Page 25

B lood turned the water pink as Graham rinsed away the last traces of surgery. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. Satisfaction hummed through him.

The man would live.

“Remarkable work, Redchester,” Dr. Finlay, St. Bartholomew’s attending physician for the night, murmured. The older man’s eyes were rimmed with exhaustion but bright with professional admiration. “I’ve never seen anyone work so quickly with that sort of hemorrhage.”

Graham dried his hands methodically, one finger at a time. “The femoral artery is unforgiving. Speed was necessary, not remarkable.”

“Nevertheless.” Finlay’s mouth quirked. “That young man will walk again because of you. His family is waiting outside if you’d like to speak with them.”

Graham folded the towel, careful to align the edges. “That falls to you as attending physician. Please extend my regards.”

Finlay looked as though he might object, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Graham pressed his lips together to hold back the habitual retort. He collected his coat, eager to escape the cramped anteroom. The hospital corridors were mercifully quiet, lamps turned low, night nurses occupied with their rounds.

Outside, the spring night embraced him with unexpected warmth. Graham inhaled deeply, searching for stars, but London’s haze obscured all but the brightest. His carriage waited at the curb. The horses stamped, restless, impatient for their oats.

“Home, Your Grace?” the driver asked, touching his hat.

Graham hesitated. “Yes. Thank you.”

He hadn’t meant to stay so long at the hospital. But over the last week, it had become his refuge.

At home, nothing stayed where it belonged. Slippers in the stairwell. Crumbs on the pianoforte. Laughter echoing through rooms that used to be silent.

He’d told himself he was being useful. But truthfully, he’d been avoiding the house. Avoiding them .

Still—if he hadn’t lingered, he wouldn’t have been there when the boy was brought in, bleeding and gray.

As the carriage lurched into motion, Graham settled back against the leather seat with a deep sigh. For three hours, everything had been blessedly simple: the wound, the blood, the needle. He allowed himself a quiet, secret satisfaction—he had tipped the balance between life and death.

Mayfair’s streets slipped past, lined with quiet, elegant townhouses. At last, the familiar gates of Eyron Manor appeared, wrought iron against the night.

The household slept. Only a single lamp burned in the entrance hall, left by Wilkins to guide the master’s return. Graham hung his coat and hat so Wilkins could brush them down in the morning.

A white glove lay abandoned on the sideboard, delicate and slightly crumpled. Abigail must have forgotten it when she left earlier that afternoon.

He stared at it longer than he meant to. The sight of it—so plainly hers—left a strange hollow beneath his ribs. He resisted the urge to touch it.

His betrothed had seeped into the place, threading through the household with her usual quiet grace. Her presence was everywhere.

Do I reclaim the space—or give her the key?

He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. Thoughts of Abigail would not coax sleep any closer, but a medical journal and a glass of brandy might. He made his way to his study.

A thin slice of light gleamed beneath the study door. Graham paused, frowning. The servants knew better than to leave lamps burning unattended.

He pushed the door open silently.

A single lamp burned on his desk, casting long shadows across the room. In the high-backed chair near the window, Beatrix Norwood slumped, her head at an uncomfortable angle.A book lay on the floor at her feet, its pages bent.

He gritted his teeth. His study was not a drawing room, not a place for governesses to linger. It was the last quiet corner he had left, and she’d occupied it without so much as asking.

With long strides, he crossed the room, forming his rebuke in his mind. Something shifted under the desk.

He drew up short and his irritation evaporated.

Two small bodies lay curled together under his desk, a woolen blanket tucked around them. Mary Ann’s arm draped protectively over Heather’s shoulder, their matching faces peaceful in sleep.

What were they doing here, of all places? His study contained nothing of interest to children—no toys, no picture books, nothing but medical texts and correspondence.

Yet they’d chosen this spot to nest, like birds seeking shelter in a storm.

Graham hesitated. He shouldn’t allow this, but he could not bring himself to shatter their peace. He shifted his weight, uncertain, and the ancient floorboard beneath the carpet betrayed him with a protesting creak.

