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“ D r. Redchester to see the Earl of Edgerton,” Graham said, handing over his card.

The butler, who was as stiff as his polished buttons, cast his gaze over Graham’s plain black coat and modest cravat. “Is the Earl expecting you, sir?”

“No. But I believe he will see me.”

Something in Graham’s tone—the quiet authority that had once commanded field hospitals—made the butler hesitate. He gave a slight bow. “If you would wait in the front parlor, sir, I shall inquire if the Earl is at home.”

The door closed with a soft click. Graham noted the ornate Italian marble fireplace, the gilded sconces, the heavy velvet drapes that billowed slightly in the breeze. He paced the length of the room, counting his steps. Seven strides from wall to wall.

This visit should have been made last night.

The thought made his collar suddenly too tight. He resisted the urge to loosen it.

The butler returned, his footfalls measured and deliberate. “The Earl will see you in his study, sir. This way, if you please.”

Graham nodded and followed the butler through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced men who had likely never questioned their place in the world. He waited through the tedious business of being announced, his back straight, hands clasped behind him.

The Earl of Edgerton stood as Graham entered—a courteous but not effusive greeting. He was a trim man of perhaps forty, with thinning hair and a precisely trimmed beard that did little to strengthen his weak chin. His eyes, however, were sharp and assessing.

“Dr. Redchester,” he said, extending his hand. “We don’t often receive medical men socially. What can I do for you?”

Graham shook the proffered hand. He could tell a lot of a man by his weak grip. It was a handshake born of entitlement without earning. “My lord, I appreciate you seeing me without prior notice.”

“Nonsense. Please, sit.” Edgerton crossed to a small table where crystal decanters caught the noon light. “Brandy? Or perhaps tea would be more appropriate at this hour?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

Graham took the offered seat, perching on its edge as if prepared to depart at a moment’s notice. The room smelled of beeswax and leather, of wealth that had aged like fine wine. It was the scent of a world he’d spent years avoiding—the world of his birth, not his choosing.

“I suspect this isn’t a medical consultation,” the Earl remarked, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid despite the early hour.

“No.” Graham drew a measured breath, tightening his control on the anger that had simmered within him since reading that newspaper. “I’ve come about Lady Abigail.”

Edgerton raised a brow.“I see. And in what capacity do you come—concerned citizen, attending physician, or knight in shining armor?”

His fist tightened where it rested on his thigh. As if she was some swooning heroine in a fairy tale. He steadied his breath and said with a cool, professional tone, “Then you are aware there was an incident last night.”

“Yes. I spoke to Abigail this morning.” Edgerton set his glass down without drinking. “A most unfortunate business.”

Graham shifted his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension winding between them. Unfortunate business, like a missed appointment.

“I was the gentleman who assisted Lady Abigail after she was attacked,” he said, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Yes, she mentioned a doctor.” Edgerton’s gaze sharpened. “So it was you.”

“I witnessed the attack and intervened. She was injured—a sprained ankle, contusions to her throat and wrists.” He spoke with clinical detachment, replaying the crunch of the attacker’s nose beneath his fist. “I escorted her home. She insisted on using the servant’s entrance—to avoid disturbing the household.

I urged her to seek further medical attention, but she refused. ”

Edgerton settled into the chair opposite and steepled his fingers, peering at him over them. “And now you’re here because...?”

A clock ticked somewhere in the room. Graham met Edgerton’s gaze directly.

“Because I saw the article in The Post this morning. Lady Abigail’s reputation has been unfairly damaged by my actions.” His throat tightened around the words. “While nothing improper occurred, I understand that perception often outweighs truth in these matters.”

“A diplomatic way of putting it,” the Earl agreed.

Good God, the games men play. He had no stomach for it. “I’ve come to state my intention to offer for Lady Abigail’s hand, should she be agreeable.”

Edgerton’s eyebrows rose. He reached for his brandy and took a slow, deliberate sip. “How very honorable of you, Doctor. Not every man would be so conscientious”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Graham said. The words felt hollow.

The Earl set down his glass with careful precision. “You’ll forgive my directness, but I must ask—have you spoken with Lady Abigail about this?”

“Not yet. I thought it proper to speak with you first.” Traditional. Correct. Safe.

