She moved with all the confidence of a general marching to war at the head of a vast army, though her attire made for very odd battle finery. Stephen had never seen her dressed in anything but gray frocks or dark cloaks, and the severity of her bun would have done credit to a particularly ascetic order of nuns.

Everything about Abigail Abbott was intended to disguise the fact that she was a stunningly well-built female with lovely features. Such attributes made her merely desirable, and Stephen had come to terms with desire years ago—for the most part.

What fascinated him about Miss Abbott was her wonderfully devious mind, and how her penchant for guile waged constant warfare with her unbending morals.

“Why would a professional inquiry agent with very few unhappy clients need to die?” Stephen asked. “From what my sister has said, your business thrives because you excel at what you do.”

Miss Abbott had been a very great help to Constance up in Yorkshire. To see Miss Abbott in London was both a lovely surprise—to see her anywhere would be lovely—and worrisome. If the Creator ever fashioned a woman who did not need any man’s assistance, for anything, Miss Abbott was that formidable lady.

“My situation has nothing to do with my profession,” Miss Abbott replied, resuming her seat. “Might you ring for a tray?”

“Is that how you go on with your lovers? Issue commands couched as questions? Sir, might you apply your hand to my—”

“My lord, you are attempting to shock me.” Her expression was so severe, Stephen was certain she was suppressing laughter. “As a dilatory tactic this is doomed to fail. I am very hard to shock, and I am also quite hungry. A tray, if you please. In more genteel circles, this is called offering a guest sustenance. Hospitality, manners. Need I explain further?”

“Tug the bell pull twice,” Stephen said, gesturing again with his cane. “I have been taken captive by the sofa. You are being dilatory, madam, evading a simple question: Why must you die? I would be desolated to think of a world without you in it.”

He offered her the God’s honest truth, at which she sniffed.

“You are doubtless desolated eleven times a day.” She gave the bell pull a double yank and sat back down. “I am not asking you to rid the world of my presence in truth. I must convincingly appear to die. I have some means, and I can make my way from England easily enough once I’ve been officially expunged from the race.”

“My dear Miss Abbott, had you wished to terminate your existence in truth, you would have done so by now. Never for a moment did I think you expected me to actually take a life.”

A scintilla of the starch suffusing her spine eased. “I should have been more clear. I know you are not a killer.”