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He placed them gently on the magistrate's bench.

"And this," he said, lifting a single sheet, "is a note written in a child's hand, by a girl who until recently refused to speak. It reads, quote: 'Miss Abby helps me sleep when the dark is scary. She sings bad but gives me jam. I love her best.”

There were a few soft exhalations in the gallery. One handkerchief dabbed discreetly at an eye.

Tears rolled down Abigail’s cheeks. Mary Margret. She remembered the night the child had crawled into her lap, silent and trembling, clinging as though she might fall off the world if she let go. No one knew the horrors the child witnessed or who left her on the Beacon House stairs in the dark of night.

Graham put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him.

Just as he promised—never to let me fall.

Bellamy's tone sharpened.

"My learned colleague would have you believe the Duchess is a seductress. That her charity work is a stain. That her presence is a threat to the noble futures of Misses Mary Ann and Heather. And yet I ask this court, what could be more noble thanteaching two frightened children that love is not contingent on perfection?"

The silence was deeper now. Even the rustling of fabric had ceased. The magistrate looked down, expression unreadable, but his hand had stilled on his notes.

Abigail felt something uncurl inside her chest—not hope, not yet, but the possibility of it.

Bellamy returned to the table and picked up the folio. The leather creaked as he opened it, drawing all eyes to him.

"And as for reputation," he said, flipping open the leather cover, "since Mr. Tate wishes to speak of financial impropriety, let us examine his client's."

The courtroom tensed. Hollan sat up straighter, his confident smile faltering. Beside him, his solicitor leaned forward, whispering urgently in his ear. A fierce, savage satisfaction burned in Abigail’s chest.

Revenge.

"Baron Hollan, we now know, carries debts exceeding seven thousand pounds. Gambling, primarily. Debts owed to men whose methods of collection would cause this court to blanch."

He paused, then added, "And yet this is the man who claims moral authority."

A breath. A page turned. Someone in the gallery made a small, shocked sound quickly muffled. The magistrate's eyebrows rose fractionally.

"And the warehouse fire that caused such public stir? The insurance policy was taken out three weeks ago. The building, insured for five thousand, had an assessed market value of less than half that."

Tate half-rose. "Speculation, Your Worship?—"

"Facts," Bellamy said firmly. "And I have brought documentation to support every claim. I am not speculating on motive. I am presenting a pattern with a most concerning trajectory."

He placed the final page on the magistrate's bench. The paper whispered against the polished wood.

"A pattern of financial ruin. Of opportunistic slander. And of attempting to use the court not to protect these children—but to access the fortune that accompanies them."

Bellamy pivoted and looked squarely at Abigail and Graham, who leaned into each other. Bedraggled and battered, they clung to each other because they were the only thing sure in each other’s world.

"Your Worship," Bellamy said, his voice steady, "if this court finds the Duke and Duchess unsuitable, let it not be because ofscandal or slander. Let it be because they have failed in the only measures that should matter: love, safety, and healing."

He looked now to the magistrate with quiet conviction.

"But if they have provided a home built on love, if they have offered safety and begun to mend what was broken—then I ask you, sir, by what standard could they be deemed unfit?"

He sat.

The courtroom did not erupt. There were no gasps. No muttered outburst.

Just stillness.

The kind of stillness comes after a lightning strike, and you don’t know where the next one will land.