A faint smile touched Edgerton’s lips. “Proper indeed.” He rose and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “You seem a decent enough fellow, Dr. Redchester, but marriage into a titled family is no light matter.”

Graham pressed his lips together. The man thought he was reaching above his station—using the situation to advance his standing.

The assumption might have amused him if it weren’t so insulting to Abigail.

As if her value lay in her connections rather than her courage, her kindness, her unflinching gaze.

“I believe my circumstances would withstand scrutiny,” Graham said, keeping the words he truly wished to speak behind his teeth with an effort.

Edgerton’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? You seem very confident, Doctor. Are you, perhaps, well-connected outside your profession?”

Graham hesitated. This was what he’d tried to avoid. The title would silence doubt—but expose everything.

It always comes back to this.

“I have some family connections,” he allowed, the understatement bitter on his tongue.

“Dr. Redchester, while I appreciate your good intentions,” the Earl sighed and picked up his glass, “I must consider Abigail’s welfare. A physician, particularly one without significant backing, may find himself unable to shield her from society’s censure.”

Something inside him went still, the kind of stillness that comes before a strike. Enough. He was done playing drawing room games.

“I am the Duke of Eyron,” Graham stated. The words falling into the room like stones into still water.

The silence that followed was instant and taut. Edgerton’s glass froze midway to his lips, and his eyes narrowed, disbelief warring with cold calculation.

“The Duke of Eyron has never returned to claim the title that was left to him over a year ago,” the Earl said slowly. “Forgive me, Doctor—or Your Grace, if I’m to take you at your word—but extraordinary claims do require substantiation.”

Graham dipped a hand into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope, thick cream stock marked with his solicitor’s handwriting. He placed it on the table between them with quiet precision.

“A letter from my solicitor confirming my identity, should you wish to verify it. You’ll find everything in order.”

Edgerton picked up the paper and examined the seal before breaking it to review the contents. His eyes widened as he read. “I do hope I have not offended you, but one doesn’t expect a peer of the realm to arrive without so much as a calling card, let alone an announcement.”

The change in Edgerton’s demeanor was marked and expected. Graham felt no triumph, no vindication—only the dull ache of confirmation. And now he must be the duke for the rest of his days.

“I prefer to practice my profession without the encumbrance of my title,” Graham said, though he knew that would no longer be a possibility. “I assure you, my resources are more than sufficient to provide for Lady Abigail’s comfort and standing.”

Edgerton set the letter aside and leaned forward. “I must say, this changes matters considerably.”

“It shouldn’t,” Graham countered. He forced his palm out of its clenched fist, pressing it flat to his thigh. A little longer .

Edgerton chuckled as if Graham had made a delightful joke. “She’s intelligent—though prone to reading too much. And her work at that charity house would naturally cease upon marriage.”

Something hardened in Graham’s chest. The dismissive way Edgerton spoke of Abigail’s intelligence, her choices, her work—as if these were flaws to be corrected rather than qualities to be valued.

“I have no desire to manage Lady Abigail’s interests or intellect.” Every syllable was measured, controlled.

If Edgerton heard the warning in Graham’s tone, he ignored it. “Naturally, naturally. I merely meant that as Duchess of Eyron, she would have different responsibilities.”

As if she were a possession to be molded rather than a woman with her own mind.

“I should like to speak with Lady Abigail directly,” he said, standing.

Edgerton waved a dismissive hand. “She’s upstairs resting and you know ladies loath being seen when not at their best. I shall speak with her. Make her understand the opportunity before her.”

“No.” Graham’s voice was sharp enough to startle the Earl. The single word carried the full weight of command. “I will speak with her myself. And I would prefer that she not be pressured until I do so.”

Edgerton blinked, then recovered with a practiced smile. “Of course, of course. But you’ll find she’s a sensible girl. She’ll see the logic in it.”

The logic of it. As if marriage were a business arrangement to be negotiated rather than a union of hearts and lives.

Perhaps for many in their circle, it was precisely that—a contract, an alliance, a mutual accommodation.

The thought made Graham’s chest constrict.

Was that what he was offering? A logical solution to a problem of reputation?

“Thank you for your time, Lord Edgerton. I shall call on Lady Abigail this afternoon.”