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“They’re fine,” she said shortly.

She held out theMorning Post. He took it, still groggy, and sank back into the chair. The headline made him go cold.

FIRE AT RIVERFORD WAREHOUSE—BARON HOLLAN CRIES FOUL PLAY

“Riverford?” he muttered, scanning the subtext. “That’s one of his holdings. A timber yard. God—was anyone hurt?”

Abigail didn’t answer. “James said you were gone half the night.”

His head snapped up. Abigail’s gaze burned into his.

“Tell me you didn’t do this.”

CHAPTER 21

“You think I did this?” Graham’s face hardened as the last traces of sleep left him.

She fixed her gaze on the papers scattered across his desk, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe. You disappear in the middle of the night without a word, and by morning, your enemy’s property is in ashes.”

Graham stood, yanking his rumpled waistcoat straight with sharp, angry movements. Exhaustion carved deep lines around his eyes, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw like a bruise. “I was with Nedley until three, then calling on... acquaintances.” He stepped around his desk, his movements rigid with controlled fury. “But if my word isn’t sufficient?—”

“It’s not about your word.” She forced herself to look at him directly. “It’s about what you’re capable of when provoked. That night in the alley?—”

“That was different.” Fire flashed in his eyes. “I was protecting you.”

“And now you’re protecting the girls.”

Silence stretched between them. The grandfather clock’s ticking hammered against her eardrums, each second marking the growing chasm in their fragile trust.

“Where were you, Graham?” The question scraped out of her, raw and desperate. “Tell me.”

Morning light carved harsh angles across his profile as he turned to the window. When he finally spoke, each word seemed dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling.

“I spent the night calling in debts.”

Ice settled in her stomach. “What sort of debts?”

His shoulders went rigid, muscle and sinew drawn tight beneath his shirt. “The kind one accumulates when treating London’s less reputable citizens.”

She frowned. “You were hiring thugs?”

“No.” His gaze snapped back to hers. “I was gathering information. These men move through London’s underbelly likefish through water. They hear things, see things. I asked them to uncover whatever they could about Hollan’s activities.”

“And if they found nothing?”

The pause stretched too long, heavy with implications.

“You told them to fabricate evidence.” Not an accusation. Just recognition of the line he’d cross.

“I told them I’d be grateful for anything that might help our cause.” His chin lifted, challenging her to condemn him. “Does that shock you? Disappoint you?”

The question hung between them, waiting for her judgment. She studied his face—the man who’d saved Timothy’s life with gentle hands, who read bedtime stories with stilted tenderness, who’d kissed her last night with such fierce, desperate need.

He would burn London to ash if it meant keeping those girls safe. And God help me—so would I.

“No,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He raised a brow in surprise. “Truly?”