How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (most inspirational books .TXT) 📗

Duncan took up a quill pen, twiddling the feather between his fingers. “Perhaps Stapleton’s problem is commercial. Most people who advocate working children and the poor to death for the sake of God’s holy plan have commercial interests. Mines, foundries, mills. What do we know of Stapleton’s investments?”

“I’ll put Ned and Jack to researching that question, and by this time tomorrow, we will know who sews Stapleton’s underlinen, whether he pays his bills on time, and the exact hour he last visited his mistress.”

“You will keep Stephen informed?”

Quinn would keep Jane informed. “The question should be, rather, is Stephen keeping us informed, and if not, what secrets is he guarding?”

Duncan looked pained. “He is entitled to his privacy, Quinn. Your motives for sending him touring with me weren’t entirely academic.”

“You’re right. My motives where Stephen was concerned were desperate, and in some regards, they still are. We will speak with Miss Abbott, and Stephen will insist on being present when we do.”

“The duchesses will insist on being present. One wishes Althea and Constance were on hand as well. They know Miss Abbott better than we do.”

“Shall I send for them?”

“Let’s confer with Stephen first. If we bungle this, he will never ask for our help again. You do not want a blunder of such proportions on your conscience, and neither do I.”

Hyde Park was a magical oasis of clean air, open space, autumnal verdure, pretty lanes, and quiet. York, true to its medieval origins, had nothing quite like it, and Abigail was enthralled.

“In spring,” Lord Stephen said, “the vehicles jam the pathways, and all the young swells on horseback flirt their way from carriage to carriage.”

“Are you among those young swells?”

“I was, for a few years. I am no longer flattered by the overtures of women willing to hold their noses and marry me in hopes of wearing the Walden tiara. Every time Quinn and Jane have another baby girl, I feel the wolves stalking closer. Horse, stop pulling at the bit or we will have words.”

The horse slowed to a walk.

“Did somebody break your heart?” Abigail asked. “Somebody other than your darling Jenny?”

“Half of Mayfair, a quarter of Paris, and about one-third of Berlin. By the time I reached Rome, I was a sadder and wiser fellow. I took to keeping company with widows and married women because they could be trusted. Married women and a few flirtatious fellows. Are you horrified?”

“No.” More than one client had retained Abigail to secure and destroy evidence of such liaisons. “Is that why you haven’t married? You prefer men?” She would be disappointed in a purely theoretical sense if that was the case.

“This is not the sort of conversation I envisioned us having, Abigail.”

“Then tell me to mind my own business and bestir yourself to flirt with me. We are here to be seen, are we not? We could also discuss the list of my clients with London connections, but I doubt that will be a productive conversation.”

A swan glided along on the still water of the Serpentine, cutting a path through the leaves dotting the water near the shore. The time of year was pretty but melancholy, and Abigail was abruptly homesick for York. She was in Hyde Park, driving out with one of the most eligible bachelors in England, wearing a truly lovely dress for the first time in ages.

Using the time to discuss old cases was pointless and just plain wrong, though Lord Stephen’s worldly sexual adventures weren’t an ideal topic for such an outing either.

“I have promised you honesty,” Stephen said, “and the healthy male form honestly delights me, and so have a few healthy males in particular. I mentioned the painter to you—Endymion de Beauharnais. He’s everything I’m not. Athletic, artistic, charming, beautiful, socially deft. I am a skilled draftsman and something of a flirt, but that man can make dragons fly and dowagers simper. I like him very much, though when it comes to the actual passionate part…”

He steered the horse around a bend in the path, and London might have been magically transported a hundred miles away. The quiet was deeper here, the sunlight more golden.

“I found intimate congress with men worth a casual investigation,” Stephen went on. “I find parasols, guns, poisons, cannon, lifts, anatomy, locomotives, canals, codes, alchemy, locks, clocks…I find much interesting. Endymion was genuinely attracted to me—a nearly incomprehensible notion, I know—while I was mostly tired of earls’ daughters groping me under the card table. My darling Jenny will always hold a place in my heart, while Andy…I am fond of him. In answer to your question, I do not prefer men in the sense you allude to, but I have enjoyed a passing hour or two with a specific few fellows.”

And Abigail sensed Stephen would tell her if his interest was more than avid and lusty curiosity. That degree of honesty was attractive, also troubling.

He steered the gig up onto the verge, which was carpeted with fallen leaves. “I have shocked myself.”

“I can keep a confidence, my lord. My livelihood depends upon it.”

He drew the horse to a halt. “I have shocked myself because I do not part with confidences ever—at all. That business with de Beauharnais.…I was eighteen, he was twenty-two. Sophisticated men of the world, or so we thought ourselves. I don’t discuss it, don’t think of it, don’t bring it up when he and I share a meal, which we do every few months. I’ve never so much as hinted about it to Duncan even when in the dregs, and Duncan has seen me in the dregs many a time.”

A gust of wind stirred the carpet of leaves, a dry, chilly sound, though the sun was warm and the grass a lush green.

“I have not been entirely forthright with you,” Abigail said. She had deliberately misled him, which had cost her the past three nights’ sleep.

“Are you married, Abigail? Are you Stapleton’s runaway marchioness? His illegitimate daughter? He’s a tiny