“Fleming?” Stapleton asked in a low voice. “Is this true? Did you feign a burglary of your own home just to disguise your perfidy toward me?”

Fleming hesitated, then sent an assessing glance at Lady Champlain. He was preparing to lie, mentally arranging prevarications, which confirmed Abigail’s theory regarding his motives.

“Lady Champlain,” Abigail said, “perhaps you should sit. You look quite pale. Lord Fleming’s desire to propose marriage to you has clearly inspired him to foolish behaviors. You may disabuse him of his presumptions now.”

“Marriage?” her ladyship said, as if the word had been recently borrowed from Urdu. “Lord Fleming seeks to marry me? I know we’ve flirted and stood up for an occasional dance, but marriage?”

“Why not?” Fleming retorted. “I am of suitable rank, you’re a proven breeder, Stapleton’s political influence would stand me in good stead, and you’re a widow. You should be grateful that a man of appropriate rank would take you on when your settlements won’t be that impressive.”

“A proven breeder?” Lady Champlain echoed. “A proven breeder?”

“And you’re not bad looking,” Fleming added, in what had to be the most ill-advised observation a man ever made. “A bit long in the tooth, but you can still pop out a couple of sons, I’m sure. I will be diligent regarding my marital—”

Stephen waggled his cane at Fleming. “If you hold a prayer of living to ensure the succession, cease covering yourself in stupidity. She wouldn’t have you if you were the last exponent of the male gender in all of creation—do I have that right, my lady?”

Lady Champlain nodded.

“So, my lord,” Abigail said, “where are the letters?”

All eyes turned to regard Fleming, who had stopped rubbing his knee. “I admit I looked for them, and I admit that had I found them, I would have read them thoroughly and used them as I saw fit.”

Stephen shot his cuffs, the picture of elegant male ennui. “You admit to housebreaking with intent to steal and to contemplating extortion. Your criminal acts are undertaken not to protect anybody’s reputation, but simply to advance your own interests.”

Fleming sat forward, elbows braced on his thighs. “My sister plays too deeply, Harmonia barely spares me the time of day, Stapleton is getting on and hasn’t an heir to his influence in the Lords. The boy…Champlain’s son could use a stepfather. What is so wrong about taking some old letters that simply prove what everybody knows? Champlain was a titled trollop.”

A sharp crack resounded and Fleming’s left cheek turned bright pink.

Chapter Fourteen

“Well done, Lady Champlain,” Abigail said. “A gentleman does not speak ill of the dead.” Not before the man’s widow, in any case, and not when that woman had apparently had quite enough of being told what to do by the men in her life.

“Damn it, Fleming, you do have the letters,” Stapleton said, rising from his chair and bracing himself on the desk blotter. “You found them, you hid them, and now some damned housebreaker has taken them. Admit it! My son’s reputation, the reputation of this house, is in the hands of one of your enemies. I knew I should never have taken you into my confidence.”