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Sarah pursed her lips, unconvinced. “Word gets about, my lady. There’s already talk below stairs and word travels faster than a footman with the guinea in his pocket in this town.”

Abigail drew herself up, summoning a brittle composure. “I returned by the servants’ entrance, and the night was dark. There’s nothing for anyone to gossip about and I trust the staff’s discretion.”

But even as she said it, anxiety pooled in her stomach. Sarah’s skeptical look did nothing to ease it.

“London’s eyes are everywhere,” Sarah said quietly, smoothing Abigail’s hair from her face and beginning the tedious business of sorting the tangled mess of her hair.

Abigail closed her eyes, leaning into the familiar comfort of the brush moving through her hair. Years of caution, of quiet dignity in the face of whispers, of building a life from the ruins of her reputation—all potentially undone in a single evening.

A soft knock at the door interrupted them. Sarah opened it to reveal a footman standing at attention in the hallway.

“The Earl requests Lady Abigail’s presence in the breakfast room at her earliest convenience,” he announced with careful formality.

Abigail’s heart sank at the grave expression on the young man’s face. “Did he mention why, James?”

“No, my lady,” James replied, his eyes carefully avoiding the visible bruises at her throat. “But the morning papers have arrived, and the Countess appeared distressed.”

So. It’s to be a public reckoning—served with tea and toast.

“Thank you, James. Please tell the Earl I shall be down directly.”

“Shall I help you dress, Lady Abigail?” Sarah asked, already moving toward the wardrobe.

Abigail squared her shoulders grimly. “Yes. Something modest but dignified. I believe I shall need all the dignity I can muster.”

She closed her eyes and drew a long, shallow breath. There would be no avoiding this—no slipping quietly past their judgment. But she would not grovel. Not this time.

Twenty minutes later, Abigail made her way slowly down the corridor, each step sending a jolt of pain up her leg despite the tight bandage Sarah had applied. She had chosen a high-necked gown of dove gray, its severe lines emphasizing her slender figure, while the color spoke of quiet respectability and, most importantly, hid the bruises on her neck. Her hair was arranged in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place.

If she was to face accusations, she would do so looking every inch the proper lady she had tried so desperately to become.

The morning room door stood ajar, voices spilling into the hallway. Verity’s high-pitched tones rose above the rest, edged with hysteria.

“—in full view of Lady Winterbourne’s house! By now, half of London must know!”

“My dear, please calm yourself. Think of your condition,” came Norman’s placating voice.

“How can I be calm when she has brought such scandal upon this house? After all we’ve done for her!”

Abigail paused outside the door, her hand resting against the smooth wood. She considered turning back—retreating to her room, packing her few possessions, and seeking refuge with Marjory. But that would only confirm their worst suspicions. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Norman paced before the fireplace, his face flushed and his morning coat slightly askew. Verity reclined dramatically on the chaise longue, a damp cloth pressed to her forehead, her free hand resting protectively over her barely-visible pregnancy. And in the corner, perched on a chair like a small, nervous bird, sat her mother with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Ah, Abigail. There you are.” Norman’s relief at having someone else to address was palpable. “We’ve been most anxious.”

Abigail stepped carefully into the room, her weight uneven on her feet. She inclined her head toward her mother and Verity in greeting but said nothing.

Her mother rose, frowning at her daughter’s limp. “Abigail, my dear. Are you quite well?”

No, she wanted to say.I am not well. I am afraid and angry and tired ofshrinking myself small enough to be tolerated.

“She was seen!” Verity interrupted, struggling to a more upright position. “Seen by Lady Winterbourne herself, leaning upon a strange man’s arm in the street at dusk!” She thrust a newspaper toward Abigail, her finger jabbing at a small paragraph. “It’s already in the Morning Post!”

Abigail took the paper, her eyes scanning the offending text—her name, dragged out in scandalous italics, the familiar cruelty of “questionable reputation” and “leaning on a man with shocking familiarity.”

Did you really think you could slip through London unnoticed, like a ghost?

“Well?” Verity demanded. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”