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The paragraph blurred. She barely heard her. Shame rose, but fury quickly burned it away. The paper trembled in her hand and she pressed her lips together.

It had all been for nothing.All the careful steps, the modest dresses, the quiet dignity—none of it mattered. London had already decided who she was years ago. Nothing she did would ever change that.

Norman crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her. “After all we’ve done to rehabilitate your standing?—”

“My standing?” Abigail rasped through a throat tight with pain and rage. “I wasn’t aware I had any standing left to lose.”

Norman blinked at the sound of her voice. His frown deepened. “Good Heavens. You sound like a bawdy house singer at the end of a long night.”

Verity gave a scandalized gasp. “What in the world were you doing to strain it so? Shouting in the street? Laughing too loudly at your mystery gentleman’s jests?”

Abigail didn’t answer. She pressed the paper closed and laid it carefully on the nearby table.

“That is precisely the attitude that leads to such situations!” Norman’s face grew redder. “No consideration for how your actions reflect upon this family—upon Verity in her delicate condition!”

Verity pressed the damp cloth more firmly to her brow. “The Marchioness of Balfour is to call tomorrow. How can I possibly receive her with this hanging over us? She’ll think we’ve no better sense than to harbor a—a?—”

“A what, Verity?” Abigail asked in a low whisper. “Pray, finish your thought.”

A tense silence fell. Verity had the grace to look uncomfortable, her eyes sliding away from Abigail’s steady gaze.

“Perhaps we might hear Abigail’s account before passing judgment?” The Dowager Countess spoke up, her voice gentle but clear.

Norman waved his hand impatiently. “What possible explanation could there be for being seen in such a state, in public, with an unknown man?”

Abigail’s fingers moved to the high collar of her gown. Her hand trembled—just slightly—but she forced herself to continue.

Let them look. Let them see what words in the Morning Post failed to mention.

She unfastened the top buttons, revealing the purple-blue marks that encircled her throat like a macabre necklace.

A stillness filled the room. Verity’s cloth fell to the floor. Norman’s mouth opened and closed without sound.

“The carriage broke an axle near Blackfriars. You may check with Thomas, Her Grace’s footman,” Abigail said evenly. “I chose to walk, despite Thomas’ objections and misjudged the route home.” She told the rest of the tale in a monotone recitation. She reached down and lifted her skirt just enough to reveal her bandaged ankle. “Dr. Redchester helped me walkbecause I could barely stand. That is the ‘shocking familiarity’ the paper describes.”

The silence that followed was profound. Verity’s face had drained of color, her earlier histrionics forgotten.

“Oh, my poor child,” the Dowager Countess whispered, crossing the room to take Abigail’s hands in her own. “How frightened you must have been.”

“I was,” Abigail admitted, allowing herself to lean slightly into her mother’s embrace. “Very frightened indeed.”

Norman cleared his throat, his expression now caught between embarrassment and concern. “I... that is, we had no idea. The paper made it sound as if?—”

Abigail refastened her collar, the brief moment of vulnerability passing. “The Morning Post has never been overly concerned with accuracy where I’m concerned.”

“You poor dear,” Verity said, her earlier anger transformed into tearful sympathy. “To think you might have been—” She broke off with a small sob.

“It’s quite all right,” Abigail’s voice was cool, though a small, petty part of her took satisfaction in her cousin’s discomfort. “I understand your concern for the family’s reputation.”

“But this changes everything,” Norman said, pacing again. “If we explain the circumstances?—”

“To whom?” Abigail interrupted. “Lady Winterbourne? The editors of the Morning Post? The damage is done. Once a story begins to circulate, truth becomes irrelevant.”

“She’s right,” the Dowager Countess said quietly. “London thrives on scandal, not corrections.”

Norman ran a hand through his thinning hair, his expression harried. “But surely if this doctor were to come forward, to explain. What is his name?”

Abigail shook her head. “I couldn’t ask that of him. He’s a physician with a practice to consider.”