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Graham forced himself forward and climbed awkwardly into the carriage. The door slammed behind him, plunging him into near-total darkness. A key turned in the lock.

"Another lunatic for old Wrenn," the guard remarked. "Though this one's a fancy sort."

"Duke or dustman, they're all the same once they're inside," the attendant replied.

The carriage lurched into motion, its wooden wheels clattering against the cobblestones.

Graham leaned his head back against the padded wall, fighting the surge of panic that clawed at his throat. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, stirring memories he had spent years burying. The earthen cell in Spain, the cries of the men in the dark–always in the dark.

His chest seized as he fought for breath. He pulled against the restraints, leaning into the pain.

Think. Plan. Survive.

Abigail. He seized on her image like a drowning man clutching at flotsam. Her steady gaze. The surprising strength in her slender hands. The way she'd looked at him this morning, not with accusation but with fierce determination.

"They don't know what lies between us," he'd told her.

If Hollan thought this would break him, he was sorely mistaken. Graham had survived worse than a night in an asylum. He would endure. He would find a way back to his family—to Abigail.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.

CHAPTER 24

"Uncle Graham promised us a story," Heather said, her lower lip jutting forward as Abigail tucked the coverlet around her small form.

The clock in the hall had chimed half-past ten some time ago. Far later than the girls' usual bedtime, but Abigail hadn't had the heart to send them off while Graham's chair remained conspicuously empty at supper.

"He must be terribly busy at the hospital," Mary Ann offered, her solemn eyes betraying none of her sister's petulance, though her fingers worried at a loose thread on her nightgown. "People get sick at all hours."

If only it was so simple.

Abigail smoothed Mary Ann's hair back from her forehead. "That's very understanding of you."

"But hepromised," Heather insisted, sitting up and dislodging Abigail's careful tucking.

Ms. Norwood stepped forward, gently but firmly pressing Heather back against her pillows. "His Grace will read you a story tomorrow, I'm certain. For now, you must sleep."

"But I'm not tired." Heather’s proclamation dissolved into a yawn, thoroughly undermining her case.

"Curious. You appear positively exhausted to my trained eye," Ms. Norwood remarked, adjusting Heather's pillow. "Perhaps I need spectacles."

A soft knock at the door drew their attention. James stood in the doorway, his normally impassive expression tight with strain.

"Your Grace," he said with a slight bow, "Admiral Birkins has arrived and requests an immediate audience."

The girls perked up like puppies who had heard the rattle of a treat jar.

"The admiral?" Heather squealed, throwing back her covers. "Is he wearing his medals? Did he bring his spyglass?"

"Back to bed this instant," Abigail said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. Both girls froze, Mary Ann's eyes widening in surprise.

Abigail pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm sorry, girls. I didn't mean to snap." She perched on the edge of Heather's bed and took the girl's small hand in hers. "The admiral is here on important business, and I need you both to be very grown-up right now. Can you do that for me?"

Mary Ann nodded, her gaze searching Abigail's face. "Is it about Uncle Graham?"

The question twisted something in Abigail's chest. She exchanged a quick glance with Ms. Norwood. Of course, the children had sensed the tension in the house.

"Yes," Abigail admitted, seeing no point in lying. "That's why I need you to be especially good tonight. Stay in your beds, and listen to Ms. Norwood."