Ah, so they were to analyze the battle maneuvers then. “I considered him too, but if he had the letters, why not use them to secure Lady Champlain’s hand in marriage or a return of the gambling markers? Your letters have been missing for months and Fleming took a serious and unnecessary risk interfering with a stagecoach.”

“So he did not have the letters. What made you think of Lady Champlain?”

“She was the logical next choice, having a very great interest in keeping from Stapleton’s grasp anything that imperiled her standing in the household. Perhaps the old boy was growing difficult, perhaps her ladyship had read Champlain’s journals and reached the same conclusion Stapleton did. I hardly care now that the problem is solved.”

Later, when Abigail was smiling and once more on her mettle, Stephen would review the whole matter as he would review a rifle pattern, ensuring every part was labeled accurately and drawn to scale.

Abigail rested her head on Stephen’s shoulder, the gesture weary. “I met Mr. de Beauharnais in the nursery. He’s very attractive. Has all the heroic features.”

Gracious. Was this what troubled her? Stephen most assuredly did not want to talk about Endymion de Beauharnais’s excellent nose.

“If you must know, I think his great good looks are a problem for him. The merry widows plague him ceaselessly and the gay blades want a discreet go at him. All he longs for is to create good art and— Abigail, was that a yawn?”

“Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“I haven’t been sleeping at all.”

She closed her eyes. “Have you dreamed of me anyway?”

“Yes.”

“I dream of you too.”

What was a fellow to make of that? Stephen let Abigail drift off, or pretend to. Her breathing was regular and slow, but he’d spent a night in her arms and knew the difference between real and feigned sleep. Abigail’s reaction to a case solved and a marquess put in his place was apparently fatigue. Perhaps good spirits would come later.

Perhaps she was due for a nap.

Perhaps something had gone badly awry between her and Harmonia or her and de Beauharnais, in which case, no force on earth would pry confidences from Abigail Abbott until she was ready to share them.

When the coach pulled up before the Wentworth town house, Stephen escorted Abigail inside and sent word to Jane that the letters had been retrieved without incident. After Quinn and Duncan returned, there would doubtless be a round of brandy in the library, but first, Stephen would enjoy a private interlude with his beloved—and with whatever she was keeping from him.

Inspiration struck as he drew off Abigail’s cloak: Perhaps she was the sort to have a private little fit of the weeps after vanquishing a foe. That would explain much.

“Upstairs with us,” he said, when Abigail’s cloak and bonnet were on their respective hooks. “We’re entitled to share a tray in your sitting room.”

Abigail held the packet of letters in her hand. The paper was yellowing, the ink already fading. The red ribbon binding them together was fraying on the ends.