The object of the exercise was to give Ned something interesting to do, lest dear Neddy take it upon himself to break a few heads that were by rights Stephen’s heads to break.

“You think a code of some sort might be embedded here?” Ned asked, gathering the letters into a stack.

“A cypher, a signal, something.” Except that only Abigail had ever read the dratted letters, so what was the point of a hidden message?

“And you’re off to challenge Stapleton to a duel?” Ned said, shuffling the letters into some sort of order.

“Abigail frowns on violence, so no. I am off to call on Lady Champlain,” Stephen said. “When I showed up in Portman’s ballroom, I was swarmed by matchmakers, hostesses, dowagers, and the usual straying wives and merry widows. Lady Champlain did not offer me so much as a smile during the eternity that was the ball.”

“She’s one of your…”

“Dear former acquaintances. I met Harmonia when she was in the mood to make Champlain jealous, and I—being an agreeable sort of fellow—obliged her.”

“You are a disgrace.”

“I am a charming man who enjoys the occasional interlude with a willing woman, and Champlain all but threw her at me. Said my consequence exceeded his, and she ought to like that. I am not proud of my behavior, but everybody involved was willing.”

Ned folded the letters into a pocket of his tailcoat. “I do not now, nor will I ever, understand the Quality. Miss Abbott and I are agreed on that.”

“Read the letters,” Stephen said. “I will find out why Harmonia ignored me and see what Abigail’s about with Stapleton.”

Stephen knew better than to hurry—hurry resulted in falls, and falls could result in complete bed rest, not to mention days of pain and self-recrimination—but he made an efficient trip to the stables and a very quick jaunt on horseback to Stapleton’s front door.

The marquess’s butler was too well trained to overtly convey surprise, but he did try to take Stephen’s cane from him.

“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind,” Stephen said. “I can see myself to the formal parlor.”

“My lord, I must announce you.”

“No, you must not. Her ladyship and I are old friends, and I’m surprising her.”

“But, my lord, she’s not in the formal parlor. His little lordship’s sixth birthday is next week, and the formal parlor is being thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of the happy day. Her ladyship is in the family parlor.”

“And where is Stapleton?” Stephen asked, examining his appearance in the mirror hanging on the door of the porter’s nook.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord. If you’ll follow me this way.”

A carriage rolled up to the front door, the Fleming town coach, though the crests were turned and the coachy and groom were not in livery. The chestnuts in the traces were distinctive, though, in that their white stockings did not quite match.

Fleming emerged and politely offered Abigail a hand down, which she ignored. She was in magnificent good looks, her parasol and walking stick at the ready. Hercules, regal and dangerous, panted at her side. Stephen had figured out on the ride over that her objective was reconnaissance of enemy territory. If she spotted one of Champlain’s journals, she’d doubtless discreetly borrow it.