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“Redchester!” Elias’ booming voice shattered the peace. The admiral strode across the breakfast room. “At least you’re easy to find, man. Always skulking in the same old corner.”

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

“While all of London gossips about you.” Elias dropped into the chair opposite without waiting for an invitation. “You, my friend, are the talk of the town.”

Graham’s fingers twitched as he straightened the silverware that had been jostled by Elias’s appearance. “How unfortunate for me.”

Elias signaled for coffee with a flick of his fingers. “You should be flattered. I haven’t seen society this excited about a wedding since Princess Charlotte’s. Half the ton squeezed into St. George’s yesterday just to hear your name called from the pulpit.”

“A vulgar display of curiosity,” Graham muttered, grateful he had skipped the reading of the banns.

Elias accepted a cup from Phillips with a nod of thanks. “But what did you expect? The mysterious Duke of Eyron appearsfrom out of nowhere to rescue a lady in distress, only to sweep her off to the altar? It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Graham’s jaw tightened. “Abigail deserves better than to be the subject of idle gossip.”

“Ah, but that’s the price of marrying a duke, my friend.” Elias stirred an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee, sloshing it over the edge. Graham handed him his napkin, but the admiral waved it away. “The gossip columns are having a field day. ‘From Alleyway to Altar’—that was my personal favorite headline.”

“I fail to see the humor in it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Elias’s expression softened slightly. “How is the lady bearing up under the scrutiny?”

Graham’s chest tightened at the thought of Abigail—her quiet poise as she faced down the whispers, her gentle smile when she caught his eye across a crowded room.

“She is remarkable,” he said simply.

“Indeed, she must be, to have captured the impenetrable heart of Graham Redchester.”

Graham stilled. “We have an arrangement. Nothing more.”

Elias’ eyes danced, and he grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, old boy.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded periodical. “Have you seen this morning’s Tatler?”

The paper in Elias’s hand might as well have been a snake. “I make it a point to avoid such publications.”

“You might want to make an exception for this one.” Elias slapped the paper onto the table with a flourish.

The caricature leapt from the page: Abigail in nurse’s garb, haloed like a saint, holding a long, trumpet-shaped stethoscope to the heart of a surly, brutish figure clearly meant to be Graham. Military dress, with a scroll labeled “DUKE” hanging from his pocket. The caption beneath read: “The Duke’s Remedy: One Scandal to Cure Another!”

Ice crystallized in Graham’s veins. His cup settled on the saucer, turning the handle to precisely three o’clock.

“Charming,” he said.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Elias continued, oblivious to the frost in Graham’s tone. “The Morning Chronicle suggests your bride-to-be has ‘tamed the battlefield beast with her charitable heart.’ The Times offered ‘Is the Good Doctor’s prescription for scandal a dose of matrimony?’”

“That’s quite enough,” Graham said.

Elias glanced up, finally registering the tightness around Graham’s eyes. “Come now, it’s all in good fun. Better this than painting your bride with the scandal brush while whispering about you behind closed doors.”

“I don’t give a damn about myself,” Graham replied. “But Abigail has endured enough public scrutiny to last a lifetime.”

“She seems a resilient woman,” Elias observed. “And she’ll need to be married to you.”

She deserves better than this circus. Better than me.

Graham’s attention shifted to the doorway where a small cluster of newspaper porters had entered through the servants’ corridor. Nine o’clock on the dot.

One of the porters broke off from the rest and walked directly toward Graham’s corner.

Graham tracked him, noting the idiosyncrasy out of long habit to notice anything out of the ordinary. He never took his own papers—what need had he when Elias invariably brought every scandal sheet in London to his table?