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“Good heavens,” she murmured, scanning the first paragraph.

“Every single paper from gossip rags to the Post ran it,” Bridget said, looking around at the discarded newspapers.

Every eye in London had seen this fresh disgrace. Sweat broke out on her brow as nausea churned.

“Skip to the third column,” Verity said. “That’s where the real venom starts.”

Abigail’s eyes found the passage. Her breath caught. “They’re accusing me of embezzlement?”

“Utter rubbish,” Mrs. Welling declared, slamming down a teacup with enough force to slosh liquid onto the saucer.

“Keep reading,” Bridget said grimly.

Abigail forced herself to continue. “’One wonders whether the Duke of Eyron knew what manner of family he was allying himself with when he hastily wed the daughter of the late Gerald Finch, whose disgraceful exit from society is still whispered about in certain circles.’”

Of course they would drag him into it. Familiar shame burned through her veins.

“Finish it. The worst is at the end,” Marjory said, gathering up the papers into a messy stack and patting the now empty seat next to her.

She sat down, skimming through paragraphs that detailed Graham’s absence on their wedding night, citing sources at the hospital that wondered at his presence there instead of his marital bed.

The words blurred before her eyes. Her throat constricted and hot tears of humiliation rose, though she blinked them away.

They’ve made our private struggle into public spectacle. Graham will be mortified.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d endured gossip before—whispers in drawing rooms, sidelong glances at assemblies—but this violated something sacred between them, something fragile and still forming.

“How did they know?” she whispered. “Who would—” She broke off, unable to complete the thought.

She pictured Graham reading this over his morning coffee, the careful control in his face slipping as strangers dissected their marriage bed. He, who struggled daily with demons no one could see, valued privacy above all things.

She almost rose, almost reached for her wrap and the carriage bell. But where would she go? To the hospital? Hunt him down at a patient’s bedside and cry into his coat while he silently withdrew into himself?

No. He would need time and space to absorb the information. But whoever did this would pay dearly for the pain they caused him.

Everything came clear in the final line. She read aloud through clenched teeth. “Baron Frederic Hollan, cousin to the late Duchess of Eyron and blood relation to the girls, expressed grave concern for their moral welfare. ‘Children require proper guidance,’ His Lordship remarked. ‘One wonders what influences they now encounter.’”

The paper trembled in Abigail’s hands. “He planned this. That snake.”

“Who planned what?” Verity demanded.

She crumpled the paper, resisting the urge to shred it. “Baron Hollan is petitioning for guardianship of Mary Ann and Heather. He claims Graham is unfit—because of me.”

Marjory stilled.“That slimy bastard.”

The Dowager gasped and Bridget hid a smile. Marjory waved a dismissive hand. “As if my language is the worst part of this conversation. When did this happen?”

Abigail smiled at her sister, but the seriousness of the situation made it too heavy to hold. “I learned of it Saturday at the park.” She massaged her temples. “Graham knew before but didn’t tell me.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Bridget muttered. “Men and their misguided protectiveness.”

“And as for the wedding night...” Abigail faltered.

Her mother spoke for the first time, her voice gentle. “My dear, no one at this table had a conventional wedding night. There’s no shame in it.”

“Perhaps not,” Abigail said, “but it’s humiliating to have it broadcast across London.”

Mrs. Welling snorted. “Men have been finding reasons to flee their marital obligations since Adam blamed Eve for the apple. It sorts itself out eventually.”