Stephen brought the horse to a halt, because the alley was blocked by a phaeton that canted off to one side, its left wheel cocked at an angle.

“You have no personal objection to wearing colors?” he asked.

“None at all, other than valuing modesty generally. I doubt I would wear jewels even if I could afford them, though.”

Alas, no bracelets or earbobs. But then, bracelets and earbobs showed a dreadful lack of imagination. “What do you have against jewels?”

“Jewels are a means of hoarding wealth and being ostentatious about it. When veterans beg in the street and children must toil in the mines to avoid starving, such displays are unseemly.”

The owner of the phaeton was standing beside his conveyance, arms akimbo, whip in hand. He was young—Stephen would put his age at less than twenty—and he had a perfectly matched pair of dappled grays in harness. No tiger was on hand to hold the horses, though perhaps the tiger had been sent to retrieve a wheelwright.

“You’ve lost a cotter pin,” Stephen said, drawing his gig closer to the disabled vehicle. “Not a difficult repair.”

“Beg pardon,” the fellow said, bowing and tipping his hat to Abigail. “I’ve lost a what?”

“The cotter pin,” Stephen said, wrapping his reins around the brake so he could gesture with his hands. “It holds the wheel to the axle without impeding rotation. If you have something of stout metal, about four inches long and half an inch thick, you can make do well enough to get back to your mews.”

The young fellow looked glum. “I haven’t any such thing, and my brother will kill me. This is his phaeton, and I didn’t precisely ask permission before taking it out. Why does nobody fix the potholes in London’s streets?”

“That would cost money,” Stephen said. “Miss Abbott, might you surrender your parasol?”

She passed it over and Stephen unscrewed the handle from the shaft. “This might do,” he said, brandishing the handle. “You will have to hold the phaeton steady so the wheel isn’t bearing weight when you thread the pin through the axle.”

The young man looked baffled, which meant Stephen would have to climb down and show him, an awkward undertaking with no groom to hold the horse, pass Stephen his cane, or otherwise prevent a fall.

“Miss Abbott, might you take the reins?” She was a competent whip, at least in the wilds of Yorkshire.

She studied the damaged vehicle and stepped down from the gig. “I believe I can manage, my lord.” She stripped off her gloves and left them on the seat.

Stephen passed her the parasol handle, which had a good four inches of straight steel shaft above the curved end.

“What is she about?” the young man asked.

“She is making sure you live to see your majority.”

“This will work,” Abigail said, peering at the axle. “Let’s be about it, sir. I will lift the phaeton, and you will hoist the wheel onto the axle. Then you slip this”—she held up the length of steel—“through the holes in the axle.”