Ned casually turned his head, as if watching the progress of a nanny and her charge farther down the bank. “Bloody hell.”

Language, Ned. “I know that man,” Abigail said, as Hercules rumbled a warning. “I’ve seen him before.” But he hadn’t been in morning attire. He’d been…

“Take this,” Ned said, shoving his walking stick at her.

“I have my own sword cane, Mr. Wentworth. That is Lord Fleming.”

“That is trouble. Goddammit, Stephen will kill me, and I haven’t even a loaded peashooter to wave about.”

“I have a knife in my boot, a glass weight in my reticule, and a very stout hatpin in my bonnet. Hercules is trained to handle situations exactly like this. We shall contrive, and we shall do so without violating any Commandments.”

Fleming approached, his escorts hanging back a few paces. They were sizable, muscular, and dressed just well enough not to be mistaken for highwaymen.

“That nasty man tried to abduct me from a stagecoach,” Abigail muttered. “I have a score to settle with him.”

“Miss Abbott.” Lord Fleming stopped three yards off and bowed, sparing Hercules an assessing glance. “We have not been introduced. Wentworth, good day. Perhaps you’d tend to the civilities?”

“Not if you think to bother the lady, I won’t.” Ned fingered the handle of his walking stick, which sent looks ricocheting among the three men behind Fleming.

“We mean the lady no harm,” Fleming said. “We simply want to have a civil conversation with her.”

The nanny collected her charge, while the swan glided away from the bank.

“Converse,” Abigail said, stroking Hercules’s head, “and I will decide if your intentions are civil.”

“I come to offer you my escort,” Lord Fleming said. “A certain gentleman of high station would like a word with you.”

The only gentleman of high station Abigail wanted a word with was Lord Stephen Wentworth.

“Here in London,” she said, “I’m told a quaint custom is observed among the wellborn. They pay calls on one another. They chat over a pot of tea and discuss any number of topics—the weather, attempted kidnappings, housebreaking, that sort of thing.”

Fleming’s brows rose. “You admit to breaking into my house?”

Abigail stepped closer, and Hercules moved with her. “I admit to having been the victim of housebreaking, sir. More than once, as my companion and my entire household in York will attest. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”

She itched to swing her reticule and drop Lord Fleming in his tracks. Between knives, sword canes, and the advantage of surprise, she and Ned could likely fend off Fleming’s toadies, and Hercules would doubtless give a good account of himself as well.

Except…this was Hyde Park. Half of London would witness the affray and know she had landed the first blow. Gossip would take wing because the lady assaulting the fine courtesy lord had been a guest of Their Graces of Walden before she enjoyed the hospitality of Newgate.

“Let’s talk,” Abigail went on, “about highwaymen who ride exceptionally fine horseflesh and speak in Etonian accents. Highwaymen who steal nothing but an innocent woman’s peace of mind.”