Abigail could not be so generous, but she could keep her judgments to herself. Champlain’s character, or lack thereof, no longer interested her.

“I don’t have the letters,” she said. “Somebody stole them earlier this year. By the time Lord Fleming was plaguing me and holding up stagecoaches, I no longer had them. I had read them often enough to be able to reconstruct them fairly well, hence, Lord Stephen was able to divine the impact of the dates.” Perhaps Abigail in some corner of her heart hadn’t wanted to see the possibilities, but then, she’d had no idea of the precise age of the Stapleton heir. “I would like the letters back, though. They are all I have…they are mementos of…”

All I have of my son. That reality was too personal to be aired in this company—too personal, and too painful.

Stephen held out a hand to her, and Abigail took it.

“Miss Abbott wants her letters back. Lady Champlain, you will please return them.”

Abigail rested against him, and perched as he was against the desk, he provided a sturdy support. The impact of his conclusion—that Champlain’s wife had stolen the letters—frankly caught her unaware.

But it made sense. Her ladyship would do anything to protect her son, and Abigail respected that.

“You took them to safeguard the boy,” Stephen said, “or perhaps to get Stapleton under control—God knows that thankless task should fall to somebody. The letters have served their purpose, Stapleton knows the slender thread by which his consequence dangles, but he also knows your own reputation will suffer should you disclose the child’s origins. Give the letters back, or I will take matters into my own hands.”

Abigail had missed Stephen, missed the scent of him, the hard, muscular feel of his body. She might have, eventually, suspected the petite, pretty Lady Champlain of taking the letters, but not in time to use the knowledge effectively. Knowing who had violated Abigail’s household and why should have given her a greater sense of satisfaction.

“You owe Miss Abbott much,” Stephen said. “You have stolen more from her than a batch of maudlin old letters. You stole her peace of mind and set in motion an interruption of the business she relies on to provide necessities. Worse yet, you imperiled her reputation. You sent her fleeing to virtual strangers for aid, and for that, she will require recompense. Give her back the letters. Now.”

Abigail straightened and Stephen let her go. “I would like them back. They are my property, not yours.”

A quiet knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” Stephen called.

The butler took one step into the room. “His Grace of Walden and Mr. Duncan Wentworth, to call upon the marquess.” The man’s voice had quavered a bit, which Abigail understood only too well.

Duncan and Quinn strode into the room, resplendent in morning attire, gold winking at their cuffs and from the abundant lace of their cravats. Both men wore boots polished to a mirror shine, and, by contrast, Lord Fleming looked frumpy and Stapleton positively mildewed.