Stapleton put Stephen in mind of a bantam rooster, with all the arrogance of his larger fellows, nowhere near the power in a fight, and not enough brains to realize his disadvantage.

“But the boy—he’s all I have. For me to remarry would be pointless, and I haven’t even second cousins who could inherit.”

“Harmonia will have the raising of him,” Stephen said, tugging gently on a canine ear. “She will remarry and dwell where she pleases. You will not interfere with her or the child.”

“Or what?” Stapleton asked.

Fleming provided the obvious answer. “Or the Wentworths will ruin us both. The duchess will put it about that I have an unmentionable disease so no woman of any standing will marry me. My father will disown me and cut me off without a farthing. In the clubs, word will spread that you are growing mentally feeble, and your temper and arrogance will lend credence to the gossip. My sister’s latest gambling markers will all manage to fall into the wrong hands, and I rue the day I bloody met you, Stapleton. I’m done with this.”

He rose awkwardly, though this display of meekness wasn’t quite convincing. Hercules’s ears pricked up, suggesting even a nibble of rare haunch of dunderheaded viscount might be his favorite snack in the whole world.

“A moment, Fleming,” Stephen said. “You offended Miss Abbott. How do you intend to make reparation for the harm you caused?”

Fleming scrubbed a hand over his face. “Will she take money?”

For Fleming, that was a good try. “A signed apology, recounting your bad conduct, and money,” Stephen said.

“But if I all but confess…”

“My, my,” Duncan drawled, uncoiling from his reading chair with feline grace, “it appears you might have to leave the country for a time. Prague is a beautiful city, and not that expensive.”

“Take a fortnight to put your affairs in order,” Stephen said, “no more, and the sum should be generous enough to convey sincerity but not enough to be insulting. You may send your apology to the lady at the Walden ducal residence, to be received by this time tomorrow.”

“Be off with you,” Stapleton said, “and Godspeed.”

Fleming stalked out, his gait uneven, and only Hercules looked sorry to see him go.

“He’ll need a stout walking stick,” Stephen said. “I really must commend Miss Abbott on her aim.”

The tea tray arrived, and nobody made a move to pour out. When the butler had withdrawn, Stephen let the silence stretch. Quinn and Duncan, clearly enjoying themselves, did likewise.

“All right!” Stapleton expostulated. “Tell me how much, and I’ll write out the bank draft now. The damned woman has caused me nothing but misfortune and I’m sure my son regretted falling into her snares.”

“The damned woman?” Stephen repeated softly. “Falling into her snares?”

“Careful, Stapleton,” Quinn said. “Lord Stephen’s temper is rare and magnificent.”

“Deadly,” Duncan added, “when provoked. That stout walking stick is a sword cane, he has at least two knives on his person at all times, and there is not a witness in this room who will support your version of events should injury occur—to you. And by the by, that mastiff looks hungry to me.”