Also a world of injustice. “You were not too big. Babies are whatever size the Almighty decides they should be, and I have it on the authority of no less person than Jane, Duchess of Walden, that her smallest baby gave her the worst trouble in childbed. The larger brats seemed to have some sense of how to go about the business, but the littlest one was contrary. She still is, in fact.”

Miss Abbott’s profile belonged on some martyr of ancient renown. “But the midwife said…”

Clearly, nobody had ever walked the formidable Miss Abbott through some basic reproductive facts.

“Is this why you haven’t married?” Stephen asked. “You punish yourself for biology you had no power to change? Do you know who ought to be examining his conscience? The rutting fool who got your mother with child. Women do not conceive absent the involvement of some fellow or other, unless you’d have me believe divine intervention occasioned your existence? You do know where little dragons come from, don’t you?”

She swung her gaze on him like the port authority swiveling harbor cannon on an enemy fleet.

“Why haven’t you married, my lord? You are in line for a dukedom, you are a gun nabob, and not hard to look upon. Surely if one of us is behindhand matrimonially, you are.”

Stephen rejoiced to see the glitter of battle returning to Miss Abbott’s eyes, rejoiced to earn her upbraiding. That she’d light upon the sad reality of his situation was entirely convenient to his plan.

“You and Her Grace will get on famously, Miss Abbott. She likes you. My entire family will second your opinion that I am behindhand matrimonially, and in a variety of other regards. This is precisely why you must give up on your plan to die for Lord Stapleton’s convenience.”

Miss Abbott folded his handkerchief and rose, stuffing it into a pocket. “Stapleton will not stop, my lord. Nothing less than a permanent end to me will suffice to ensure my safety.”

Why was she so confident of that conclusion, and what exactly had been in those letters?

“Stapleton bides here in London at present, and yet he had the ability to set six ne’er-do-wells on your tail in godforsaken Yorkshire. He nearly managed to have your household drugged, if we accept your version of events, and that took both careful attention to your circumstances and a ruthless exercise of power. Do you suppose he won’t have your corpse dug up, Miss Abbott?”

Grave robbers were a sad fact of life. Miss Abbott’s expression said she hadn’t calculated on Stapleton retaining their services.

“And what if,” Stephen went on, “you die and his search for those letters goes on? Does your companion suffer his wrath? Is Malcolm’s well-being imperiled again? You, being ostensibly dead, could not intervene to protect them. I surmise that if you had the letters, you would have surrendered them, but for two things: A client asked you to keep them safe, or client privacy means you cannot surrender them. That also means you aren’t at liberty to destroy the letters. Destroying yourself won’t destroy the letters.”