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

Ironic. The son had been a rutting hound, the father was impotent—now. No wonder Stapleton hadn’t remarried a woman of childbearing age.

“I’ve heard of keeping up appearances,” Stephen said, “but to maintain a mistress merely for show…” No wonder Ophelia had other customers. “Does she frolic with Lord Fleming?”

“She cares for him, the fool. He’ll never marry her, and he started calling on her just to keep an eye on Stapleton. Fleming is decent to her, but the men are all gents at first, aren’t they? Fleming has to marry—he’s an only son—and Ophelia will never be wife to a lord. Ophelia thinks Fleming will marry Stapleton’s daughter-in-law, the better to manage Stapleton.”

A memory intruded, of Lord Fleming leading Lady Champlain out for the quadrille at the Portmans’ ball. They had made a handsome couple, with her ladyship’s customary friendly smile on display throughout most of the dance.

Fleming’s smile had been…possessive? Appreciative? Abigail would have the word for it, if she’d seen the couple dancing. That smile gave Stephen a glimmer of a theory regarding why Abigail’s life had been turned upside down, and who was manipulating whom in the Stapleton household.

“You have been most helpful,” Stephen said, lowering his foot from the stool. “How is the shop doing?”

Betty’s gaze went to the roses. “I might sell it to Clare. Would you be angry with me if I did?”

Stephen pushed to his feet, though his knee offered him profanity for making the effort. “You have caught the eye of a military man, and not a half-pay officer. He has room to keep a thriving rose garden and a glass house. He’s probably widowed. Witness, he knows enough to trim the thorns from his bouquet. You like him, and that unnerves you.”

“You unnerve me. How did you know he’s former military?”

“The precision in the arrangement, the stems all cut at exactly the same angle, the colors chosen to match. He’ll be loyal to you, Betty, and he’s seen enough of life that he won’t judge you for making your way as best you could here in London. Soldiers tend to be kind people, when they aren’t on the battlefield.” And often even when they were.

She touched a delicate pink rose petal. “He has a son, a darling little fellow. The captain adores that child. The lad’s mother did not survive long after the birthing. The captain brings Tommy with him into the shop and is so patient with the boy.”

Stephen had the odd sense of having been gently pushed off the stage of Betty’s life. He’d thought to make a dignified exit, assuming he’d always be welcome to return for a cameo appearance, and that had been arrogant of him.

“If Clare needs a silent partner,” he said, “I am happy to oblige. I’ll want the name of your parasol shop too.”

Betty followed his slow progress to the front of the shop. “Does your Miss Abbott appreciate you?”

“She argues with me, about guns, society entertainments, and anything else that strikes her fancy.”

Betty measured out a scoop of gunpowder fragrant with the scent of jasmine flowers. “But when she touches you, is it…real?”

“Her affection is genuine.” And far too fierce for the tame label of affection.

Betty put the tea in a white muslin sack, tied a pretty pink ribbon around it, and passed it to him. “Then you should marry her.”

“I want to, but I’m not sure she’ll have me.” Stephen put the tea in his pocket rather than hold it in his free hand.

Betty went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Good. If she puts you off balance, then she’s exactly the lady you ought to wed. You are not to tell Ophelia you stopped by here.”

“Of course not.” Stephen bowed over Betty’s hand, happy for her and her officer, and eager to discuss the conversation with Abigail.

But he was also—just a bit—daunted by the notion that Betty had so easily put him into her past. What could he offer Abigail that would prevent her from doing likewise?

Hyde Park, situated on the western end of London and thus close to the best neighborhoods, was lovely. The very air was cleaner, less tainted with coal smoke, horse droppings, and the evidence of passing fish wagons. To a lady raised in Yorkshire, the towering maples in their autumn finery were a relief, and the placid surface of the Serpentine balm to the soul.

“I’m glad we brought Hercules,” Abigail said. “This is beautiful.”

The park was situated next to the wealthiest neighborhoods, but open to all. Nannies with small charges toddled along the walkways, clerks and shopgirls shyly shared benches, and fine ladies walked out with their companions.

More than a few children pointed to Hercules, who trotted along at Abigail’s side with majestic dignity.

“When Good King Hal stole the monasteries from the church,” Ned said, tipping his hat to a passing trio of equestriennes, “he turned one of Westminster Abbey’s forests into a hunting ground. In the reign of Charles I, the place was opened to the public. Ungrateful lot that we are, we chopped off his head anyway. I’d hate to think of London without its royal parks.”

“I can breathe here,” Abigail said. “Might we sit for a moment?” Ned was a fine escort. He walked neither too quickly nor too slowly, he didn’t chatter, and he didn’t make a cake of himself to the ladies he encountered along the way.

But he wasn’t Stephen, and Abigail desperately wished she could be sharing this outing with Stephen, though strolling in the park with a leashed mastiff would hardly be his lordship’s idea of an enjoyable errand.

“You are sad,” Ned said, guiding Abigail to a bench near the water and taking the place beside her. “Or homesick?”

Heartsick? “Stephen will see a pattern in my letters that I could not see myself, and he will deduce the significance of it. He will confront Stapleton, sort him out, and I will return to Yorkshire. I am