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He didn’t immediately release her. “You need to rest that ankle before it worsens,” he said, his voice huskier than before.

“I’ll manage,” she insisted. Pride, that old familiar companion, refused to let her admit weakness.

“There’s a house just there where you might wait while I find a carriage.” He nodded toward an imposing townhouse across the street.

Abigail followed his gaze and her heart sank as she recognized the distinctive blue door and ornate brass knocker. Of all the houses in London.

“Lady Winterbourne’s residence? Absolutely not.”

“You need to sit down before you collapse.”

Panic fluttered in her chest at the thought of facing Lady Winterbourne in her current state. The woman had once described Abigail as “that poor Finch girl who threw away her one chance at respectability.” To appear on her doorstep now, disheveled and leaning on a strange man, would provide fodder for gossip that would last until Christmas.

“The woman is London’s most notorious gossip,” Abigail countered, the words tumbling out in her desperation. “By tomorrow morning, every drawing room in Mayfair would be buzzing with tales of my ‘unfortunate incident’ and ‘disheveled appearance.’” She shook her head, unable to bear the thought. “Besides, she still holds a grudge because I refused her cousin’s proposal. The man was nearly fifty and smelled perpetually of mothballs and stale brandy. I’d rather be a spinster.”

Dr. Redchester raised a brow. “Rejecting mothballs at your advanced age? How discerning.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Perceptive of you to notice.”

The unexpected humor in his voice startled her. The pain and fear receded a bit, replaced by a curious warmth. This man—this stern, controlled physician with his penetrating gaze and measured words—had just teased her. And stranger still, she found herself wanting to smile back.

“Please, Dr. Redchester. Reedley Manor isn’t far. If we could just continue?—”

Her words died as the front door of Lady Winterbourne’s house swung open, spilling warm yellow light onto the steps. A small, yapping dog bounded out, followed by a formidable figure in an elaborate evening gown, ostrich feathers trembling atop her silver-streaked coiffure.

“Come along, Bijou,” Lady Winterbourne called to the dog. “Just a quick constitutional before the Pembrokes arrive for?—”

Panic seized Abigail’s chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She pressed herself into the narrow space between two gas lamps, tugging Graham after her with a frantic pull. Her ankle screamed in protest as she stumbled, sending them both lurching into the full glow of the nearest lamp.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The pain radiated up her leg in waves, but it was nothing compared to the terror of being discovered like this—disheveled, bruised, clinging to a man she barely knew.

Lady Winterbourne shaded her eyes against the light, squinting into the street.

“Don’t move,” Abigail hissed. She dug her fingers into his coat and made herself as small as possible behind his broad frame. The scratchy wool of his coat brushed against her cheek as she held her breath though her heart pounded so violently she was certain Lady Winterbourne must hear it.

Please don’t see me.She’d survived one scandal in her life—barely. Another would destroy what little remained of her place in society. No more invitations, even the reluctant ones. No more polite nods in drawing rooms. She would be shunned completely, erased and forgotten.

The little dog yapped furiously, straining against its lead. Lady Winterbourne peered a moment longer, then muttered, “Just a beggar and his doxy. This neighborhood is going to the devil,” and turned back toward her house still grousing about the riffraff.

His doxy.Was that what she appeared to be now? A fallen woman? Her father’s voice echoed in her memory:You’ll bring nothing but shame to this family.

Abigail exhaled and pried her fingers from the doctor’s coat. “I don’t believe she could see clearly,” she whispered. “The light was poor. Besides, everyone says she’s half-blind after that business with the laudanum bottles last Christmas.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she knew it was a thin hope.

Dr. Redchester cast a pointed glance at the nearest gas lamp, which glowed with inconvenient brightness. “Indeed. All the more reason to call upon her aid and explain the situation.”

“Please. Just help me past her house,” she pleaded. “I promise I’ll never wander the streets alone again.” A penance, a vow, a bargain with fate to spare her this final humiliation.

He studied her for a long moment, those blue eyes unreadable in the gathering dusk. Abigail felt suddenly exposed, as though he could see through her fear to the shameful truth beneath—that she cared what these people thought, that despite her work at Beacon House and her pretense of contentment, some part of her still craved acceptance from the very society that had rejected her.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he tightened his arm around her waist.

“Very well. But if you faint, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, propriety be damned.”

Abigail released a shaky breath. “Thank you.”