“We are here to hold a thief accountable,” Stephen said. “Or perhaps two thieves.”

Two thieves? Abigail hadn’t stolen anything—yet.

“Precisely,” Stapleton said, rapping his fist on the blotter. “Somebody broke into my home and took property owned by me. That is a crime, and I intend to see the perpetrator punished.”

“And you assume Miss Abbott is the perpetrator?” Stephen inquired, fluffing the silk of his cravat. “When did this dastardly deed take place?”

“Wednesday of last week,” Stapleton said, “and Fleming claims Miss Abbott was seen in the vicinity of this house.”

The woman who’d accompanied Stephen into the room turned out to be Harmonia, Lady Champlain. By daylight, in an old-fashioned high-waisted gown, she did not look quite as glittering and gay as she had in a candlelit ballroom. She looked, in fact, weary and worried.

“Lady Champlain,” Stephen said, “you were at the Portman ball, as was Lord Fleming. Was Miss Abbott present?”

Fleming spoke first. “She was, but the dancing ended at least three hours before dawn, and Miss Abbott would have had time to effect her crimes while polite society slept all unaware.”

Stephen was looking at Abigail, his head cocked at that inquiring angle. She nodded in response, though Their Graces would likely be displeased with her. Somebody had to put an end to this foolishness, and if that meant airing the truth, so be it.

“Alas for your entirely self-serving theory, Fleming, the lady was with me. I escorted her to the Walden residence, and spent the balance of the night with her. Escorted her to breakfast, in fact, and my, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the duke and duchess.”

In other words, Their Graces would support Stephen’s recitation, no matter the damage to Abigail’s reputation.

“We’re courting,” Stephen said, aiming an indulgent smile at Abigail, “and the course of true love occasionally deviates from strict decorum.”

“So you see,” Abigail added, “neither his lordship nor myself could have trespassed on your property, Lord Stapleton. Lord Fleming, however, has no such alibi. He could well have turned down the room with her ladyship, gone for a smoke in the garden, and made free with your premises without anybody noticing his absence. Given his sister’s tendency to wager, retrieving her vowels from you would have served his ends very nicely.”

“How the hell could you possibly—?” Fleming began, rising from the sofa, only to sink back onto the cushions with both hands bracing his knee. “Bedamned to you, Miss Abbott, and to your quarter-ton reticule and half-ton dog.”

“I am a professional inquiry agent,” Abigail replied. “I need not skulk about to learn of your sister’s unfortunate tendencies when they are common knowledge at the piquet tables.” A slight fabrication, very slight. Stephen had been at the piquet table and he could well have known of the lady’s gambling markers. “And if you had kept your hands to yourself, you would not have needed a small lesson in manners.”