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“Of course, my lady. Shall I fetch the countess or perhaps some tea?”Years of service kept his expression carefully neutral, but Abigail saw the shock in his eyes. By morning, the entire servants’ hall would know of her return.

“No, thank you. I require nothing else.” Abigail forced a smile, summoning the last of her dignity. “Please, just the note.”

James bowed and hurried away, leaving Abigail to make her painful way up the servants’ stairs.When she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she sank onto her bed and wrapped her arms around herself as she trembled and tears coursed down her cheeks.

What story would she tell tomorrow? How would she explain the bruises, the torn dress? Another careful fiction to maintain the illusion of propriety.

She curled into a ball of pain and fear, tugging a cover over her despite the warmth of the evening. Through the storm, the unexpected gentleness in Graham’s eyes swam into focus. For the first time since she’d returned to her father’s home indisgrace, she felt seen—not as Lady Abigail, the spinster relation dependent on her cousin’s charity, but simply as herself.

A woman still capable of feeling. Still worthy of protection. Still alive.

CHAPTER 3

“Land’s sake, my lady. Slept in your boots, did you, and never so much as a ring for help—not a word all night!” Sarah snapped the curtains open, flooding the chamber with morning sun.

Abigail blinked her eyes open, slow and groggy. She pushed herself up, though the effort of sitting upright left her faintly dizzy. Pain throbbed at her ankle and her throat burned. A low, dull ache had taken up residence in her side and it rose in sharp protest with every deep breath.

The maid paused, taking in Abigail’s mud streaked gown and limp, tangled hair. She glanced at the ruined bonnet and filthy reticule discarded on the rug. Her sharp eyes landed next on Abigail’s throat—and whatever words had been rising died on her lips.

“Oh,” Sarah breathed, stepping closer. “Sweet mercy, what happened to your neck?”

Abigail instinctively drew back. “It’s nothing,” she said, though her voice came out in a ragged rasp that betrayed the lie.

Sarah didn’t answer at first. Her jaw tightened as she turned away to fetch the basin and compress. “Nothing doesn’t leave marks like that. Now, let’s see to that ankle.”

With brisk but not unkind hands, the older woman unlaced her boot, murmuring apologies as she eased it off.Abigail clenched her jaw around a cry of pain and breathed deeply while she closed her fists around the coverlet. The stocking came next to reveal a vivid patchwork of purple and blues.

“I... I didn’t wish to trouble anyone,” Abigail managed when she was able. She spoke in a harsh whisper. “It was late.”And I was ashamed, she didn’t add. Ashamed to have been so foolish, to have once again made a choice that led to disaster.

“You’ll find yourself lamed for a fortnight. Like a goose egg, it is,” Sarah clicked her tongue and fetched the compress with renewed energy, her skirts swishing with impatience. “You should have sent for me the moment you returned.”

Abigail tried to muster a wry smile, but it faltered—her body ached, her thoughts spiraled, replaying the night before relentless clarity—alley’s stench, the bruising grip at her throat, Graham’s arm steady around her, his eyes searching hers with what might have been real concern. She pushed the memory down, focusing instead on the rhythm of Sarah’s ministrations.

After a beat, Sarah’s tone softened. “What happened, my lady? Truly?” she asked, pausing in her tending. “You’ve come home battered—your gown’s a fright, your hair near torn out, and you look as though you’ve seen the very devil.”

Abigail hesitated, fingers curling in her lap. The events of the night before felt simultaneously distant and too close—as if they had happened to someone else. Yet the evidence was written across her body in bruises and pain. She told the story with an efficiency of words and avoided the maid’s eyes as she spoke. She tried to make it sound like nothing more than a mishap, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her. The ghost of fingers around her throat made her swallow reflexively, painfully.

Sarah was silent for a heartbeat, hands busy with the compress as she weighed her words. When she spoke, her voice was careful. “Oh, my dear. Did he —?” She left the sentence unfinished, but the unspoken question hung between them, heavy and fraught.

Abigail’s cheeks flamed. “No,” she said, quickly. “Nothing of that sort. He was—” She grasped for composure, “—he was only after my reticule. Dr. Redchester arrived before... before anything else.”

“Lucky that doctor happened by. Providence, that was.”

In the mirror, Abigail stared at the dark shadows around her neck, thinking of Graham’s gentle touch and stern features that had softened when he looked at her. She thought of the heat ofhis body next to hers as he used it to shield her from prying eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Providence.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she pressed the warm cloth to Abigail’s throat. “That’s not the look of a woman thinking about divine intervention, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Heat rushed to Abigail’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been dressing young ladies for thirty years, Lady Abigail. I know that look.” Sarah’s voice held a wry edge.

Am I so transparent?The thought made her stomach clench with fresh anxiety.

“I must get ready to go to Beacon House,” she said, changing the subject. “I must check on Timothy.”

Sarah, still bustling, fetched a fresh cloth. “You’ll do no such thing, not with that ankle. And your throat needs rest.” Her voice turned brisk. “Shall I send for a doctor, my lady? There’s no shame in it; you’ve had a terrible fright.”

Abigail’s answer was immediate, sharp with fear. “No. Absolutely not. It’s nothing that won’t mend.” She glanced away. “No one need know.”