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“I have cared for more sick children in the past year than you have seen in your entire life.” The quiet intensity of her tone silenced even Georgie’s crying. “This is a reactive fever broughton by spring damp, poor ventilation, and bodies weakened by malnutrition. It poses no danger to the community.”

His face had gone quite pale. “This is recklessness of the highest order!”

The accusation ignited something molten in her chest.

“Recklessness?” She shuffled forward a step. “Recklessness, Mr. Latchford, is sitting in a comfortable office deciding which hungry child deserves a bowl of soup based on their address. Recklessness is counting bottles of vinegar while children shiver through winter nights because coal is too ‘excessive.’ Recklessness is threatening to close a shelter because you’re afraid of a snotty nose.”

He blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

“These children aren’t entries in your ledger,” she continued, her voice growing more strained but no less fierce. “They’re human beings who need warmth and food and medicine. If you truly wish to quarantine us, Mr. Latchford, I suggest you make yourself useful. You’ve already been sneezed on by this one?—”

She lifted Georgie from the chair, the boy still sniffling and limp with heat, and stepped forward. “Since you’ll be sealed in with the rest of us, you might as well take a shift.”

She extended the toddler toward him with a smile as sharp as broken glass.Latchford recoiled so fast he stumbled into a pail of mop water, nearly losing his footing.

“That’s—not how quarantine works,” he sputtered, flinging his handkerchief between them like a warding charm. “I would naturally be—be exempt—official capacity and all?—”

“Contagion doesn’t recognize official status,” a deep voice said from the doorway.

Dr. Redchester—Graham—surveyed the room in a single sweep: the sick children, the scattered medicine packets, Latchford mid-retreat. The weight of his silence did more to quell the chaos than any raised voice could have.

Abigail was aware—far too aware—of her sodden collar, the rasp in her voice, and the stain on her bodice. She pulled the squirming child to her and smoothed her hair back from her face.

He must think I live in a perpetual state of disaster.

Heat rushed to her face—not from embarrassment, but something knotted deeper. He’d seen her battered in an alley. Now he could complete the set: bedraggled, hoarse, and elbow-deep in spring fever.

Mr. Latchford sputtered once, eyed Graham’s physician’s black and the hard set of his mouth, then gathered his papers and self-importance. “If you’ll excuse me,” he managed in a strangled squeak, “I shall return next week to continue the inspection. I expect to find your books in order, Lady Abigail.” He turned on his heel, almost tripping over a stray mop, and bolted for the door.

The brief silence that followed thrummed in Abigail’s ears, and she found herself uncharacteristically grateful for it. She glanced sideways at Graham, unable to resist a crooked, weary smile.

“Doctor Redchester, I do apologize—had I known you were coming, I should have arranged for a more entertaining spectacle. Perhaps a dancing bear.”

CHAPTER 8

“Tell me where I’m needed,” he said, stepping into the chaos, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves in one fluid motion.

He took in the scene with a soldier’s precision: three feverish children huddled near the window, another dozing on a pallet, and a toddler clinging to Abigail like a limpet. The room smelled of willow bark, vinegar, and the distinct musk of illness that no amount of cleaning could mask.

Abigail blinked, clearly startled by his response. “I—that is—we weren’t expecting?—”

“You need assistance,” Graham stated, not a question but a fact. “I’m a doctor. This is what I do.”

Mrs. Welling approached, eyeing him with undisguised interest. “Well, if you’re offering, Doctor, we have six more burning with fever upstairs. The little ones need their doses, and that one—”she pointed to a girl of perhaps five curled on the pallet “—hasn’t kept a thing down since breakfast.”

Graham nodded. Medical problems, he understood. Children were an entirely different matter.They were unpredictable, emotional, and had an uncanny ability to see through pretense. They made him distinctly uneasy.

“I can prepare the remaining doses,” he offered, moving toward the worktable where Abigail had been measuring powders.

The toddler in Abigail’s arms twisted to stare at him. His tiny face scrunched up in suspicious assessment. Graham stared back, uncertain of the proper protocol. Should he smile? Make some inane cooing noise? He settled for a small nod, as if acknowledging a fellow officer.

The child responded by burying his face in Abigail’s shoulder.

“Georgie isn’t fond of strangers,” Abigail said, amusement threading through her strained voice.

“A sensible position,” Graham replied, measuring willow bark with practiced efficiency. “Most of the trouble in my life has come from strangers.”

Abigail’s lips quirked. “I should point out you are the stranger in this room.”