“Don’t you dare run off, Abigail. I am maneuvering my mental artillery into place.”

“I refuse to argue with you. I know how I felt about Winslow—how I still feel about him. I know how determined you are to put Jack Wentworth’s ghost to rest. I commend you for your integrity and wish you every joy.”

She shifted to the edge of the bench, rose, and readied herself to begin the process of leaving London, and leaving Stephen.

“Sit down, you dratted female. You know all manner of vital information, but you apparently don’t know the fact that matters most. I have not imposed the words upon you, thinking to wait for some cozy, private moment when I could ply you with spirits and tempt you with my manly charms, but to hell with that. Spirits imperil my balance, and you’ve sampled my manly charms. I love you, and I don’t care if the whole rubbishing park knows it.”

Abigail sat back down.

Winter storms in Yorkshire could blow with such ferocity that wind, cold, and snow obliterated any sense of direction. Gravity alone remained constant in the face of such a gale, and Stephen had survived this tempest of a day by clinging to one equally steadfast constant: He loved Abigail Abbott.

Well, two constants: He loved Abigail, and he hoped to hell she loved him back. Otherwise…

Otherwise did not bear thinking about.

“I’m selling my gun manufactories,” he said, which wasn’t an announcement he’d planned to make.

“I hope you aren’t doing that for me. You love the intricacy and complication of a precisely made firearm.”

I love you more. How simple life became in light of that singular organizing principle. “Do you know what the most complicated, intricate creation in the whole universe is?”

“You?”

“Close, but not quite. A child—my child, to be precise. If the boy isn’t to grow up very confused and disappointed, the adults around him will have to manage an elaborate dance. His mother claims his brilliance is unprecedented in the annals of English boyhood, but all I see is a busy little fellow with a big imagination and a kind heart. He’s a person, Abigail. A dear, unique person.”

Abigail was looking at Stephen as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “I know that.”

“To Jack Wentworth, children were chattel, possessions. Little beasts of burden put on earth to fetch him gin, placate his temper, beg for him, and flatter his arrogance. He was pleased with himself for arranging the sale of his young daughters into a life of misery, brutality, and disease. Pleased with himself. He was the lowest parody of manhood, but to his children he was more awful than the Almighty. He could literally kill us with impunity and laugh while doing it, and he gloried in his power over us.”

“Is this why you made Stapleton support the duke’s mining bill? Because children are not chattel?”

“I made Stapleton support Quinn’s bill because…I don’t know why, and that is not the topic under discussion. Nicky is not a thing, a possession that belongs to me because his mother and I shared some passionate moments. She carried him under her heart, she knows his every fear and dream, and she has had the raising of him. Who am I—Who the hell am I?—to strut into his life years later pretending I have a right to order his existence?”