Stephen blew Ned a kiss. “No need to be jealous of my tinkering, Neddy. I will never be the pickpocket you are.”

Ned threw a glass paperweight at Stephen’s head, which Stephen caught with one hand. Something interesting passed between them, part affection, part threat.

“My father,” Abigail said, “could do simple clock repairs or fix a broken clasp on a bracelet, but he was a gunsmith, not an artificer. The mechanisms of handguns have evolved quickly in recent years. He preferred to work on the fowling pieces and long guns because the hardware hasn’t changed as much. Many a squire still carries a Brown Bess. Who are the most frequent callers at Lord Stapleton’s house?”

Ned consulted a list. “He has political dinners from time to time, a lot of fat, bleating Tories. Socially, Lady Champlain makes the usual rounds. Lately she’s been inclined more toward the artists and poets, and the staff says she’s to sit for a portrait for that fop de Beauharnais.”

“Enough, Ned.” Two words, casually rendered, from His Grace of Walden. “That fop did Her Grace’s portrait, and I rather like it. I’d have him do yours except you can’t sit still long enough. What do we know about security at Stapleton’s town house?”

“I can answer that,” Stephen said, “having been a caller on many occasions. The staff is on the older side, probably hired in the late marchioness’s day. The butler likely saw Queen Anne crowned, and the house isn’t exactly a fortress.”

“Now you’re a second-story man,” Ned muttered. “St. Nicholas, pray for us.”

“The garden wall is about five feet high,” Stephen went on, tossing the paperweight back to Ned. “The windows on the north side of the house are overdue for a good glazing. Our Neddy could be in and out in half a tick.”

“A quarter,” Ned said. “The cook doesn’t lock the kitchen door in case the tradesmen show up when she’s kneading the bread dough or stirring a pot of porridge first thing in the day. The head maid says Cook has a follower, meaning the grocer’s boy probably comes mooning about after the household’s abed.”

“I won’t have crimes committed on my behalf,” Abigail said. “We needn’t contemplate any housebreaking. Stapleton doesn’t have the letters, or he didn’t two weeks ago.”

“You don’t know that,” Stephen replied, lifting his foot off the hassock. “Stapleton might have them and believe there are more. He might have stolen them from you and suspect you stole them back, when instead one of his political detractors has them. We need to take a closer look at his lordship’s domestic situation.”