How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (buy e reader TXT) 📕

and that Stephen had made no progress uncovering any clues hidden in the letters.

“Why, Miss Smithers,” Stephen said, “what a fine establishment you have here.”

Betty climbed down from the ladder that slid along the shelves of tea. “Tom, take yourself off for a pint, there’s a lad.”

The clerk had been holding the ladder and gazing adoringly at Betty’s ankles. He bobbed his head at Stephen, grabbed a cap, and bolted out the door.

“You’ve made another conquest,” Stephen said, leaning on the glass-topped counter. “I own I am jealous.”

Betty dusted her hands and looked him up and down. “I thought you were leaving for the grouse moors. You haven’t been sleeping, your lordship.”

Stephen had slept little and badly since the Portmans’ ball. “No hug for an old friend, Betty? No gesture of affection?” She looked happy, rosy, and quite at home in her shop. Stephen would not have allowed her business to fail, but neither could he have made the place a success if she wagered away all the profits.

Betty patted his lapel. “Here’s my gesture of affection, old friend: I’ll give you a ten percent discount on my best gunpowder, how’s that?”

A few weeks ago, Stephen might have patted her bottom in return and bantered about giving her something for free. She was a respectable shop owner now, and thank heavens for that.

“Have you any gunpowder flavored with jasmine flowers?”

Betty glanced around the shop. “If you were tossing me over for another lady, you might have just said. You’ll be taking a wife now, or you should be. Jasmine green tea is a woman’s choice.”

“Might we sit?” Stephen asked, because fatigue—and missing Abigail—made his knee hurt worse.

“Come into the back with me,” Betty said. “Frisky Framley told Marie you were at the Portman ball, and you escorted a lady. An Amazon, but nobody knows much about her. Miss Abbott from Yorkshire. Marie heard a rumor that she’s a professional snoop.”

The back room was a combined office and parlor. The fragrance of tea was punctuated here with the scent of a bouquet of roses sitting on the battered desk. The blooms were fresh and the thorns had been clipped from the stems.

“Miss Abbott is an inquiry agent,” Stephen said, sinking into a venerable armchair. “She has provided my family loyal service, and I have reason to believe her welfare is in jeopardy.”

The kneehole desk faced the wall, papers stacked over most of its surface. Betty turned the chair to face the room and took a seat.

“You’re sweet on her,” she said, without rancor. “You would not escort her to a society ball unless the lady mattered to you. Who’s after her?”

Abigail and Betty would get along famously. “The Marquess of Stapleton, a nasty, aging arachnid of a peer, who—”

Betty waved a hand, displaying ink-stained fingers. “Ophelia Marchant has other names for him, none of them complimentary. She’s been his fancy piece for ages, but he never takes her to the theater, and hardly ever buys her a trinket. But then, she’s not really earning his coin, is she?”

“Anything you know about Stapleton could be useful, Betty. Miss Abbott had a brief affair with Stapleton’s son years ago and can think of no reason why the marquess should take up against her now.”

Betty worried a nail. “Did Stapleton’s son marry her? Some of these dashing blades think sham weddings are quite entertaining. A sham wedding that wasn’t a sham might be a lark for such as them.”

“Stapleton’s heir was properly married at the time.” Or improperly, given the lack of fidelity on both sides of the union.

Betty wrinkled her nose. “And this lordling either lied about being married or he promised Miss Abbott his harridan of a wife was expiring of consumption. Men have no imagination.” Another inspection of Stephen’s person followed. “Some men. Lord Dunderhead sent Clare a very nice sum. She bought a one-third interest in this shop, though this is her day off.”

“Did you invest the money?”

“Half in the cent-per-cents, like you told me. Half in a little business that employs fallen women to make parasols.”

Betty was engaging in charity, in other words. “Give me the name of the parasol shop and I will offer it my custom.”

“You’re buying parasols now, my lord?”

“As it happens, I am, as are the womenfolk in my family. I also have a few designs involving parasols that might sell quite nicely. I am not, however, here to discuss investment opportunities with you.”

“And you aren’t looking to get under my skirts,” Betty said, gaze speculative. “So what are you doing here?”

Guarding my dragon. “Stapleton must think that Miss Abbott knows some nasty family secret,” he said. “That she’s come across documents or facts that reflect badly on Stapleton. Would your friend Ophelia be willing to talk to me about Stapleton?”

Betty pushed a stool over toward Stephen’s chair. “She shouldn’t talk to anybody about the man who’s putting a roof over her head. Rest your foot.”

Stephen did, because it seemed the polite thing to do and because his knee was throbbing.

“The jewels Stapleton has given Ophelia are paste, Betty. He set ruffians on Miss Abbott in an attempt to drag her off a stagecoach, and he’s searched her house at least once. Stapleton buys up vowels to extort compliance from MPs and younger sons, and now he’s made Miss Abbott’s life difficult.”

Betty passed him a square pink pillow to place under his calf. “A mistress who gossips is soon no longer a mistress. To you it’s a matter of curiosity to talk to her, but for her it’s life and death to keep her mouth shut. She already sees other men on the side just to make ends meet. Stapleton cut back her allowance because he can’t…he doesn’t…”

Betty Smithers was blushing.

“His lordship can’t perform?” Stephen suggested.

“You are awful,” Betty muttered, but she was smiling. “He’s useless, according to Ophelia. She’s tried everything, and I do mean everything. The bindings, the whips, the elixirs, the toys…His lordship stops by for a late lunch, has a nice