A woman’s voice joined that of the shouting male, her annoyance palpable through the closed door.

“Come along,” Stephen said. “I won’t allow Stapleton or Fleming to bully you, and Miss Abbott won’t either.”

“She won’t bully me?”

“Don’t be tiresome. Miss Abbott won’t allow their lordships to bully you.” He opened the door and marched in—as best he could with a cane—just in time to see Abigail wallop Lord Fleming in the knee with her reticule and a growling Hercules strain at the leash held firmly in Abigail’s hand.

“Well done, Miss Abbott,” Stephen said. “Next time—if Fleming is foolish enough to provoke you again—aim higher and between his legs. The targets are doubtless tiny, but I trust you to make the blow count nonetheless. Good doggy, Hercules. Very good doggy, indeed.”

Abigail considered herself a patient woman, and with Stapleton, she was managing adequately. The marquess was stubborn and arrogant, but he kept his hands to himself. Fleming, however, made the mistake of attempting to take her by the arm and steer her to the sofa one too many times.

Abigail had no intention of sitting like a penitent schoolgirl while two men loomed over her and attempted to intimidate her.

She clipped Fleming on the knee with her reticule, a glancing blow that ought to smart for a time without doing any real injury. Fleming, however, was apparently not used to being thwarted, and he rounded on her with an ugly snarl, reaching for her arm again.

At some point in this exchange the door had opened, though Abigail could not take her eyes off Fleming to see who the intruder was. Stapleton was apparently inclined to let his minion manhandle a lady, which was, quite honestly, frightening. Abigail had come here for sound tactical reasons, but she hadn’t counted on Fleming acting like the ne’er-do-wells he consorted with.

Hercules was about to make his opinion known regarding Fleming’s rudeness while Abigail scrambled to recall the appropriate commands.

“Well done, Miss Abbott,” said an amused male voice. “Next time—if Fleming is foolish enough to provoke you again—aim higher and between his legs. The targets are doubtless tiny, but I trust you to make the blow count nonetheless. Hercules, good doggy. Very good doggy, indeed.”

Stephen. The relief that coursed through Abigail was unseemly. “My lord, welcome. The discussion was just getting interesting. Hercules, sit.”

The dog took to his haunches, his weight a comforting presence against Abigail’s leg.

“Harmonia,” the marquess said, “take this disgrace to good tailoring away, and don’t come back until I bid you to. Take the damned dog too.”

“We will stay,” Stephen said, lounging against the marquess’s desk, “and her ladyship will stay as well, because she is central to the conversation. Fleming, sit down and be quiet like yonder canine, lest Miss Abbott serve you more than a gentle tap to the knee.”

Stapleton was turning the unbecoming shade of ripe tomato, but he pointed at the sofa, and Fleming subsided and commenced rubbing his knee.