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"My dear lady, if you could see the way he looks at you when you aren't watching—" He broke off at her expression. "Forgive me. It's not my place."

Abigail swallowed the knot in her throat. "How long did you and Graham serve together? He speaks so little of his time in the Navy."

"Several stints across nearly a decade. I commanded battle frigates; he saved lives belowdecks." Elias gazed out the window, his eyes distant. "Though he wasn't just a surgeon in the war."

Something in his tone made Abigail's skin prickle. "What do you mean?"

"There was a unit. Unofficial. Never appeared on any roster or dispatch." Elias's voice lowered, though they were alone in the carriage. "They called it Gideon's Line—men with particular skills who undertook missions too delicate or too bloody for regular forces."

A chill washed over Abigail. "And Graham?"

"He was recruited for his mind as much as his medical expertise. He sees patterns others miss, stays ice-cold under pressure." Elias's gaze drifted to the window. "Useful traits when infiltrating enemy camps, interrogating prisoners, eliminating targets."

The words hung in the close confines of the carriage. Abigail's mind filled with unbidden images. Graham moving through shadows with surgical precision, the same hands that gently bandaged Heather's scraped knees wielding other tools with equal expertise.

"He never speaks of it," she said, suddenly understand so much and nothing at all.

What it must do to a man to bear that burden—a healer and a killer.

"No, he wouldn't." Elias's expression darkened. "It nearly destroyed him, that contradiction." He met her gaze directly. "That's why he ran to London's worst slums after the war—penance, perhaps. Why he treats the poorest, most desperate cases. As if saving enough lives might right the balance."

The carriage slowed as they approached Bow Street. Light spilled from the courthouse windows despite the late hour.

"Will this change how you see him?" Elias asked, studying her intently.

Abigail considered the question, turning it over like a strange coin. "No," she said finally. "It simply helps me understand what he carries."

Elias nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. Because the man needs someone who won't flinch from his shadows."

Abigail turned her gaze to her clasped hands, allowing the admiral's words to settle. Her husband carried wounds that went far deeper than she ever imagined.

How many times had he tried to warn her, to show her the darkness he believed made him unworthy? Yet in that darkness, she'd found only a man desperate to protect what he loved, willing to bear any burden to keep others from harm. The thought filled her with a fierce, protective tenderness.

"I won't flinch," she whispered, more to herself than to the admiral. "Not now. Not ever."

The carriage halted. Bow Street Magistrates' Court loomed before them, a solid building of weathered brick with barred windows and an imposing oak door. A solitary gas lamp cast harsh shadows across the entrance where a uniformed constablestood sentry, his expression hardening as they approached. Abigail measured her step to allow the admiral to keep pace.

"State your business," the constable said, shifting to block their path. "Court's closed for the night."

Elias drew himself to his full height. "We're seeking the Duke of Eyron. We have reason to believe he was brought here earlier today."

The constable's gaze flicked between them, assessing. "Can't say I know anything about that. But you can go on in and ask the clerk at the desk. He keeps the records of who comes and goes."

Inside, the stark reality of Bow Street assaulted Abigail's senses. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose, blocking out the scent of stale beer and unwashed bodies. Flickering oil lamps cast sickly yellow light across water-stained walls and splintered wooden benches where a few unfortunate souls slumped in varying states of misery. In one corner, a man retched into a bucket while a bored guard looked on.

The clerk's desk stood like an island in this sea of human wreckage—a scratched wooden barricade behind which a thin man with ink-stained fingers sorted papers with mechanical indifference.

"Excuse me," Abigail approached the desk, back straight, chin lifted. "I'm inquiring about the Duke of Eyron.”

The clerk barely glanced up from his papers. "No dukes here, ma'am. Just drunks and thieves."

"This is the Duchess of Eyron," the admiral growled. "Show some respect."

"Please check your records," Abigail pressed. "He may have been registered under Dr. Graham Redchester."

With an exaggerated sigh, the clerk leafed through a ledger. "Redchester... Redchester... ah, yes. Brought in this afternoon. Left hours ago."

"Left? Where did he go?" Abigail leaned forward.