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Stay calm. As if the fate of his nieces didn't hang in the balance. As if every minute in this room wasn't another minute away from Abigail. As if his life wasn’t on the line.

Graham's jaw tightened. Beside him, Nedley shifted, his substantial bulk causing the bench to groan in protest.

"This is a preliminary hearing only," Nedley whispered. "They have insufficient evidence for formal charges. Say nothing unless specifically spoken to.”

Magistrate Gorse cleared his throat. "Mr. Beck, please summarize your findings."

Beck rose with the fluid motion of a man accustomed to courtrooms. His gaunt face betrayed no emotion as he addressed the magistrate.

"Your Honor, sometime between the hours of one and four o'clock this morning, a fire broke out at Baron Hollan's timber warehouse near Blackfriars. The structure was completely destroyed." Beck handed a stack of papers to the magistrate and proceeded to lay out his case against Graham including Mrs. Cartwright’s witness statement and his lack of alibi after three o’clock.

"Mr. Nedley, do you wish to respond to these allegations?" Magistrate Gorse asked, steepling his fingers.

"Indeed, Your Worship." Nedley rose, his substantial frame lending gravity to his words. "The prosecution's case rests on absurdly circumstantial evidence.”

“I’m forced to agree.” The magistrate drummed his fingers on the desk. "Mr. Beck, what evidence connects His Grace directly to the fire beyond this single witness?"

Beck hesitated. "The investigation is ongoing, Your Worship. However, the pattern of escalation in the dispute between His Grace and Baron Hollan?—"

"So you have nothing concrete," Nedley interjected.

"I have a sworn statement from a witness with no reason to lie," Beck countered.

Gorse raised his hand again. "I've heard enough from both of you. Given the circumstantial nature of the evidence presented, I am inclined to release His Grace on his own recognizance pending further investigation. The seriousness of arson cannot be understated, but neither can the position of the accused."

Relief surged through Graham. He would be home to Abigail within the hour and attend the hearing tomorrow with a clear head and renewed focus. He unclenched his fists, pressing them flat against his thighs.

The doors at the back of the courtroom flew open with a bang that made the clerk drop his pen. A thin man with a sallowcomplexion and an immaculate black suit strode down the center aisle, trailed by a harried-looking clerk.

"Your Worship, forgive the intrusion." He held his hand out to the clerk, who gave him a handful of papers. "Silas Pratt, representing Baron Frederic Hollan. I have evidence pertinent to these proceedings that must be considered before judgment is rendered."

Graham's momentary relief curdled into dread.

"This is highly irregular, Mr. Pratt," Gorse frowned.

Nedley surged to his feet. "This is outrageous! Mr. Pratt has no standing in this proceeding. Whatever 'evidence' he claims to possess cannot possibly be relevant to the matter at hand–which is an allegation of arson only."

Magistrate Gorse frowned, glancing between the two solicitors. "Mr. Pratt, we are not calling additional testimony relates at this time."

"Your Honor, when considering whether to release the accused, the court must assess risk to the community." Pratt's voice carried the oily smoothness of practiced persuasion. "Baron Hollan fears for his safety—and more importantly, for the safety of the young Misses Redchester."

At the mention of his nieces, Graham's hands clenched into fists. "You will not use the children in your machinations," he growled.

Gorse rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Your Grace, please control yourself. Say what you have to say, Mr. Pratt. The court has other cases to attend."

Pratt handed his papers to the magistrate. “These statements suggest His Grace suffers from violent episodes consistent with battlefield trauma—episodes that make him uniquely dangerous given his resources and current state of mind.”

Gorse skimmed the pages, his frown deepening by degrees. “It says here Mr. Allen Garrick, an orderly at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, claims His Grace shouted incoherently at him, issuing orders and talking to people who weren’t there when a dropped surgical tray."

The incident came back to Graham in a rush—the clatter of metal on tile, sharp and echoing–had sent him back a desperate moment in the bowels of a frigate, under attack. He'd only been back from the Peninsula a month. He flushed with shame and studied the scarred tabletop in front of him as the magistrate continued.

"And here," Gorse continued, "Nurse Margaret Denton describes an incident in which His Grace struck a wall near the children's ward."

Graham breathed deeply. That had been much more recent, though still several months ago. The boy had been no older than seven, brought in too late with a ruptured appendix. Of course he'd been angry—at the needless waste, at the parents who'd delayed seeking help, worried about the cost.

"Your Honor," Nedley interrupted, "these statements are hearsay, unsworn, and irrelevant to the question of arson."

"Mr. Nedley," Gorse said, still reading, "these allegations are troubling, to say the least.” The magistrate heaved a sigh. “I find myself in a difficult position. The evidence regarding the fire itself is, as Mr. Nedley points out, rather thin. However, the additional statements regarding His Grace's temperament raise concerns that cannot be dismissed out of hand."