Page 42 of Never a Duke
She rose and took the child from Stephen. He preferred not to carry the boy except in a dire emergency.
“This lad needs sisters,” Stephen said, gathering up his cane and getting to his feet. “Sisters to make a gentleman of him in ways you and I cannot.”
“He has girl cousins.” Abigail managed the sleeping child and the door latch. “Didn’t Ned have a brother?”
“He did, one who came to a bad end, apparently. Picking pockets is a hazardous profession. I gather that’s how Ned ended up in Newgate. Either picking pockets or shoplifting.”
“I cannot imagine our Ned resorting to larceny.”
“He never begged,” Stephen said, accompanying Abigail up the steps to the nursery suite. “He let that much slip after a few pints of summer ale years ago and hasn’t alluded to it since. I didn’t know if he was bragging, lamenting, or simply stating a fact.” Stephen, by contrast, had been a very effective beggar boy with his little crutch and crooked leg.
“You aren’t about to sit idling around in the clubs, are you?” Abigail asked, after they’d gained the warmth of the nursery and passed the child to a sleepy nurse.
“What do you suggest I do with myself instead?”
Abigail twined her arm through his as they made their way along dimly lit corridors to their apartment.
“Youshouldlurk in the clubs,” she said, moving from their sitting room directly into the bedroom. “Bankers and inquiry agents both must gather information from as many sources as possible. Ned’s projects prosper in part because he listens to everybody—the tellers, the grannies, the flower girls, the nabobs, and the lordlings. If pet rabbits are becoming fashionable, Ned learns of it before anybody else, and that’s an advantage.”
“Pet rabbits?”
“Speaking figuratively. Good gracious, I am tired.”
Stephen and Abigail had an evening routine, assisting each other to undress, sometimes sharing a nightcap, sometimes reading to each other before the fire. If anybody had told a younger Stephen that he’d come to crave such domesticity, to need it more desperately than he needed his canes, he would have scoffed.
As he’d scoffed at young Ned, so determined to avoid the bath.
“I’m to lurk in the clubs as directed,” Stephen said, undoing Abigail’s hooks, “but might you also point me in a more productive direction? Ned finally presents us with a task he cannot accomplish entirely on his own, and I want to help.”
Abigail unknotted Stephen’s cravat. “Then you do something Ned cannot do for himself.”
Nothing came to mind. Nothing at all. “For example?”
“Have a look into Lady Rosalind’s situation. Two of the maids went missing from her household. Coincidence, perhaps, and perhaps not. Then too…” Abigail leaned in to sniff at Stephen’s throat. “I love the scent of you.”
“Then too?” Stephen prompted as Abigail unbuttoned his shirt.
“Then too, Lady Rosalind’s father votes his seat. What does Quinn know of him, what does Jane know of the bachelor sons? Ned would not think to ask those questions, but you can.”
Stephen had the vague sense his wife was managing him, as Ned had, but Abigail’s management was thoroughly agreeable. She’d brought order, joy, and regular meals to Stephen’s days, and as for his nights…
He kissed her. “I’ve missed you too, you know.”
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. In Abigail’s embrace, Stephen felt secure. No need for canes, no need to lean against sturdy furniture or brace himself against a wall.
“Do you truly hope for a girl this time?” Abigail asked.
Stephen prayed simply that their baby would thrive. “Of course. Can’t have the lad growing up spoiled.”
Abigail insinuated herself more closely into Stephen’s embrace, and how he loved, adored, and worshipped her sturdy abundance.
“Then let’s to bed, Husband. Now.”
“I am, in this as in all things, your willing servant.”
Before Stephen finished undressing and joined his wife beneath the covers, he jotted down a note to himself:Lady Rosalind’s circumstances. He did this against the certain knowledge that once he and Abigail embarked on their marital enthusiasms, every notion and idea would leave his head, save for thoughts of pleasing Abigail and being pleased by Abigail.
An exhilarating hour later, Stephen was drowsing in his beloved’s arms, and a final question wedged its way past the sense of blissful repletion: What wasLady Rosalinddoing for Ned that Ned could not do for himself?
