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"I see. And you were there, supervising these visits?"

"No. I was hired after His Grace returned. But the staff informed me that the baron spent more time wandering the house than attending to his young relations." Ms. Norwood's needle flashed in the sunlight as she resumed her stitching. "When I arrived, the visits continued for a time. Always the same pattern—he would bring sweets or toys for the girls, stay barely long enough to see them delighted, then excuse himself to 'reminisce' in various rooms of the house."

"How considerate of him to maintain a relationship with his young cousins," Abigail said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice.

"Indeed. Though his consideration did not extend to replacing items that mysteriously disappeared after his visits. Small things—a silver snuffbox, a miniature portrait, decorative items that might not be missed immediately."

"You believe he was stealing from the house?"

"I cannot prove it," Ms. Norwood said carefully. "But when I mentioned my concerns to His Grace in a letter, he immediately forbade any further visits from the baron."

Abigail frowned. "That must have upset the girls."

"They were disappointed, certainly. They'd grown fond of him—or rather, of the attention and gifts he provided." Ms. Norwood set her work aside. "Which brings me to the incident Hollan's solicitor is particularly interested in."

"Go on." Abigail's stomach tightened with foreboding.

"About a month after His Grace's prohibition, Baron Hollan appeared at Eyron Park unannounced. I instructed the footmen to turn him away." Ms. Norwood paused, her expression troubled. "Unfortunately, Heather had been watching from the landing. When she saw who it was, she ran down and threw herself at the baron, begging him to stay."

"The poor child," Abigail murmured.

"When the footmen continued to insist he leave, she became hysterical. She cried that she wanted to go live with Cousin Freddy." Ms. Norwood met Abigail's gaze directly. "That is what the baron's solicitor wishes me to recount."

Abigail's hands went cold. Heather's words—a child's grief-stricken outburst—twisted into evidence against Graham. But it wasn’t the impact on the hearing that made her heart twist.

Her husband would hear the words and think Heather meant them. She could already see the look he’d wear—like he’d failed them all. But what child didn’t cry for what was shiny and fleeting? He’d given them something better—constancy, quiet safety, a place to belong.

Even if he didn’t quite believe it himself.

If Hollan’s lawyer wielded it well, that single moment of heartbreak could become the cornerstone of his entire case.

"I see," she said, her voice tight.

"I must be truthful in court, Your Grace," Ms. Norwood said. "Even though I fear my testimony will not cast you and His Grace in the most favorable light."

"Of course you must tell the truth." Abigail stabbed her needle through the fabric with more force than necessary. "I would expect nothing less."

"If it offers any consolation, I have also been summoned by Mr. Nedley. And I intend to be equally forthright about the remarkable transformation I've witnessed in the girls since becoming part of your family." Ms. Norwood picked up her mending again. "Mary Ann smiles now—genuine smiles, not the polite mask she wore for so long. And Heather... well, the child practically vibrates with happiness when you or His Grace enter a room."

Warmth bloomed in Abigail's chest, a small comfort against the chill of anxiety. "Thank you. When His Grace returns," she said, securing her final stitch, "we'll share this information with him. We will not be ambushed tomorrow."

Ms. Norwood studied her with approval. "Indeed not, Your Grace. Indeed not."

Abigail picked up another pair of stockings—torn, stained with mud despite a thorough washing. She set her stitches and pulled the fabric closed, wishing the messes people made were as easily mended.

The clock struck five. No sign of Graham. Abigail forced her attention back to her needlework, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her stomach.

Where are you, Graham?

She wanted to feel his presence in the house—the creak of his chair, the low rasp of his voice. Instead there was only silence, and the echo of the promises they’d made, trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

CHAPTER 23

Graham sat rigidly upright, his hands clasped in his lap to hide their tremor. Three o'clock had struck moments before Magistrate Gorse emerged from his chambers like a black beetle scuttling from beneath a stone.

The courtroom at Bow Street bore no resemblance to the grand chambers of Chancery where tomorrow's hearing would unfold. Here, justice wore a shabby coat—scuffed wooden benches, grimy windows that filtered the afternoon light into something jaundiced and mean. The air hung thick with the accumulated misery of a thousand petty criminals and desperate souls.

"Dr. Graham Redchester, Duke of Eyron," Gorse intoned without inflection, settling behind his bench with the weary air of a man who had processed human wreckage for decades. "You stand accused of arson in the matter of the Riverford Warehouse fire."