Page 104

“Allow me,” Marjory said, plucking the comb from his hand. With a considerably more gentle touch, she went to work.

Graham submitted to her ministrations with grim resignation. His hand found Abigail's, interlacing their fingers with quiet desperation. The warmth of his palm against hers steadied her racing heart.

Ms. Norwood knelt at Abigail's feet, nimble fingers working at the mud-caked hem of her dress. "This gown is beyond saving, but we can at least make it presentable from a distance."

"Six minutes!" Elias barked from the door.

"Your boots, if you please," Richard said, extending his hand to Graham.

Graham blinked. "My boots?"

"They're hardly fit for a pig farmer, let alone a duke appearing before the Lord Chancellor." Richard gestured impatiently.

Graham hesitated only a moment before toeing off his boots, revealing socks that had once been white. Richard wrinkled his nose but accepted the offending footwear, passing them through the door to his waiting footman with hushed instructions.

"The man deserves hazard pay," the Admiral said.

"While we address the cosmetic disaster," Mr. Nedley tugged at his cravat, "allow me to update you on some recent developments, Your Grace. I’ve taken the liberty of engaging Mr. Jonathan Bellamy to present our case before the court.”

“Bellamy?” Anthony whistled. “Isn’t he the one who made mincemeat of the Duke of Lichfield’s solicitor last year?”

“The same,” Nedley said. “I assumed, given the public scrutiny and the nature of the charges, you wouldn’t mind if I called in the heavy artillery.”

“Well done, Mr. Nedley,” Graham said with a nod.

"Hold still," Marjory admonished. "Unless you wish to appear before the court with half your ear missing."

"I've prepared for every contingency. The witness statements are in order, character testimonials ready. Should things not proceed favorably, I've drafted a countersuit alleging malicious prosecution and defamation."

"A countersuit?" Abigail's grip tightened on Graham's hand. "You expect we might lose?"

"We will not lose," Graham said, his voice low but resonating with iron certainty. "One way or another, the girls will remain with us."

The fierceness in his tone created a momentary silence. Abigail studied his profile—the rigid jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath his composed exterior.

"Of course we won't lose," Nedley hastened to add, "but a good solicitor prepares for all outcomes.”

Abigail closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself against the surge of fear. She would not lose her family. Graham traced soothing circles on the back of her hand. She took a deep breath and leaned into him before forcing her mind back to Nedley’s words.

“We found evidence that another of Hollan’s properties, insured well above its value, suffered a suspicious fire three years ago in Birmingham," he was saying. "And the gambling debts, Your Grace—far worse than we imagined. He owes money to some particularly unsavory individuals."

"The kind who don't accept late payments," Richard added grimly.

"Which explains his desperation," Graham said, wincing as Marjory worked through a tangle.

"Indeed," Nedley said, suppressing a yawn. "He needs the girls' inheritance to save his skin."

"You look like death warmed over, Nedley," Graham observed.

"Thank you for noticing, Your Grace." The solicitor's voice dripped with exhaustion and sarcasm in equal measure. "I've spent the night calling in every favor accumulated in thirty years of legal practice. You owe me a month's leave on a quiet beach. With an abundance of brandy.”

“Well, that’s as good as it’s going to get,” Marjory said, giving Graham a light pat on the shoulder. “Now, the rest of it,” she said, eyeing his stained shirt and breeches.

His waistcoat, belt, and coat had been surrendered at Hallowcross and some lucky orderly was likely celebrating his good fortune to inherit such fine garments.

“You’re too broad in the shoulders, my love,” she said to her husband before sliding her gaze over to the Duke of Wilds, “but you’ll do. Waistcoat and jacket please.”

Anthony didn’t hesitate to stand and shrug out of the requested garments. Graham squeezed Abigail’s hand before letting it go to don the clothes. Marjory fussed and tucked, hiding the worst of the stains on his shirt as Bridget tugged the last of Abigail's coiffure into place.