He’d recounted the whole to Abigail, along with all the sordid details. What had got into him? “Suffice it to say that bank drafts do not impress me when paternal duty is at issue, and this digression is hardly relevant to the instant topic. When did you realize the letters were missing?”

And can we please forget I ever mentioned Jack Wentworth?

Abigail drew the shawl up around her shoulders, though the day was mild. “I first realized the letters were gone in June,” she replied, clearly willing to leave the topic of patricide behind. “Another anniversary—my father’s death—and at first I thought I’d misplaced them. I asked my companion about them. We searched the entire premises and found nothing. The staff professed ignorance, and they’ve been with me for years, so I believe them. Nothing else, not so much as a hairpin, has ever gone missing.”

Stephen patted the cushion beside him, wanting Abigail closer for reasons that didn’t bear examining. “We must think this through. How do you know Stapleton didn’t take them?”

“Because his attempts on me and my household were later in the summer. I have wondered if one of his subordinates didn’t steal the letters with intent to blackmail the marquess.” She settled beside Stephen, cozily close. “But why hold them this long? Stapleton is wealthy, and he could pay handsomely for a lot of old drivel.”

Stephen did take her hand and Wodin visually reproached him. “Are they drivel?”

“I have seen enough love letters to know Champlain was no Byron.”

“Nonetheless, Stapleton is apparently concerned they will fall into the wrong hands and reflect badly upon the late earl.” Though that explanation bore further thought, because Stapleton himself was no Puritan and never had been. Nobody expected strict fidelity of a wealthy, married peer or his charming son.

“I can pretty much reconstruct the letters,” Abigail said. “If I’ve seen something in handwriting, I can often recall it exactly. In my profession, such a skill comes in handy, and I read the letters many times.”

“Don’t admit that ability to anybody else. Quinn will hire you to spy on other banks for him.”

“I think your brother dislikes me.”

Stephen resisted the urge to kiss Abigail’s knuckles and settled for wrapping her hand in both of his.

“Quinn is like that hound. He looks fierce, and he can be fierce, but it’s mostly appearances. He gets down on all fours in the nursery and roars like a bear for the children’s entertainment. When Jane is expecting, Quinn rubs her feet and her back by the hour. He reads treatises on childbirth, though he does not like to read anything that’s more words than figures.”

To honestly praise Quinn’s role as head of the family was a relief. Quinn had clearly learned from Jack’s awful example, and that was some consolation.