“Champlain left explicit instructions that his son was not to be sent to public school until age thirteen at least. Nicky is to have governesses until age six, then tutors and governors acceptable to me. I have already begun considering candidates for the tutors’ posts. Pass the toast, my lord. If you are not having any, I would like some.”

Stapleton rose. “The choice of tutors will ultimately be mine, though you are free to interview whatever handsome young men you please. A reducing diet might do you some good, Harmonia. Nobody likes a woman running to fat.”

“Champlain liked me because I am not mean, possessive, vain, or greedy—I was a refreshing change from the company to be had under this roof, in other words. I valued many of the same qualities in him, though how he came by them, I do not know. I wish you a lovely day, your lordship.”

She saluted with her cup of chocolate, because even Stapleton would not argue with his late son’s express wishes while a footman stood by. Champlain had been a terrible husband in many regards, but he’d been a good friend and—bless him, bless him—a loving father.

When Stapleton departed—without bowing to the lady of the house, of course—Wilbur brought Harmonia the toast and butter and laid the newspaper beside her plate.

“Will you and his little lordship be having a picnic for your nooning, my lady?”

“What a lovely idea. I believe we shall. Please send word to the nursery and have Nanny join us. If Mr. de Beauharnais should call, you can show him to the garden as well.”

The worst part of being a widow wasn’t the political nonsense, and wasn’t even Stapleton’s nasty, pinchpenny attitude. The worst part was the loneliness. Champlain had abandoned her for weeks at a time to swive and drink his way across France or the Low Countries, but she’d had his returns to look forward to and her own amusements to divert her.

Perhaps it was time to find another diversion—well past time—and if Stapleton wanted his steady supply of political gossip and tattle, he’d save his complaints and insults for his long-suffering mistress.

“We were seen in the park the other day,” Stephen said, “and word of your arrival in London will doubtless reach Stapleton shortly.”

Abigail looked well rested to him, but then, she was attired in a dress of soft rose velvet, a cream shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The color and cut of the dress flattered her and hinted subtly at her curves. She seemed at home in the Walden family parlor, Jane’s big black Alsatian canine reclining at her feet.

“That’s good, then, that we were seen?”