“Why does Stapleton want them so badly? Whose letters are they, and what do they contain that makes his lordship so nervous?”

Abigail started for the door. “I’ll fetch my satchel, and we can have this discussion on the way to your brother’s house. There really isn’t much to tell.”

She swished through the door, leaving Stephen with a fading cockstand and a sense of disappointment as much of the heart as of the body. Abigail was planning to lie to him, though she apparently needed a few minutes to rehearse whatever Banbury tale she was preparing to spin.

This suggested she did not entirely trust Stephen, which was prudent of her. His courtship of her would be for show, while his desire was very much the genuine article. Even he wasn’t sure what to make of that puzzle.

The blasted, bedamned letters were the aspect of the situation Abigail hadn’t sorted out to her own satisfaction. She’d kept possession of them as a reproach to herself, proof of where mad impulses and foolish dreams could lead the unsuspecting. Now she had to explain them to a man whose intelligence was outstripped only by his curiosity.

And ye gods, by his kisses. Stephen Wentworth knew exactly where and how to touch a woman so she became focused exclusively on him. On his words, on the pitch of his voice, on the stillness he used as effectively as he used his hands. On the slow brush of his lips across her cheek, the heat of his palm along her shoulders.

“That is not why I came to London.” Abigail took stock of her reflection in the cheval mirror positioned in the corner of her bedroom. She wore the same gray coach dress she’d worn upon her arrival, but it had been brushed, sponged, pressed, and otherwise refreshed.

The dress hadn’t changed, but the blue velvet bed hangings, blue brocade curtains, and fancy floral carpet gave the ensemble a borrowed luster. Then too, Lord Stephen’s house had the high ceilings common to the dwellings of the wealthy. The result was more wall space on which to hang expensive art and, in summer, a cooler room.

A tall woman benefited from chambers built on a grander scale, complete with floor-to-ceiling curtains and yards of bed hangings. She looked less out of proportion with her surroundings, more of a piece with good taste, elegance, and comfort.

A maid rapped on the doorjamb and joined Abigail in the bedroom. “Excuse me, miss. Jake’s here to take your valise. Himself awaits you in the porte cochere and himself does not deal well with idleness. Jake, get in here.”

Standing for any length of time doubtless aggravated Lord Stephen’s leg.

A lanky young fellow in sober livery came through the door and offered Abigail a cross between a nod and a bow. She passed him her satchel, took up her sword cane and reticule, and followed the maid down the steps.

“I hadn’t realized this house had a porte cochere.”