“I am in my prime,” Quinn interjected, and who was to say brothers more than a decade apart in age could not both be in their primes?

Jane speared him with a glower. “Of course you are, as the state of our nursery will attest. Try to focus, Quinn. This is important.”

Stapleton supporting the mining bill was important. The talk in the clubs was one part amazed, one part disbelieving, and all parts in awe of Quinn’s negotiating ability. The credit belonged to Stephen, of course, and Stephen would disown Quinn if he mentioned that. Stapleton was as good as his word, offering clear if terse support for Quinn’s bill. Fleming’s titled father had enjoyed a similar shift in perspective.

“Stephen has fallen in love,” Quinn said, patting the arm of his wing chair. “He’s behaving like a Wentworth male in love. This Wentworth male would enjoy a snuggle with his duchess, if she’s so inclined.” A snuggle doomed to the platonic side of the marital continuum, alas.

“But must Stephen be so passionately in love under our very roof?” Jane countered.

“Miss Abbott is under our roof, and thus Stephen is underfoot as well. He has asked if I would finance the sale of his munitions works.”

Jane’s pace slowed. “He’s selling off his gun manufactories?”

“And his foundry, which he uses mostly to make cannon and gun barrels. I know of some American investors who would love to get their hands on a British munitions works, and they have the means to acquire one too.”

“This is not good,” Jane said, coming to rest on the arm of Quinn’s chair. “Stephen loves his weaponry. Cranes for the navy and circulating saws and the like are all well and good, but he delights in the intricacy of firearms.”

Quinn took her hand and kissed her fingers. Never had a woman been more fiercely devoted to family, and never had a family benefited so greatly from a lady’s loyalty.

“Stephen loves his weaponry, but he loves Abigail Abbott more. He can now delight in the intricacy of the female mind, or one female mind in particular.”

“He seems content to delight in Miss Abbott’s body, Quinn. I heard laughter when I passed by her sitting room last night.”

Quinn tugged on Jane’s hand, and that was enough to bring her down into his lap. “Jane, what is this about? Stephen never laughs. He is ironic, sarcastic, and droll, but he doesn’t laugh. If Miss Abbott provokes him to laughter, we should rejoice. Napoleon has been reduced to a bad, soon-to-be-glorified memory, and the military has more soldiers and guns than it needs. He should be selling off his military investments. I’ve been telling him that for three years.”

Jane scooted around, which did nothing to quiet Quinn’s doomed longings. “A composer doesn’t stop hearing orchestras in his head,” she said, “just because symphonies have gone out of fashion. Stephen is selling off his firearms businesses because Miss Abbott has Quaker leanings. She isn’t above carrying defensive weapons, but the taking of human life always violates a Commandment in her theology.”