“Would miss care for anything else?” the footman asked.

“What else could I possibly…?” She left off speaking as the footman ladled a steaming serving of soup into a delftware bowl.

“Lemonade?” Lord Stephen suggested. “A syllabub, a posset, orgeat? Three tugs on the bell pull means the kitchen is put on full alert. Battle stations, present arms, forced marches to the pantries and wine cellars. Tell Thomas your inmost culinary desire and he’ll convey it directly to Cook.”

Only a very wealthy man had the resources to put a kitchen on full alert at a moment’s notice. Abigail had made discreet queries into the extent and sources of Lord Stephen’s fortune, and the sums he was said to possess were nearly as staggering as those attributed to his ducal brother.

“The available offerings are more than sufficient,” Abigail said, as the footman set out cutlery on a tray and added the bowl of soup, thick slices of buttered toast, and a spicy mug of hot mulled cider.

“That will be all, gentlemen,” Lord Stephen said. “Though please have the fires lit in the blue suite.”

Abigail noted his lordship’s presumption, but she wasn’t about to take issue with his high-handedness until she’d done justice to the soup, a baked potato stuffed with bacon and brie, and an apple tart drizzled with some sort of raspberry-flavored cream.

As she finally, finally ate her fill for the first time in days, Lord Stephen arranged his booted foot on a hassock and leaned his head back against the sofa cushions as if—harmless old thing that he was—he’d doze off in the presence of a lady.

“I am being rude,” Abigail said. “I know I ought not to eat so much, and that I’m supposed to make polite conversation while I clean my plate—my plates—but I don’t take you for a high stickler.”

“I can be a high stickler,” his lordship replied, slouching lower against the cushions without opening his eyes. “I take very firm exception to marquesses who threaten my favorite inquiry agent, for example. Such fellows could end up facing me over pistols on the field of honor, whereupon their odds of survival are abysmal. Have another tart.”

She should decline, but the tarts were magnificent. Warm, sweet, rich, and spiced with cinnamon in addition to the raspberry drizzle.

“Will you share one with me?”

He opened his eyes. “You are trying to cozen me. Pretending we’re friendly enough to share a tart before you toss my hospitality back in my face without giving me a scintilla of the information I request. Then you will make your way through the dangerous streets of London to some poky little lodging house run by a grouchy widow. She will overcharge you for a thin mattress on a short cot and demand your attendance at morning prayers. Have the second tart, Miss Abbott.”

On principle, Abigail could not capitulate. “Only if you share it with me.”

“Then serve me one quarter, and pour me half a glass of cider.”