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The carriage careened around the corner, wheels skidding on rain-slicked cobblestones. Through the window, the imposing façade of the Court of Chancery emerged from the morning mist like a behemoth rising from the deep.

"Fifteen minutes," Richard announced, consulting his pocket watch with a grimace. "Cutting it rather fine."

Graham squeezed Abigail's hand, and she squeezed back, leaning into his solid warmth. He stunk like a privy and looked worse, but she couldn’t get close enough to him.

Please let this nightmare end.

The carriage had barely stopped before Admiral Birkins flung open the door. "No time for decorum," he barked. "Out, all of you!"

They tumbled from the carriage in an undignified rush. Anthony steadied the admiral when his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. In a ragtag band that looked more like a group of escaped convicts than members of the peerage preparing to appear before the court, they scaled the stairs.

Inside the cavernous lobby, Bridget rushed forward, her practical eyes taking in Abigail's bedraggled appearance with a single sweep.

"Good God," she muttered, seizing Abigail's arm. "You look like you've been shipwrecked."

Marjory appeared on her other side. "Twice."

Mr. Nedley hurried toward them with papers clutched in one hand and his case in the other. Behind him, Ms. Norwood stood with her back straight as a cavalry officer's.

"Where are the girls?" Graham asked immediately.

"Safe at Reedley Manor with the countess and the Dowager," Ms. Norwood assured him. "Quite content with being stuffed full of tarts and stories."

Graham's shoulders lowered a fraction. "No trouble?"

"None whatsoever." Ms. Norwood offered a small smile.

"Court convenes in twelve minutes," Nedley reminded them, his voice rising with alarm.

"Then we'd best hurry," Richard responded calmly. "Admiral, commandeer us a room."

Admiral Birkins harrumphed, then marched to a nearby doorway marked "Private." Without hesitation, he flung it open and peered inside. "This will do," he announced to no one in particular. "In the name of His Majesty's Royal Navy, I commandeer this room for matters of national importance."

A startled clerk emerged, sputtering protests, but wilted under the combined stares of three dukes, their duchesses, and a decorated admiral.

"Ten minutes," Elias promised the man. "For king and country."

"For king and—" the clerk began, bewildered.

"Just so," Elias agreed, shepherding them all inside and closing the door firmly in the clerk's face.

The anteroom was little more than a glorified closet, designed for barristers to confer privately with clients. With everyone crowded inside, it felt like a particularly well-appointed sardine tin.

Mr. Nedley squashed himself into a corner, clutching his case to his chest and mopping his forehead while the Admiral took up a post at the door, presumably to ward off any enemy advances.

"Nine minutes and forty-seven seconds until court convenes,” the admiral announced. “Look sharp.”

"Sit, both of you," Bridget commanded, shoving Graham and Abigail unceremoniously into the only two chairs.

Marjory heaved the carpet bag onto the small table with athudthat made the inkwell jump. "We brought everything we could think of, not knowing what state we'd find you in." She cast a critical eye over Abigail. "Though I confess, even my imagination fell short of this."

From the bag, an arsenal of combs, brushes, ribbons, and pins emerged. The sisters exchanged a single glance that contained an entire conversation, then divided their forces with military precision.

Bridget descended on Abigail, pulling the few remaining pins out. “This will require a minor miracle,” she muttered as she attacked the tangles.

Abigail winced, bracing against her sister’s ruthless tugs. “Ouch!”

Looking a little alarmed, Graham grabbed a comb and began to work on his own disheveled hair. His knuckles cracked open and blood oozed down the back of his hand.