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“Chocolate drops,” Heather said.

Mary Ann nodded in agreement. “We saw him eating them in his study last week when he thought no one was looking.”

Abigail filed away this small revelation—one more piece of the puzzle that was her husband.

“Chocolate drops it shall be,” she promised.

Bond Street was already humming by the time their carriage drew up—parasols fluttering, bonnets nodding, shop bells clinking like windchimes. Abigail stepped down first, smoothing her skirts against the morning’s judgment. As she helped the girls down, she instructed the driver to return in two hours and surveyed the bustling scene.

“Where shall we begin?” she asked.

“Toys!” Heather exclaimed.

“Books,” Mary Ann countered.

“Fabrics,” Abigail decided, “since we’re nearer that end of the street.”

The draper’s shop welcomed them with the rustle of silks and the earthy scent of dyes. The girls moved through the displays like explorers in an exotic land, fingering velvets and exclaiming over printed cottons.

They spent a pleasant half-hour selecting samples for the girls’ chambers and for the morning room, which Abigail had already decided needed brightening. The shopkeeper was attentive but not obsequious, though Abigail noticed how his eyes widened slightly when she gave her name and direction for delivery.

A group of ladies browsing nearby turned at the title, their whispers carrying across the shop. Their stares burned tiny pinpricks in her composure, but kept her smile fixed in place, herding the girls out of the shop, grateful to be away from the prying gazes. Let them find a new obsession.

The near empty bookshop offered a welcome respite. The girls darted immediately to the children’s section, leaving Abigail to browse the shelves in relative peace. She consulted Ms. Norwood’s list and began selecting volumes on natural history, mathematics, and poetry.

“Your Grace.”

Abigail turned to find a woman in an elaborate hat bristling with ribbons and glass grapes regarding her with undisguisedcuriosity. The face was vaguely familiar—perhaps from a society event, or one of the many introductions at the wedding.

“Lady Hanshaw,” the woman supplied, tilting her chin at a precise angle. “We met at the Duchess of Wildmere’s musical evening last season.”

“Of course,” Abigail replied, though no recollection surfaced. She inclined her head slightly, knowing that as a duchess, even a newly minted one, she need not offer more.

Lady Hanshaw’s gaze flicked over Abigail’s walking dress with the swift assessment of a battlefield tactician. “Such a whirlwind courtship. And with a husband more familiar with sickbeds than salons—one wonders how he’s adjusting.”

As if healing the sick was less respectable than managing investments.Abigail kept her tone light.“My husband’s occupation aids many in need.”

“Yes, you are both so charitably minded.” Lady Hanshaw’s smile grew sharper.

Her grip tightened on the leather volumes. “Not everyone measure worthy by time spent in drawing rooms.”

Lady Hanshaw’s nostrils flared slightly. “How refreshingly unconventional.”

“One never knows when an original thought might prove useful.” Abigail smiled with cool precision, but before Lady Hanshaw could respond, Heather appeared at her side, clutching a slim volume.

“Sea monsters!” She thrust the book toward Abigail, oblivious to the tension. “Can we get it for Beacon House?”

“You must excuse us,” Abigail said, placing a protective hand on Heather’s shoulder. “We have of those charitable mischief to attend to.”

Lady Hanshaw’s eyes gleamed with fresh interest, but Abigail was already steering Heather away, leaving the woman with nothing but a polite smile and unanswered questions.

Abigail guided the girls through the remainder of their expedition with brisk efficiency. The confectioner’s yielded Graham’s chocolate drops—secreted away in a small gilt box that Mary Ann insisted on carrying—and several picture books for the children at Beacon House joined the stack of educational volumes in the carriage. At the milliner’s, Mary Ann selected a sensible blue ribbon while Heather’s pleas for peacock feathers met with gentle but firm refusal.

“But duchesses wear feathers,” Heather protested, lingering wistfully before the display.

“Duchesses also know when feathers are appropriate,” Abigail countered, guiding her toward the door with a hand at her back.

The journey home passed in contented silence, the morning’s tension having dissipated somewhere between gilt-edged storybooks and sugar-dusted treats. Abigail watched the girls’ profiles against the carriage window, their faces softened with afternoon sunlight, and felt an unexpected surge of possession.