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“Routine?” Marjory arched an eyebrow. “How curious that in almost two years of operation, we’ve never had such a visit.”

Mr. Prentiss adjusted his spectacles. “New policies, Your Grace. Entirely standard procedure.”

“Of course,” Abigail said, keeping her anger in check. “We’re happy to cooperate. The ledgers are right here.”

For the next half hour, Mr. Prentiss combed through the accounts. His quill scratched against his notepad with every entry he questioned, each sound pricking at Abigail’s composure. She sat rigid, hands folded in her lap, as he dissected her work with clinical precision.

“This withdrawal on May third,” he said, tapping the page. “Five pounds, seventeen shillings. The notation simply says ‘emergency.’”

Abigail’s throat tightened. The day Timothy had been so sick. The day Graham entered her life. The memory of the boy’s feverish face followed by a flash of the attack in the alley. Graham’s face as he nearly killed her attacker and the way he’d looked at her with such tender care.

“Medical supplies,” Marjory jumped in when Abigail remained silent. “We had an outbreak of fever.”

“And you withdrew this money personally, Your Grace?”

Abigail nodded, yanking her thoughts back to the present. “I did.”

“With no receipts?”

He’s treating me like a criminal.She thought of Timothy’s small hand in hers, of Mrs. Welling’s worried face, of the hours spent grinding willow bark into powder.

“The apothecary was closed. I purchased the medicines from a physician who came to attend the boy.”

“This physician—would that be the Duke of Eyron? Your husband?”

They think I’ve been stealing money and giving it to Graham.The realization turned her stomach sour.As if he would need five pounds from a charity.

“At the time, he was not my husband,” she said, each word measured despite the indignation burning in her chest, “merely a doctor who was kind enough to assist us.”

Mr. Prentiss made a note and moved on to another line. “Recurring payments to a Mrs. Chambers?”

“She provides overflow laundry services,” Marjory supplied.

“And how is she connected to Beacon House?” He steepled his fingers before him, regarding Abigail over the top of them.

Mary Chambers and her three children lived in our attic for six months. She scrubbed floors until her hands bled to earn enough for her own lodgings.

“She is one of our success stories and now runs her own laundry,” Abigail said, pride momentarily overshadowing her anger.

“So she would be happy to provide services without close accounting.”

Abigail curled her fingers into her skirts. After everything Mary had endured, to have her name twisted into suspicion?—

Mr. Prentiss closed the ledger with a snap. “Your Grace,” he addressed Marjory directly, “might I speak with you privately?”

Bile rose in Abigail’s throat as the full weight of the accusation settled on her shoulders. Every hour spent balancing ledgers, every penny carefully allocated, every child fed and clothed—all of it now tainted by suspicion.

Marjory’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You may not. Any concerns about Beacon House may be addressed to both of us, as we are jointly responsible for its operation.”

“I merely thought you might wish to distance yourself from?—”

Before Marjory could unleash what promised to be a blistering retort, a thundering of footsteps erupted from the staircase, followed by excited shouts.

“A carriage! A fancy one!”

“With gold bits on the wheels!”

A parade of children stampeded past the doorway toward the front entrance.