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A sharp rap on the table startled him from his reverie. Elias Birkins dropped heavily into the chair opposite, scattering a stack of penny papers and sending his hat tumbling to the floor. He grinned, teeth flashing, the epitome of robust health and irrepressible energy.

“Redchester!” Elias declared, as if announcing him to the assembled company.

Graham straightened the stack of papers automatically and adjusted the silverware that had been jostled out of position before retrieving the hat and settling it back in its place. “Admiral,” he said, acknowledging his battlefield comrade.

“Too early for pleasantries, is it?” Elias leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically. “Why are you hiding in the corner?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m having breakfast.”

“Alone, in the furthest corner, with explicit instructions to poor Phillips that you’re not receiving visitors.” Elias signaled for coffee and straightened his waistcoat. “Fortunately, I’ve never counted myself among the rabble of ‘visitors.’ I’m practically family.”

“I will have to make my instructions more specific in the future,” Graham grumbled, though he knew that no instructions would keep Admiral Elias Birkins from interrupting his breakfast. The man had been doing it for years.

That was the trouble with Elias—he saw through Graham’s carefully constructed walls as if they were made of glass. He’d been doing it since Corunna when the Admiral commanded an evacuation frigate whileGraham worked frantically to save those he could in the blood-soaked hold.

“You look as though you’ve spent the night in a Turkish dungeon. Or worse, a meeting of the House of Lords. Did you sleep at all?” Concern sounded through Elias’ banter.

Graham offered a curt nod. He’d slept, after a fashion—fitful hours punctuated by dreams of the alley. But in the dreams, he’d always arrived too late. In the dreams, her eyes stared up at him, empty and accusing.

The Admiral knew better than to press any further. He pulled the top paper from the stack and unfolded it. “Ah, the Morning Post. My favorite purveyor of malicious half-truths.” His eyes scanned the page, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Graham poured himself another cup of coffee with a sigh. “Must we?”

“We must,” the older man replied with relish, spreading the Post on the table with a flourish. “Well, well. The Finch women are at it again. They have a positively unerring sense for drama.”

Graham’s hand stilled over the cup. “Finch?”

For one irrational moment, he wondered if Elias had somehow read his mind, had plucked the name from his thoughts where it had been circling since dawn.

Elias arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. The eldest daughter, I believe.” He jabbed a finger at a column. “Here it is. Lady Abigail Finch, observed in a state of dishabille, clinging to some mysteryman near Balmoral Square.” He looked up from the paper with his eyes dancing with anticipation. “The Countess of Edgerton must be apoplectic this morning.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Graham said, his voice carefully neutral as he turned the paper to scan the article for himself. The words blurred before him, but their meaning was clear enough.

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Elias’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Graham’s expression. “You seem unusually interested in Lady Abigail’s misfortunes.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar. You’ve gone rigid as a fence post.” Elias leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Graham hesitated, weighing his words. Elias was many things—irreverent, occasionally reckless, far too fond of London gossip—but he was also unfailingly loyal. If there was one man in London who could be trusted with the truth, it was the admiral.

“I was the unidentified gentleman.”

Elias’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Good God, man. What happened?”

Graham related the events of the previous evening in clipped, precise sentences—the attack he’d witnessed, Abigail’s injuries, their slow progress through the streets of London. He omitted the warmth he’d felt at her touch, the unexpected lightness in his chest when she’d finally called him by his given name.

“So, she was attacked. You saved her, and now her reputation is in tatters while you sit here drinking coffee,” Elias summarized, his tone deceptively casual. “Interesting choice.”

The accusation stung because it was true. He had saved her body only to abandon her reputation to the wolves of society. The realization settled in his gut like lead.

“What would you have me do?” Graham demanded. “March into her cousin’s house and announce myself? That would only confirm the gossip.”

“It might also spare her the worst of the speculation.” Elias stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “The ton loves nothing more than a romantic rescue, especially when it involves a duke.”

“I’m a physician.”

“You’re the Duke of Eyron who happens to practice medicine,” Elias corrected. “A distinction that matters a great deal in the drawing rooms of Mayfair.”