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Mr. Prentiss jumped, smearing ink on his notes. “Good heavens!”

“I think I shall see what the ruckus is about,” Abigail said, relieved to have an excuse to escape the odious man and his insinuations.

“We’re in the middle of an important discussion,” the banker protested as Abigail rose.

“No, Mr. Prentiss,” she corrected, “you’re in the middle of an inquisition based on malicious gossip. I, however, have children to attend to.”

She swept from the room, Marjory close behind, to find a crowd of Beacon House children rushing out the front entrance. Through the open door, Abigail spotted an elegant carriage bearing the Eyron crest.

“Oh! I’d forgotten they were coming today,” she murmured.

Heather and Mary Ann tumbled from the carriage, each clutching books to their chests. Ms. Norwood descended more sedately, carrying a wicker basket.

A hired hackney pulled up just behind them. Two men emerged—one with a sketchbook tucked under his arm, the other with a small notebook already open.

Vultures. They followed them.

She hurried out among the milling children as Heather and Mary Ann bounded toward her.

"Look, Aunt Abigail!" Heather called, spotting her in the doorway. "We brought books for your children!"

Hooves thundered on the cobblestones, heralding the arrival of a third carriage. Graham’s personal conveyance rumbled toward them as a swirling mass of children filled the front yard of Beacon House.The men scratched and scribbled furiously across their pages.

"Charming tableau," one of the men drawled. "The disgraced daughter turned duchess, now mixing her titled nieces with gutter-born charity waifs."

Before Abigail could respond, Graham's carriage door flew open. He descended with the controlled fury of a hurricane, his eyesfixed on the journalists. The set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders spoke of barely contained rage.

"I suggest you gentlemen make yourselves scarce," Ms. Norwood called out, glancing back at the duke. "And I do hope you're as quick on your feet as you are with your pens."

Abigail's heart leapt to her throat. She had seen that look in Graham's eyes before—in an alleyway, with his hands around a mugger's throat.

"Graham," she called, but her voice was lost in the commotion. Children pressed all around her in excited oblivion to the adult drama unfolding.

Graham strode directly toward the men, coat tails flying. "You dare to come here?" he demanded. "To harass children and women?"

"The public has a right to know how their charitable contributions are being spent," one of the men countered, though he took a step back.

"The public can mind its own bloody business," Mrs. Welling declared, appearing with remarkable speed for a woman of her years. "And you can take your gutter-press nonsense elsewhere before I mistake your head for a cabbage and put it in tonight's soup."

Thompson materialized beside Mrs. Welling, his presence alone a formidable deterrent. "The gentlemen were just leaving, Your Grace."

Graham's eyes never left the journalists. "Indeed they were. And should they return, they'll find themselves explaining their conduct to my solicitor."

The men exchanged glances. The sketch artist closed his pad with a snap. "We've seen enough."

The journalist tipped his hat with mock courtesy. “A suggestion, Your Grace. Give us a better story before someone else does.”

Graham's eyes hardened to steel. "The next story involving you will be an obituary if you come near my family again."

They retreated to their coach with far more haste than dignity, glancing repeatedly over their shoulders at Graham.

"Inside, children," Marjory called, clapping her hands. "Quickly now. Abigail, perhaps you and the duke would prefer the garden? Away from prying eyes."

Abigail nodded and hurried to her husband’s side. "Come with me," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

He stood rooted in the street, every muscle taut with barely contained rage. His breathing came in measured, controlled bursts, nostrils flaring slightly as he fought to keep it all in side.When she touched his arm, he flinched as if her fingers burned through his coat.

"Graham," she murmured, closing her hand with a gentle pressure, an anchor. "Please."