better to manage Stapleton.”

A memory intruded, of Lord Fleming leading Lady Champlain out for the quadrille at the Portmans’ ball. They had made a handsome couple, with her ladyship’s customary friendly smile on display throughout most of the dance.