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“That will have to do,” she murmured, and slid her shawl off, draping it around Abigail’s shoulders. “That’ll cover most of it and this,” she dabbed a bit of perfume on Abigail’s wrists and neck, “will do its best. It’s all going to work out, Abby. Hang in there.”

Abigail nodded and rose, smoothing her ruined gown and looked at Graham as he shoved his feet into his boots that didn’t exactly shine, but were at least mud free.

Marjory snapped her fingers. “He needs a cravat.” She whirled around to her husband and began unknotting his.

"If I'd known you were so eager to undress me, I'd have positioned us closer to home," Richard murmured, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Behave yourself," Marjory admonished, though her lips curved upward. "This is hardly the time."

"You're both scandalous," Bridget observed with a disapproving sniff, though the look she cast toward Anthony held a heat that belied her prim tone.

Marjory handed the cravat to Graham, who attempted to arrange it at his throat. His fingers, stiff and bloodied, fumbled with the fine linen.

"Good God, man," Richard exclaimed, "you'll ruin a perfectly good piece of Valenciennes. One of the most delightful aspects of matrimony," he cast a meaningful glance toward Abigail, "is having assistance in such matters."

Graham turned to Abigail, an unspoken question in his eyes.

She took the cravat from his hands. "I don’t have a lot of practice with this," she said.

She stepped close—closer than propriety would strictly allow, but propriety had been left behind in an asylum corridor hours ago. His breath warmed her cheek as she flipped his collar up, her fingers brushing against his neck.

"You're trembling," he murmured, for her ears alone.

"So are you," she returned, just as softly.

His pulse jumped beneath her fingertips as she wound the cravat into place, her movements deliberate and slow. The room around them faded—the chatter, the bustle, even Elias's increasingly agitated timekeeping receded until there was only Graham, the heat of him, the whisper-soft brush of linen against skin.

"There," she said, smoothing the finished knot, letting her hands linger on his chest.

Graham's eyes, dark and intent, held hers.

"Our case has been called!" Elias announced, jerking the door open. "Two minutes early—preposterous! One would think the courts would run a tighter ship."

The spell broke. The room erupted into a flurry of final adjustments before they filed out into the lobby. Weavingthrough the crowd of black-robed barristers and scrambling clerks, Abigail held tight to Graham’s arm. Her sisters and their husbands trailed behind them with Mr. Nedley, Ms. Norwood, and the Admiral, all marching forward to fight for their family.

Just inside courtroom three, a robed man approached and nodded to Graham and Abigail. “Your Graces. A pleasure to meet you despite the unfortunate circumstances. I am Jonathan Bellamy, and Mr. Nedley has provided me with all the necessary documents pertaining to the case.”

He spoke in undertones as they walked toward the front of the room where two tables sat facing a third that was on a slightly raised dais, setting it apart from the others. The magistrate did not look up from his writing as they approached. Hollan, his solicitor and barrister waited at the other table and the Baron nodded to them with the cool confidence of someone who believed their victory was assured.

“Is there anything you’d like to add to what Mr. Nedley has shared before we begin?” Bellamy asked as they took their seats.

The others fanned out across the benches just inside the door. Abigail glanced over her shoulder and her sisters smiled their encouragement. She took a deep breath and turned back to the barrister.

“You will use any and all evidence in whatever way is needed to ensure our girls stay with us,” Abigail said, ferocity plain in her words.

The barrister’s eyes widened, and Mr. Nedley cleared his throat as he shifted in his chair.

“Is there a problem with that?” Graham asked, clasping her hand beneath the table.

“None at all, Your Grace. I will see it done.”

CHAPTER 28

"Hear ye! Hear ye! The Court of Chancery is now in session, the Honorable Lord Chancellor Hesketh presiding. All persons having business before this honorable court draw near and give your attention."

Lord Chancellor Hesketh adjusted his spectacles and surveyed the room. "I see Mr. Tate appearing for the petitioner, Baron Frederic Hollan, and Mr. Jonathan Bellamy representing the respondents, the Duke and Duchess of Eyron. This matter concerns the guardianship of Mary Ann and Heather Redchester. Mr. Tate, you may present your case."

The courtroom hushed as Mr. Tate stepped forward, his black robe trailing behind him like a funeral cloth. The sound of his footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the polished floor, each tap like a countdown toward something terrible. Abigail forced herself to sit perfectly still, her spine rigid against the hard wooden chair, though her insides were a churning mess.