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Graham’s jaw tightened. “I have no interest in the drawing rooms of Mayfair.”

“You may enjoy the anonymity of being a second son of a half-forgotten estate and masquerade around town as nothing more than a physician.” Elias gestured toward Graham’s austere black coat. “But Lady Abigail must navigate those drawing rooms, and thanks to your involvement, however honorable, she now faces fresh scandal. You should have bundled her in a cab and been done with it.”

Graham didn’t answer. He plucked a petal from the rose and rolled it slowly between his fingers.It released a faint, unmistakable scent.

Crushed blossoms in the muck. Her hair falling around her face. The heat of her as she clung to him, seeking shelter.

He dropped the petal onto the saucer. It stuck, limp and bruised.

She doesn’t belong in scandal sheets. She belongs somewhere safe, appreciated.

His life of careful compartmentalization was crumbling. He’d kept his work separate from his title, his past apart from his present, and his nieces away from his demons. Now everything was colliding, and a woman who had already endured enough was paying the price.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Elias set down his cup, his expression unusually serious. “I’m suggesting that if a gentleman isn’t willing to repair the damage he’s caused, no matter how unintentional, he’s no gentleman at all.”

The words hung between them, weighted with implication. Graham stared out the window, where London was coming to life—carriages rolling past, a flower seller arranging her wares, a group of young bucks laughing as they made their way toward Bond Street. Normal life continuing while somewhere in Mayfair Lady Abigail faced the destruction of what little reputation she had left.

“I have responsibilities,” Graham said finally. “My nieces?—”

“Need a mother,” Elias finished quietly. “Or at least a woman’s influence beyond their governess. You said it yourself last month—you’re at sea with them.”

Graham’s fingers tightened around his cup. He thought of Mary Ann hiding beneath her bed, of Heather standing guard over her. He thought of Abigail kneeling beside Timothy’s sickbed, her hands gentle but sure. Of how the room had gone quiet when she spoke. Of how he hadn’t wanted to leave.

Two problems. One solution. The simplicity of it mocked him.

People aren’t equations to be solved.

“I barely know her,” he said.

“You know enough,” Elias replied. “She has courage and cares for others. You know she deserves better than to be sacrificed to London’s appetite for gossip.”

Graham closed his eyes briefly, the weight of duty settling across his shoulders like a familiar coat. “I’ll consider it,” he said finally.

Elias’s smile was knowing. “That’s what you always say when you’ve already made up your mind but aren’t ready to admit it.”

Graham didn’t reply. Instead, he watched a lone leaf skitter across the street outside, driven by a wind he couldn’t feel—much like the forces now pushing him toward a decision he wasn’t certain he was prepared to make.

But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps control was an illusion he’d clung to for too long. Perhaps it was time to step into the chaos and see what emerged on the other side.

CHAPTER 5

“It simply isn’t proper. You should not be here,” Mrs. Welling declared, planting herself in the doorway of Beacon House’s cramped dispensary.

Abigail didn’t look up from the mortar where she ground dried willow bark with methodical precision. The bitter, medicinal scent rose with each circular motion of the pestle. Pain shot through her ribs with every twist, but she kept her expression neutral.

“Good morning to you as well, Mrs. Welling,” she replied in a raspy whisper.

Mrs. Welling’s weathered face creased with exasperation. She stepped into the small room, her skirts brushing against the shelves lined with brown glass bottles and earthenware jars.

“Your sister sent a note round first thing saying you’d had a misadventure and would be staying home to rest today,” Mrs.Welling said, her tone softening slightly. “Yet here you are, sounding like you’ve been gargling gravel.”

Abigail tightened her grip on the pestle, continuing her work as if she hadn’t heard the objection. “Timothy’s fever spiked during the night. The willow bark supply has dwindled considerably, and he isn’t the only one with fever.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Mrs. Welling crossed her arms across her ample bosom. “You ought to be resting, not grinding powders when you can barely stand straight.”

“I assure you, I am perfectly?—”