“I enjoy a hack on dry mornings. You are welcome to join me tomorrow if you like to ride.”

Time on horseback was a rare pleasure. Abigail’s cart horse was biddable enough under saddle, but his gaits were miserable, and his sidesaddle manners nonexistent.

“I haven’t a habit with me.” And I won’t be here this time tomorrow.

“A pity. Would you care for tea or chocolate?”

His lordship was a gracious host. Abigail took the place to his left—sitting herself at the head of the table—and settled in to enjoy a fluffy omelet, crisp bacon, buttered toast, stewed apples, and her very own pot of chocolate.

“Your breakfast buffet is impressive,” she said when her plate was empty but for one triangle of toast. “Is this the prisoner’s last meal before you put her on the rack?”

“I am profoundly relieved to know you are feeling more the thing. To see you in less than fighting form daunts a man’s faith. Do you prefer to acquaint me with the facts of your situation in here, or shall you take your cup of chocolate with you to my study?”

Abigail wanted to see his study. From the outside, Lord Stephen’s home was just another staid Mayfair façade, but inside, no expense had been spared to create a sense of order, beauty, and repose. The art on the walls—northern landscapes full of billowing clouds and brilliant blue skies—was first rate. The spotless carpets were decorated with fleur-de-lis and crown motifs that suggested an antique French provenance.

And yet, the house was also stamped with his lordship’s personality. A mobile of lifelike finches and wrens hung over the main entrance, and the slightest breeze made the birds flit about. The transom window was a stained-glass rendering of roses and butterflies that left dots of ruby, emerald, and blue on the white marble floor.

Stylized gilt gryphons had been wrought into candelabra, and a carved owl—the symbol of Athena’s wisdom—served as the newel post at the foot of the main staircase.

Lord Stephen led the way down the carpeted corridor, his progress brisk for all he relied on two canes. Abigail trailed after him, sipping chocolate and frankly gawking.

So many winged creatures for a man who had trouble with earthbound locomotion.

“You pretend to admire my landscapes while you concoct a taradiddle,” Lord Stephen said when Abigail had closed the door to his study. “Your tale will include enough elements of truth to be convincing and enough fabrication to obscure your secrets. It won’t wash, Miss Abbott. I can hardly help you defeat Lord Stapleton if you keep me in the dark.”

The study had a vaulted ceiling across which a fantastic winged dragon trailed smoke and fire. The image was startling for its novelty and also for the peacock brilliance of the dragon. How many solicitors and business associates had sat all unsuspecting beneath the dragon’s fire and fangs?

“A beautiful rendering, isn’t it?” Lord Stephen said, gesturing Abigail to a wing chair. “At night, when firelight illuminates the ceiling in dancing shadows, that dragon seems more real than my hand in front of my face.”