Stephen would cheerfully die for Duncan, and Duncan would never allow him that privilege.

“I will make a terrible duke,” Stephen said. “I am bad-tempered, enthralled with commerce, frequently in company with opera dancers, and unable to waltz.”

Duncan set his chair to slowly rocking. “Dukes keep company with whomever they please, they generally own vast swathes of commercial property, and have been known to be difficult. Ergo, it’s that last—the waltzing—that renders you unfit for the title?”

Well, no. “Go back to Berkshire.”

“Matilda is having too much fun doting on the older girls, and that leaves the field clear for me to dote on my own offspring. What is it about the title that truly bothers you, Stephen? You have many of the attributes that should characterize the nobility. You are wise, tolerant, hardworking, loyal to friends and family, and kindly disposed toward humanity in general. You will be an asset to the Lords precisely because you were not born to privilege. You are already a reproach to the cits who use their wealth only for their own indulgence.”

“An occasional charitable donation is expected of the wealthy. Quinn would thrash me if I were to neglect that duty.”

Quinn would never thrash him. Once, long ago, Stephen had pilfered a currant bun—the most delicious, delectable, delightful currant bun ever to be consumed by a famished boy. Quinn had learned of the misdeed and swatted Stephen once on the bum. The pain had been nothing, but the reassurance to Stephen, that his older brother would not allow him to slip into a criminal life, had been inordinate.

“Perhaps I should have stolen more currant buns.”

“You would make a fine felon,” Duncan said. “You would execute your crimes without getting caught, inspire loyalty among your subordinates, and keep order in the ranks.”

“You make me sound like some sort of regimental authority.” And how Stephen had envied all those young men buying their colors.

A log fell on the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the flue. “The military and the better-organized street gangs have much in common. That many of our returning soldiers now belong to those gangs emphasizes my point. What stops you from taking up a life of crime is the guilt. You know what it is to be a victim, thus you refuse to victimize others.”

“Truly, Duncan, a return to Berkshire on your part would be appreciated. I’ll squire Matilda and the girls about, and you can go back to reading the Stoics. I have a houseguest.”

Duncan’s chair momentarily stilled, then resumed its slow cadence. “You have acquaintances from all walks of life. What makes this houseguest different?”

“Miss Abigail Abbott is unlike any female—any person—I’ve encountered. She has no patience with guns.”

“And you love them. I’m sure that makes for rousing philosophical arguments. This is the inquiry agent from York whom Constance and Rothhaven hired?”

“The same. Miss Abbott kept Con’s secrets for years, never gave up on the goal, and eventually met with success. I admire that.”