Abigail cast a look at the duke and duchess, expecting Her Grace of Walden to object to housebreaking. Their Graces were holding hands, and the duchess was sitting close enough to the duke that their joined hands rested on her thigh.

“We also need to go to the opera,” Lord Stephen said, pushing to his feet. “Stapleton favors the opera. Jane, does Miss Abbott have suitable attire for Friday night’s performance?”

Ned rose as well. “I hate the damned opera.”

“Language, Ned,” Her Grace murmured. “Miss Abbott will be appropriately dressed for an evening engagement.”

“Neddy, if you’d rather not attend,” Stephen said, “I will escort Miss Abbott unassisted. Stapleton should have word by now of her arrival in London, and I don’t want him getting any untoward ideas.”

“I have an untoward idea,” Ned replied.

Stephen smiled. “I knew I could count on you.”

“No housebreaking,” Abigail said, though clearly her words were falling on deaf male ears. “We have no reason to believe Stapleton has the letters.”

“We aren’t looking for the letters,” Ned said. “We’re looking for why he’s desperate to get his manicured, beringed paws on them.”

“Lady Champlain does not favor the opera generally,” Stephen said, “and she stays in when Stapleton attends—you are not to seduce her, Ned. She has gallants aplenty for that. I must take myself off for a spot of contemplation. Miss Abbott, I’d like to escort you on a round of the shops tomorrow. You’ll want your own pair of opera glasses.”

Abigail had no intention of spending a single farthing on opera glasses she would use only once. “What time should I be ready, my lord?”

“Walk me to my coach, and we’ll sort that out.”

That was about as subtle as Wodin’s enormous paw on her knee. Abigail excused herself and accompanied Stephen down the steps to the main foyer.

“Ned doubtless knows what he’s doing, but I have no wish to impose on your time, my lord, and no interest in enriching Mayfair’s shopkeepers.”

Stephen took her hand, hung his cane on the edge of the sideboard, braced his back against the wall, and pulled Abigail in close.

“To blazes with the rubbishing shopkeepers, Abigail. To blazes with Stapleton, and if Ned makes sheep’s eyes at you one more time, to blazes with him too. You’re driving me mad, d’you hear me? Mad.”

Then he fused his mouth to hers, wedged his bad knee between her legs, and drove her mad too.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“This is half of them,” Abigail said. “I can’t promise I’ve recalled them word for word, but I’ve read them dozens of times. Much of the language is verbatim.”