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

Hercules was about to make his opinion known regarding Fleming’s rudeness while Abigail scrambled to recall the appropriate commands.

“Well done, Miss Abbott,” said an amused male voice. “Next time—if Fleming is foolish enough to provoke you again—aim higher and between his legs. The targets are doubtless tiny, but I trust you to make the blow count nonetheless. Hercules, good doggy. Very good doggy, indeed.”

Stephen. The relief that coursed through Abigail was unseemly. “My lord, welcome. The discussion was just getting interesting. Hercules, sit.”

The dog took to his haunches, his weight a comforting presence against Abigail’s leg.

“Harmonia,” the marquess said, “take this disgrace to good tailoring away, and don’t come back until I bid you to. Take the damned dog too.”

“We will stay,” Stephen said, lounging against the marquess’s desk, “and her ladyship will stay as well, because she is central to the conversation. Fleming, sit down and be quiet like yonder canine, lest Miss Abbott serve you more than a gentle tap to the knee.”

Stapleton was turning the unbecoming shade of ripe tomato, but he pointed at the sofa, and Fleming subsided and commenced rubbing his knee.

“We are here to hold a thief accountable,” Stephen said. “Or perhaps two thieves.”

Two thieves? Abigail hadn’t stolen anything—yet.

“Precisely,” Stapleton said, rapping his fist on the blotter. “Somebody broke into my home and took property owned by me. That is a crime, and I intend to see the perpetrator punished.”

“And you assume Miss Abbott is the perpetrator?” Stephen inquired, fluffing the silk of his cravat. “When did this dastardly deed take place?”

“Wednesday of last week,” Stapleton said, “and Fleming claims Miss Abbott was seen in the vicinity of this house.”

The woman who’d accompanied Stephen into the room turned out to be Harmonia, Lady Champlain. By daylight, in an old-fashioned high-waisted gown, she did not look quite as glittering and gay as she had in a candlelit ballroom. She looked, in fact, weary and worried.

“Lady Champlain,” Stephen said, “you were at the Portman ball, as was Lord Fleming. Was Miss Abbott present?”

Fleming spoke first. “She was, but the dancing ended at least three hours before dawn, and Miss Abbott would have had time to effect her crimes while polite society slept all unaware.”

Stephen was looking at Abigail, his head cocked at that inquiring angle. She nodded in response, though Their Graces would likely be displeased with her. Somebody had to put an end to this foolishness, and if that meant airing the truth, so be it.

“Alas for your entirely self-serving theory, Fleming, the lady was with me. I escorted her to the Walden residence, and spent the balance of the night with her. Escorted her to breakfast, in fact, and my, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the duke and duchess.”

In other words, Their Graces would support Stephen’s recitation, no matter the damage to Abigail’s reputation.

“We’re courting,” Stephen said, aiming an indulgent smile at Abigail, “and the course of true love occasionally deviates from strict decorum.”

“So you see,” Abigail added, “neither his lordship nor myself could have trespassed on your property, Lord Stapleton. Lord Fleming, however, has no such alibi. He could well have turned down the room with her ladyship, gone for a smoke in the garden, and made free with your premises without anybody noticing his absence. Given his sister’s tendency to wager, retrieving her vowels from you would have served his ends very nicely.”

“How the hell could you possibly—?” Fleming began, rising from the sofa, only to sink back onto the cushions with both hands bracing his knee. “Bedamned to you, Miss Abbott, and to your quarter-ton reticule and half-ton dog.”

“I am a professional inquiry agent,” Abigail replied. “I need not skulk about to learn of your sister’s unfortunate tendencies when they are common knowledge at the piquet tables.” A slight fabrication, very slight. Stephen had been at the piquet table and he could well have known of the lady’s gambling markers. “And if you had kept your hands to yourself, you would not have needed a small lesson in manners.”

“Fleming?” Stapleton asked in a low voice. “Is this true? Did you feign a burglary of your own home just to disguise your perfidy toward me?”

Fleming hesitated, then sent an assessing glance at Lady Champlain. He was preparing to lie, mentally arranging prevarications, which confirmed Abigail’s theory regarding his motives.

“Lady Champlain,” Abigail said, “perhaps you should sit. You look quite pale. Lord Fleming’s desire to propose marriage to you has clearly inspired him to foolish behaviors. You may disabuse him of his presumptions now.”

“Marriage?” her ladyship said, as if the word had been recently borrowed from Urdu. “Lord Fleming seeks to marry me? I know we’ve flirted and stood up for an occasional dance, but marriage?”

“Why not?” Fleming retorted. “I am of suitable rank, you’re a proven breeder, Stapleton’s political influence would stand me in good stead, and you’re a widow. You should be grateful that a man of appropriate rank would take you on when your settlements won’t be that impressive.”

“A proven breeder?” Lady Champlain echoed. “A proven breeder?”

“And you’re not bad looking,” Fleming added, in what had to be the most ill-advised observation a man ever made. “A bit long in the tooth, but you can still pop out a couple of sons, I’m sure. I will be diligent regarding my marital—”

Stephen waggled his cane at Fleming. “If you hold a prayer of living to ensure the succession, cease covering yourself in stupidity. She wouldn’t have you if you were the last exponent of the male gender in all of creation—do I have that right, my lady?”

Lady Champlain nodded.

“So, my lord,” Abigail said, “where are the letters?”

All eyes turned to regard Fleming, who had stopped rubbing his knee. “I admit I looked for them, and I admit that had I found them, I would have read them thoroughly and used them as I saw fit.”

Stephen shot his cuffs, the picture of elegant male ennui. “You admit to housebreaking