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"Is Uncle Graham hurt?" Heather's voice trembled.

"No, no," Abigail rushed to assure her, hoping her face didn’t reflect her doubt. "He's just delayed."

God, please don’t let him be hurt.

Ms. Norwood stepped forward. "Perhaps a chapter from your book would help pass the time until you drift off?"

Mary Ann watched this exchange with solemn eyes. "We'll be good," she said quietly. "Won't we, Heather?"

Heather nodded, though she still pouted.

"Sleep well, my darlings," Abigail said, rising from the bed.

At the door, she paused for one last look at the two small figures. Ms. Norwood had settled into the chair between their beds, a book open on her lap. The governess gave Abigail a slight nod—wordless reassurance that the girls would be safe in her care.

James waited in the corridor, his posture stiff, his expression tighter still.

"Where is the admiral?" Abigail asked as they descended the stairs.

"In the study, Your Grace. I took the liberty of bringing brandy."

"Thank you, James." She laid a hand on his arm. "Has there been any word from His Grace?"

She had to ask, even though she knew the answer. The staff would have brought any message straight away.

The slightest flicker passed through the footman's eyes. "No, Your Grace."

Abigail nodded and steeled herself as they reached the study door. James opened it for her, then withdrew with another bow.

Admiral Birkins stood at the window with a glass of brandy, his silhouette stark against the dying light. He turned at her entrance, and Abigail's heart sank at the grim set of his mouth.

"Where is he?" she asked without preamble.

The admiral sighed. "I wish to God I knew." He crossed to one of the leather chairs and lowered himself into it with a grimace. "When he didn't return to the club at our appointed time, I started checking. The hospital hasn’t seen him since yesterday, so I hit his old haunts.” The admiral shook his head and finished his brandy. “I even climbed up that blasted monk's hill where he goes to think. Nearly gave myself apoplexy halfway up."

Despite her worry, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I appreciate your efforts, Admiral."

"Please, call me Elias. I even dispatched a man to check the docks and less savory establishments. Nothing." Elias's expression hardened.

Abigail sank into a chair, her mind racing through possibilities. "This isn't like him. Even at his most withdrawn, he sends word. He wouldn't leave us wondering."

"No, he wouldn't," Elias agreed grimly.

"Which suggests interference," Abigail said, biting the inside of her lip against her rising panic.

Elias didn't deny it. "Graham was looking into the fire and now he’s missing. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

“If Graham doesn't appear at the hearing—" Abigail’s stomach churned as her mind raced ahead. "They'll say he's abandoned the girls and is unfit."

"Or worse—they might believe he truly did start that fire—which will earn him transportation or even the noose." Elias's jaw tightened. "Either way, Hollan walks away with custody and Graham's life is ruined."

Abigail rose in a rustle of skirts. "I won't let that happen." She rang the bell for the footman. "I'm going to find my husband."

The admiral pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. "I didn't doubt it for a moment. And I'm coming with you."

She looked up, surprised. "Admiral, I couldn't ask?—"

"You didn't ask. I offered." He squared his shoulders. "I'm old and my joints protest every step, but I'll be damned if I leave a friend behind enemy lines."