“The sooner the gossip begins, the sooner Stapleton will know you’ve dodged his snares in York.” I missed you. Stephen settled into the place beside her on the sofa and resisted the impulse to take her hand. “How are Quinn and Jane treating you?”

“Splendidly. Matilda is giving me chess lessons, and Elizabeth is making me the heroine of her next great literary adventure. I grew up with only my father—visits to extended family were awkward and few—and having all these friendly people around…I envy you your family, my lord.”

“They are good folk.”

Abigail stroked the dog’s head, and Wodin, being a shameless beggar where female affection was concerned, sat up and put his chin on Abigail’s knee.

“He knows I miss Malcolm,” she said. “Dogs are such comfortable companions.”

And walking a dog on a pretty day would be a pleasant outing for a lady and her doting swain, except Stephen could not manage a cane, a leash, and a rambunctious beast, much less all of that and a lady on his arm.

“You should know that Champlain’s widow is biding here in London along with Stapleton. Harmonia likes Town, and her son is also under Stapleton’s roof.”

Abigail’s caresses to the dog’s ears paused. “Harmonia?”

“Lady Champlain and I are acquainted. I was counted among her cavalieri serventi at one point.”

“What is she like?”

How in flaming perdition to answer such a question? “She’s pragmatic, tolerant, not-bad-looking if you prefer petite blondes, a devoted mother, sometimes funny, and occasionally bitter.”

Wodin put a large paw on Abigail’s knee. She gently replaced it on the floor. “You like Lady Champlain.”

“I do. You probably would too.” If her husband hadn’t abused your trust, got you with child, and broken your heart. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Abigail went on petting the dog, who seemed to be grinning at Stephen. “Ask.”

“Where are the letters?”

She rose, leaving Wodin looking bereft. He settled to the rug, his chin on his paws, ten stone of poor, abandoned puppy.

“I don’t know.”

Of all the answers Stephen could have anticipated—stuffed into a mattress, sent to the Quaker aunties, held in a safe, buried in the garden—I don’t know had not been among them.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I had them for years. For a time, I read them nigh daily. Sometimes, I would take them out and hold them, trace the handwriting, sniff them, and imagine I caught a hint of Champlain’s scent, but I moved past that. Then I’d read them on the anniversary of the day I lost the baby. The anniversary of my father’s death, my mother’s death. I stopped crying every time I read them. I stopped reading them all from start to finish, and instead browsed one or two.…”