“What’s his name?” Abigail asked, taking the indicated seat.

“Why do you assume the dragon is male?” Lord Stephen remained standing as he posed the question, the picture of tall, muscular English virility and a testament to Bond Street’s highest art.

An illusion, or the real man? And that smile…his smile was sweet, playful, and warmhearted, the opposite of how his mind worked.

The conundrum of his mental processes, charm juxtaposed with calculation, fascinated Abigail. She was counting on his calculating mind to keep her physically safe, while the charm imperiled her heart.

“I assume the dragon is male,” she said, “because most violent destruction is rendered by male hands, is it not?”

His lordship sat and propped his canes against the arm of the chair. He carried a matched set, softly gleaming mahogany, elegantly carved with leaves and blossoms. Either cane could knock a man dead with a single blow if wielded with sufficient force.

“Violent destruction or effective protection?” his lordship mused. “You have come to me for the latter, apparently, while I’d prefer to indulge in the former. Out with it, Miss Abbott, and not the embroidered version that flatters your dignity. How do you know Stapleton is after you, and what motivates him?”

Abigail finished her cup of chocolate—she would not be hurried even by Lord Stephen Wentworth and his pet dragon.

“The first incident escaped my notice until the second occurred. My companion keeps a dog. A smallish terrier sort of fellow with a mighty bark. She says we are safer thanks to Malcolm’s vigilance, while I maintain we simply get less sleep. In any case, Cook was preparing a roast for our Sunday dinner and because cheaper meat tends to be tough, she typically marinates any large cuts for some time before they go into the oven.”

That much was truth and Lord Stephen looked as if he accepted it as such.

“I received a fancy bottle of burgundy as a gift,” Abigail went on. “The note accompanying the bottle suggested a former client was making a gesture of appreciation, but the signature was a single letter—R. I have several clients from whom the bottle could have come, so I thought nothing of it.”

Lord Stephen propped his chin on his fist. “One of those would be my brother-in-law, His Grace of Rothhaven?”

“Precisely, and His Grace is a generous and thoughtful man. A fine bottle of wine sent on the spur of the moment would be like him or like your sister.”

“Do go on.”

“After the prescribed time, the roast went onto the turnspit, and Cook set aside a bowl of burgundy marinade thinking to use it to baste the meat. When her back was turned, Malcolm got to the bowl and began to slurp up the contents. The dog regularly consumes ale. A few swallows of wine ought not to have laid him low, but he was asleep within minutes.”

“Asleep?”

“Cook used a feather to bring up the contents of his stomach. He survived.”