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Though if all goes well, he’ll unearth a skeleton or two in Hollan’s affairs.

At White’s, the bustle of earnest men had faded into the shuffle of those who excelled in the art of appearing important. Graham wove through clusters of tables and chairs, ignoring the whispers and silences that followed in his wake.

The admiral, installed behind a teetering barricade of newspapers and porridge bowls, looked up just as Graham approached. His eyes flicked to the restless set of Graham's shoulders, then to the crumpled Morning Post tucked under one arm.

"Good God." Elias spoke without preamble. "You look as if you mean to put someone's eye out. Shall I pour you coffee, or is this a brandy-for-breakfast sort of morning?"

"I'm not here for breakfast," Graham said, tossing the paper into the nearest chair. The thought of food turned his stomach.

Elias arched a brow. "This is the part where you inform me you require a fast ship to Holland, and a false beard for disguise?" He spoke lightly, but studied Graham's face.

God, I wish it were that simple.

He scoffed and sat down. "Everyone seems hell-bent on picturing me galumphing about with tar barrels under my coat.I know a dozen ways I'd injure the bastard without leaving a trace."

The thought slid through his mind like a shadow. This darkness had always lived inside him, this capacity for calculated violence. In the war, he’d been deployed to kill as often as he had to save. The darkness was a weapon, and he would wield it to protect what was his.

A slow, incredulous laugh slipped from Elias. "Merciful God. He's making jokes. We're doomed."

"I wasn't joking."

A pause, the kind that made gentlemen stiffen in their boots and tug their cravats higher.

Elias recovered with a shake of the paper and a disconcerted huff. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you have saved half a dozen wretches by now? Or are you just intent on giving me indigestion?"

Graham ignored the jibe. "I need your help." The admission cost him something—pride, perhaps, or the illusion of self-sufficiency he'd cultivated for so long. Strange how easily he'd surrendered it now, when Abigail and the girls were at stake. He would beg if necessary.

The admiral straightened, discarding the paper. "Tell me," he said, all hints of levity gone.

Brief, clinical—like battlefield days. Graham's convictions sharpened. "I need information about the insurance policy." He held Elias' gaze. Abigail had uncovered the key. He knew it with utter certainty and the pieces were falling into place in his mind with clinical precision.

"You suspect fraud?" The admiral whistled low under his breath.

"I suspect he's staged this tragedy for public sympathy—and personal gain. Hollan doesn't give a damn for the girls' welfare. But if he can appear the aggrieved guardian, newly impoverished by disaster—well. They'll hand him the keys to every charitable purse in London, and the Chancery may believe the girls' trust ought to be administered 'for their direct benefit.' Convenient, is it not?" The words tumbled out with rising heat. He could almost see Hollan's smug face as he calculated his windfall.

The admiral nodded. "And if he loses custody, he's still well ahead—insurance paid, debts vanished, reputation laundered by pity."

Graham's jaw worked. "If he wins the girls, he gains control of their dowries and annuals—doubled, tripled, set for a lifetime. The warehouse is nothing beside that."

"Even if you're right," Elias said, scratching his chin, "proving it is another matter entirely. Insurance fraud isn't child's play. These companies employ investigators who could spot a forged signature from across the Thames."

"They might find it eventually, but the hearing is tomorrow. Nedley is up to his neck in combing through the rest of Hollan's affairs. That's why I need you." Graham ran a hand through his hair. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand. Every hour brought the hearing closer, every minute another opportunity for Hollan to solidify his position.

"Graham." Elias's tone was uncharacteristically stern. "You have a custody hearing tomorrow and yesterday they accused your wife of embezzlement and trapping you in a sham marriage. This is not the moment to be seen running about London investigating fires that half the city already believes you started. Think of your duchess."

At the mention of Abigail, Graham's heart gave a peculiar twist. The memory of her standing in his study, encouraging him to use every weapon in his arsenal, warmed something cold and hard in his chest.

"My duchess," he said, savoring the words, "is the one who suggested this line of inquiry. She's rather more formidable than you give her credit for." Pride swelled in him, unexpected and fierce.

"It seems the two of you are well suited. I knew I liked her." Elias dabbed his mouth with his napkin and set it aside.

"Will you help me?" Graham pressed. The question hung between them, weighted with all he couldn't say: that he was desperate, that he was afraid, that for the first time in years he had something to lose that mattered.

"Do I have a choice? You've got that look about you." The admiral sighed, pushing back from the table. "Of course, I'll help you. I've a cousin at Lloyd's who owes me a favor. And perhaps a chat with the fire brigade wouldn't go amiss."

"Find the terms, the beneficiaries, the sum. If he's had previous claims—any history at all." Graham's voice thrummed with purpose. His mind was already racing ahead, cataloging possibilities, plotting contingencies.

Elias waved his words away. "My dear fellow, I've been gathering intelligence since before you learned to shave. If there's anything to find, I'll get it. Discreetly." He leveled a glower in Graham's direction. "The city's hungry for blood—yours, your duchess, Hollan. They don't care. Just so long as someone bleeds."