And he hadn’t even given her baubles she could not wear. He’d entrusted her with a pocket watch that kept bad time. Even so, he had fulfilled some need in Abigail for rebellion, though she would not admit Lord Stephen had handed her that insight.

“The prancing dandiprat has gone to his reward, and this is all none of your business.”

His lordship paused in his knee-rubbing and peered at Abigail. “Is that how he broke your heart? Swilling bad ale or taking a stray bullet in a duel? Does an old shade own your affections?”

“We were no longer involved at the time of his death, and, no, a bullet did not end his life. He was simply taken before his time by happenstance and bad luck. Tell me about your family. I’ve met them, but I don’t know them.”

Stephen cocked his head. “That is the clumsiest attempt to change a subject this side of an occasion of royal flatulence. The ruddy prickster was married, wasn’t he? He was married, you were his delicious little secret, and he neglected to inform you that he would never make good on all his saccharine promises. It’s as well he’s dead, because I do not countenance lies told for amatory gain.”

How had this conversation happened? “I am nobody’s delicious little anything. Tell me about your family.”

“Tell me about the letters, Abigail. Why does Stapleton want them?”

“I have no idea. They are love letters that do not identify the party to whom they were sent. They are several years old and not particularly inspired. I have read them, and I saw no state secrets, no royal scandals, no discussion of stolen treasures. They are quite dull, actually.” And once upon a time, she’d thought them so precious as to deserve memorization.

“Have you read many love letters, then?”

Doubtless not as many as he had. “I have been employed on several occasions to retrieve embarrassing correspondence. One must read the letters to know whether they are the epistles one was hired to find.”

“My, my. The Quakers failed spectacularly with you, didn’t they?”

“They failed my father. What are the names of your nieces?”

He removed his foot from the opposite bench. “The newest one is Lady Mary Jane Christine Benevolence Wentworth, and she’s about the size of half a bread loaf. Jane labored for two days, and I gather Quinn was with her for most of it. They are like that—not at all high in the instep in the things that matter.”

He prattled on about his nieces, upon whom he clearly doted. He would make a devoted and patient father, and be the sort of papa who knew exactly how to discuss a difficult topic with a child. No helpless retreats into scripture when common sense was wanted, no vague allusions to celestial mysteries when some blunt biology would do.

His daughters would know where little dragons came from before genteel ignorance could be used against them.