“Ivy’s uncle means well by her,” Miss Abbott replied, though she was stroking her dragon with the tip of one finger, which Stephen took to be a hopeful sign.

Also unintentionally erotic, which was of no moment whatsoever.

“He’s not her uncle,” Stephen said. “He’s a fellow she doesn’t obey willingly who’s intent on dragging her off to Australia, where they have deadly spiders, snakes, crocodiles, fish that can eat a man whole, and foul miasmas by the dozen. If anything happens to Ivy’s so-called uncle, what will become of her in such a place?”

Miss Abbott met Stephen’s gaze, and he realized what had been bothering him about her—besides her confidence, brains, and air of iron resolution. She was pretty, beautiful even, though all her stomping about and thumping her walking stick, as well as her drab clothing and a severe bun, were intended to hide her looks. She was bloodstock trying to impersonate a mule, and mostly succeeding.

“Ivy is pretty, isn’t she?” Stephen asked, quietly.

“Lovely,” Miss Abbott replied in equally soft tones. “Has the most gorgeous red hair, and she’s nearly taller than her uncle. Men hate that. Some men.”

“A pretty girl,” Stephen mused, “fourteen years old or nearly so, on her own in Australia, where she never wanted to be, where she never had to be…Anything you can tell us, Miss Abbott, anything, would be appreciated.”

She looked around the room, taking in Althea and Nathaniel practically sitting in each other’s laps on the sofa, and Quinn and Jane, equally connected but more dignified about their relationship, and then Stephen, alone in a reading chair, and—as always—clutching his cane.

“I can tell you this,” Miss Abbott said. “Whitlock Shaw has no congregation here in England because he does not get on well with the bishops.”

“Does he have a temper?” Quinn asked, seeking information any Wentworth needed to know about any parental authority figure.

“Not a temper, so much as convictions, Your Grace. Mr. Shaw detests everything high church. He blames the Church of England’s corruption and greed for the rise of Methodism and dissenters of every stripe. He had a pulpit down near Manchester, but he fell out with the earl who held the living. The earl wanted to replace a plain window with stained glass, and Mr. Shaw refused. The dispute escalated, and Mr. Shaw was succeeded by a vicar willing to glorify God’s house with man-made beauty.”

“He lost his job over a window?” Jane sounded dismayed rather than impressed.

“Over a principle,” Stephen said. “I take it that experience has left the reverend intolerant of aristocrats?”