“We will not be disturbed again,” Stephen said. “For you to resort to sixteenth-century legislation for your obfuscations means, my dear, that you are very rattled indeed. Miss Abbott—Abigail—you are safe with me, as you knew you would be. I cannot help you if you refuse to apprise me of the nature of the challenge you face. Who has presumed to menace you?”

She had taken off her gloves to eat. She smoothed them against her skirts now, one glove atop the other, matching the right and left finger to finger. Why should that image be vaguely erotic?

“I have apparently angered a peer,” she said. “Infuriated him, though I haven’t done him any wrong.”

Why come to the brother of a duke for aid unless…? “A marquess is after you?” They were few in number, particularly if the Irish and Scottish titles were eliminated from consideration. “An English marquess?”

“I think so.”

“You know so, but how do you know?”

She tucked the gloves away into one of those invisible, capacious pockets sewn into women’s skirts.

“Do you promise not to repeat what I tell you, my lord?”

“You are exhausted and afraid, so I will overlook that insult you imply.”

Her head came up, like a dominant mare sensing an intruder in her paddock. “I am not afraid, I am vexed past all bearing.”

She was terrified, and that was a sufficiently unlikely prospect that Stephen himself became uneasy.

“Give me a name, Miss Abbott. I cannot scheme effectively on your behalf unless you give me a name.”

She had the prettiest gray eyes. All serious and searching, and those eyes were worried. That some fool had given her cause to worry made Stephen vexed past all bearing. He’d not enjoyed a rousing fit of temper for some time, and the prospect of putting some fool marquess into his place appealed strongly.

“You won’t believe me.”

“If somebody had told me a mere marquess had blighted the confidence of Miss Abigail Abbott, that I would have found hard to believe. The ranking imps of hell could provoke you to brandishing your sword cane, and for the massed armies of Britain you might slow your stride a bit. St. Michael the Archangel might inspire you to a respectful pause. But a marquess? A lowly, human marquess?”

Her hands bunched into fists. “He has tried to kill me, twice. Before he tries again, I will simplify matters by having you commit an arranged murder.”

Like an arranged marriage? “Who is this vexatious marquess?” Stephen mentally began sorting through Debrett’s. This one was too old, that one too young. Several were on the Continent, a few were simply too decent or too arrogant to resort to killing a female of common origins.

Females were easy to ruin, and a female inquiry agent with a tarnished reputation would be ruined indeed.