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Graham dried his hands methodically, one finger at a time. “The femoral artery is unforgiving. Speed was necessary, not remarkable.”

“Nevertheless.” Finlay’s mouth quirked. “That young man will walk again because of you. His family is waiting outside if you’d like to speak with them.”

Graham folded the towel, careful to align the edges. “That falls to you as attending physician. Please extend my regards.”

Finlay looked as though he might object, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Graham pressed his lips together to hold back the habitual retort. He collected his coat, eager to escape the cramped anteroom. The hospital corridors were mercifully quiet, lamps turned low, night nurses occupied with their rounds.

Outside, the spring night embraced him with unexpected warmth. Graham inhaled deeply, searching for stars, but London’s haze obscured all but the brightest. His carriage waited at the curb. The horses stamped, restless, impatient for their oats.

“Home, Your Grace?” the driver asked, touching his hat.

Graham hesitated. “Yes. Thank you.”

He hadn’t meant to stay so long at the hospital. But over the last week, it had become his refuge.

At home, nothing stayed where it belonged. Slippers in the stairwell. Crumbs on the pianoforte. Laughter echoing through rooms that used to be silent.

He’d told himself he was being useful. But truthfully, he’d been avoiding the house. Avoidingthem.

Still—if he hadn’t lingered, he wouldn’t have been there when the boy was brought in, bleeding and gray.

As the carriage lurched into motion, Graham settled back against the leather seat with a deep sigh. For three hours, everything had been blessedly simple: the wound, the blood, the needle. He allowed himself a quiet, secret satisfaction—he had tipped the balance between life and death.

Mayfair’s streets slipped past, lined with quiet, elegant townhouses. At last, the familiar gates of Eyron Manor appeared, wrought iron against the night.

The household slept. Only a single lamp burned in the entrance hall, left by Wilkins to guide the master’s return. Graham hung his coat and hat so Wilkins could brush them down in the morning.

A white glove lay abandoned on the sideboard, delicate and slightly crumpled. Abigail must have forgotten it when she left earlier that afternoon.

He stared at it longer than he meant to. The sight of it—so plainly hers—left a strange hollow beneath his ribs. He resisted the urge to touch it.

His betrothed had seeped into the place, threading through the household with her usual quiet grace. Her presence was everywhere.

Do I reclaim the space—or give her the key?

He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. Thoughts of Abigail would not coax sleep any closer, but a medical journal and a glass of brandy might. He made his way to his study.

A thin slice of light gleamed beneath the study door. Graham paused, frowning. The servants knew better than to leave lamps burning unattended.

He pushed the door open silently.

A single lamp burned on his desk, casting long shadows across the room. In the high-backed chair near the window, Beatrix Norwood slumped, her head at an uncomfortable angle.A book lay on the floor at her feet, its pages bent.

He gritted his teeth. His study was not a drawing room, not a place for governesses to linger. It was the last quiet corner he had left, and she’d occupied it without so much as asking.

With long strides, he crossed the room, forming his rebuke in his mind. Something shifted under the desk.

He drew up short and his irritation evaporated.

Two small bodies lay curled together under his desk, a woolen blanket tucked around them. Mary Ann’s arm draped protectively over Heather’s shoulder, their matching faces peaceful in sleep.

What were they doing here, of all places? His study contained nothing of interest to children—no toys, no picture books, nothing but medical texts and correspondence.

Yet they’d chosen this spot to nest, like birds seeking shelter in a storm.

Graham hesitated. He shouldn’t allow this, but he could not bring himself to shatter their peace. He shifted his weight, uncertain, and the ancient floorboard beneath the carpet betrayed him with a protesting creak.