Abigail left off petting her puppy. “I love him. I love that you thought of my safety, that you have found a companion for me whose quiet good nature is apparent even on a few minutes’ acquaintance. Thank you.”

She kissed Stephen’s cheek, and if he’d been able to dance a jig, he would have. “You like him, then?”

“I adore him. Nobody gives me gifts, nobody worries about me. I must consider a reciprocal display of affection, for we are a courting couple, are we not?”

They were, and they weren’t. “Be honest, Abigail. Willow Dorning always sends his dogs off on trial, and if the canine doesn’t suit the owner or the owner doesn’t suit the dog, he takes the beast back.”

Abigail leaned close. “Hercules is my dog now. You cannot have him back, not even when this business with Stapleton is over. A little somnifera would not have slowed Hercules down one bit, would it?”

She aimed that question at the dog, who appeared to reward her faith in him with a toothy smile.

“He’s yours,” Stephen said. I am yours too, if that matters. “Shall we leave Hercules here to get acquainted with Wodin?”

“I suppose we should, but what an impression he would make on the shopkeepers.”

Stephen signaled a groom. “Take him around to the back garden, please, and a bone to gnaw on wouldn’t go amiss.”

Abigail watched the dog trot off, her expression more wistful than one panting, drooling canine deserved. “I will treasure him all of his days, my lord. He is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given.”

Stephen opened the coach door. “Then clearly the wrong people have been giving you gifts. Let’s be off.”

She climbed in and took the forward-facing seat, a minor victory. Stephen came down beside her and thumped the roof with his fist—once, because a sedate walk would give them a longer period of privacy than a brisk trot.

“I’d like to deposit your letters in my safe before we make our obeisance to Bond Street,” he said.

Abigail set her hat on the opposite bench. “They are only approximate copies, my lord.”

“If they should fall into the wrong hands, that won’t matter. Are we shopping for anything in particular? Handkerchiefs, gloves, scent bottles, or fripperies?”

Abigail took his hand, as if that was simply how couples comported themselves when sharing a coach.

“I have no need for fripperies.” She shifted closer. “I love that dog, Stephen Wentworth, and I have missed you.”

He’d parted from her less than twenty-four hours ago. They were alone, she was tucked up beside him, and he had missed her too.

He wrapped his arm around her and gently pushed her head to his shoulder. “You must humor me. A gentleman buys his lady-fair fripperies. You could use a spare sword cane, I trust?”