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They made their way up the gentle slope to where the blanket was spread with meticulous precision.

Abigail and Graham helped the girls settle, working with quiet coordination to lay out the meal as if they’d done it dozens of times before. Graham served Mary Ann her plate while Abigail arranged a napkin on Heather's lap. They fell into an unspoken rhythm, their hands occasionally brushing as they passed items across the blanket.

Beneath it, though his movements were stiff and his eyes constantly scanned the park as if expecting Hollan to reappear at any moment.

The soldier lurking under the facade of a duke.

He was trying, though. When Heather accidentally spilled her lemonade, he simply dabbed at the spot with his handkerchief, all while answering Mary Ann’s ceaseless questions the different birds in the park with surprising detail. Abigail caught his gaze once across the blanket and he smiled—just a fraction.

As they finished their meal and began packing the remnants, Mary Ann sidled closer to Graham, her expression concerned.

"Uncle Graham?" she asked, innocently slipping her hand in Graham's. "Are you all right? You look like you did when I had the fever."

"I'm fine," he said, his voice rough around the edges, but he didn't pull away.

"No, you're not," Heather announced with characteristic bluntness, already bouncing toward the path that would take them to the swans. "But Aunt Abigail will fix it. She fixes everything."

Abigail met Graham’s gaze as she folded the picnic blanket. Mary Ann hurried after her sister. "I cannot promise to fix it, butlet him come. He'll find he's taken on more than he bargained for."

CHAPTER 19

“Miss Abby! Miss Abby! Look what we made!”

Timothy pelted down the steps of Beacon House, waving what appeared to be a gray woolen sock with buttons sewn on for eyes. Jenny followed close behind, clutching her own creation—a once-white stocking adorned with yarn hair and a mouth stitched in red thread.

Abigail stepped from the carriage, grateful for the enthusiastic greeting after a morning spent rehearsing responses to questions the Court of Chancery might pose. “What have we here?”

“Puppets!” Jenny thrust hers forward. “This one’s you, Miss Abby. See the pretty hair?”

The puppet’s yarn locks bore no resemblance to Abigail’s light brown waves, being both violently orange and standing straightup like flames. Still, she nodded solemnly. “The likeness is remarkable.”

“We’re getting married,” Jenny announced and then added, “The puppets. Not us!”

Timothy scoffed. “That would be silly,” he said, though he blushed to the tips of his ears.

Abigail laughed and shepherded them toward the door, though her steps slowed as she took in Thompson, Marjory’s footman hovering just inside, scanning the street. The ex-military footman rarely stationed himself at the front unless trouble lurked nearby. During the dock riots, he’d stood sentry for three days straight.

“Thompson? Is all well?”

“Perfectly fine, Your Grace.” His gaze continued to sweep the street. “Just ensuring the premises remains undisturbed.”

Abigail’s skin prickled. “I see. Timothy, Jenny, please return upstairs to finish your lessons. I’ll come see your puppet show this afternoon.”

The children groaned but obeyed, racing back inside with their sock creations bobbing along.

She took off her bonnet, frowning at the low hum of voices carried from the parlor. The familiar weight of dread pooledin her stomach. She stopped just inside the room when she discovered what appeared to be a family council of war. Newspapers covered every flat surface and the women of her family, including her mother and Verity, turned to face her with grim expression.

Abigail hesitated. “I didn’t know we were having a family tea, this morning. I would have worn something brighter.” She smiled, but it was forced.

“Have you read the papers?” Bridget asked.

“Not after yesterday’s fiction.” Abigail moved further into the room thinking of Sunday’s article that described their outing to the park as “a carefully curated tableau of virtue—ducks, nieces, and a dutiful husband—all arranged to distract from less savory origins.” She sighed. “What is it now? A witty account of how I held my fork at dinner?”

Marjory and Bridget exchanged glances.

“It’s rather worse than that,” Marjory said, holding out a folded newspaper.

Abigail read the headline and her stomach fell to her toes. “CHARITY OR CHICANERY? Questions Arise About the Duchess of Scandal.”