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The soft voice startled him and he turned to find an elegant woman of perhaps fifty standing at the foot of the stairs, her silver-streaked hair arranged simply beneath a modest cap. Her eyes—the same shade as Abigail’s—regarded him with quiet assessment.

“That will be all Jenkins,” she dismissed the butler, who bowed and retreated silently.

“You wanted to speak to me, madam?” Graham asked.

“I did, doctor, or should I say Your Grace?” she continued, a slight smile warming her features. “I am the Dowager Countess of Edgerton. Abigail’s mother.”

Graham bowed formally. “Dr. Redchester is sufficient, my lady.”

“As you wish.” She gestured toward the drawing room. “Might I have a word before you leave? It won’t take long.”

Graham hesitated, then inclined his head and followed her. The drawing room’s pale blue walls and delicate furnishings were a stark contrast to the Earl’s heavy, masculine study.

The Dowager settled onto a small sofa near the hearth, indicating that Graham should take the chair opposite. She studied him with clear, knowing eyes that seemed to see far more than he wished to reveal. He sat with precision, bracing himself for another negotiation.

“I understand you’ve come to offer for my daughter,” she said without preamble.

“News travels quickly in this household.” The words emerged more sharply than he’d intended.

Her smile deepened slightly. “Walls have ears, and my cousin has never mastered the art of discretion.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You’ll find Abigail at Beacon House. The girl always did believe action could outpace pain.”

Graham stiffened. “She should be resting.” The words were low, almost to himself, but edged with irritation. “She can barely walk.”

“Lying abed, pale and obedient?” The Dowager arched a brow. “You don’t strike me as the sort who admires helpless women, Doctor.”

“I don’t.” His jaw worked. “But I also don’t admire stubbornness when it edges into self-destruction.”

A pause. The Dowager’s gaze softened, not with pity, but understanding. “She’s like her father that way. Stubborn to the point of ruin, if left to herself.” She leaned toward him slightly and added, “If you mean to help her, don’t speak of duty. Speak of worth.”

The simple counsel pierced through Graham’s careful planning, revealing the hollowness at its center. He had approached this entire matter as a duty to be fulfilled, a wrong to be righted—but he had given little thought to what Abigail herself might want or need.

“I—” he began, but found himself at a loss for words.

The Dowager rose, effectively concluding their brief conversation. “My daughter has spent years being useful to others. Being necessary. What she has rarely experienced is being valued for herself alone.”

Graham stood, oddly reluctant to leave. The Dowager’s words had shifted something within him, revealing a dimension to his proposal he had not considered.

In the alley, in that moment when she’d stood despite her pain, when she’d pleaded for mercy on her attacker—he had seen her. Her strength, her compassion, her stubborn dignity. He had buried that recognition beneath layers of duty and propriety.

Because duty is safe, predictable. To see more is to feel more and that I cannot allow.

“Thank you for your counsel, my lady,” he said with a bow.

She nodded once. “You saved her life, Dr. Redchester. Now consider carefully whether your offer will enhance it, or merely change its boundaries.” She turned away to gaze out the window.“Good day, sir.”

With that gentle challenge echoing in his mind, Graham took his leave of Reedley Manor. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones as he walked toward his waiting carriage, his thoughts no longer ordered and precise.

He inhaled deeply. The streets buzzed with life—carriage wheels on cobblestones, a street vendor’s call, children laughing as they darted between pedestrians.

The coachman touched his hat in greeting. “Where to, sir?”

Graham hesitated. The proper course would be to return home, to write a formal note requesting an interview with Lady Abigail later that afternoon. To proceed with caution and decorum.

But propriety has already failed her once.

“Beacon House,” he told the coachman, decision crystallizing into action.

He would not wait to pay a proper call. He would not fail her again.