Mary Ann’s eyes flew open. She sat up, blinking in the dim light, her expression shifting from drowsy confusion to wariness as she registered his presence.

“Please don’t be mad,” she whispered.

Something in Graham’s chest loosened at the solemn plea. He crouched down.“I’m not mad.”

Heather stirred at the sound of voices. She came awake all at once, sitting bolt upright with eyes wide and limbs in motion.

“Uncle Graham!” she exclaimed, far too loudly for the hour. “Have you ever played hide and seek? This was our special hiding place. Papa showed us and Mama could never find us.”

“Heather,” Mary Ann hissed, “you’re being too loud. Miss Norwood is sleeping.”

“Not anymore,” Ms. Norwood said as she straightened in her chair and rolled her neck.

“When I checked on them before retiring for the night, I found their beds empty.” No excuse, no apology—just facts stated plainly.

“When I discovered them and what this room meant, I hadn’t the heart to move them.

” She swept a glance over his work clothes.

“Your patients kept you late this evening.”

“An emergency surgery. Young man with a severed femoral artery.” He tugged at his cravat.

“You smell like that funny soap from the hospital,” Heather announced, wrinkling her nose as she inched closer.

“Carbolic acid,” he said. “For cleanliness.”

Mary Ann edged forward. “Did you save him?”

“Yes.” The single word felt good on his tongue.

“Ladies, we should retire to our beds and let your uncle have some peace.” Ms. Norwood stood and stretched her back, grimacing as something popped. “So this is how my grandmother ended up shaped like a question mark—falling asleep in her chair waiting for mischief to quiet.”

“Perhaps a glass of warm milk will help everyone get settled for the night?” Graham suggested and met Ms. Norwood’s gaze over the girls’ heads.

She gave him the slightest nod.“I’m sure that is the just thing. I’ll fetch it directly.” She pinned her charges with a stern look. “Try not to talk your uncle’s ears off before I return.”

After she departed, silence fell. The girls watched him, their identical expressions of curiosity making his collar feel suddenly too tight.

“Your rooms are not to your liking?” he asked, then immediately regretted the formal tone.

Heather shook her head emphatically. “They’re too big and too quiet.”

Mary Ann nodded. “And the shadows look like giants.”

“I see,” Graham said, understanding all too well the giants that loomed in dark corners. “Perhaps a night-light would help?”

Heather made a face. “We’re not babies.”

“Of course not,” Graham agreed.

The brief conversation stuttered to a stop. This was hopeless. He’d performed surgeries under cannon fire, yet he couldn’t manage a simple conversation with two seven-year-old girls who looked at him like he ought to know what to say next.

“You should tell us a story,” Mary Ann offered helpfully.

“I don’t know any stories,” Graham admitted.

“Everyone knows stories,” the girl countered, with the unshakable certainty of childhood.

Graham considered. “I know about how the body works. About bones and blood and how to mend what’s broken.”

“That’s not a story,” Heather complained. “That’s lessons.”

“Miss Abigail told us a story today,” Mary Ann said.

A small, unexpected warmth stirred in Graham’s chest. “Did she now?”

During her visits over the past week, Abigail had slipped effortlessly into their world, drawing the girls into a game of cat’s cradle in the garden, braiding flowers into their hair, filling the austere halls with laughter.

Heather bounced on her knees as she and Mary Ann retold Abigail’s story. Heather wound up the recitation with, “Miss Abigail said the frog was really a prince, but I think that’s silly. Frogs are better than princes.”

“Princes have better manners,” Mary Ann countered primly.

“Frogs can jump higher.”

“Girls,” Graham interrupted. “Perhaps we can debate the merits of amphibians versus royalty in the morning?”

“Miss Abigail will be back in the morning. She promised to braid my hair,” Mary Ann said.

Graham nodded.

“She’s pretty,” Heather said. “Not like Lady Hawthorne, who looks like a stuffed goose. Miss Abigail is pretty like Mama was.”

He stilled.The comparison, innocent and devastating, hit him hard. He cleared his throat. “Yes. She is.”

The girls had taken to Abigail’s warmth, as all children seemed to. Even he wasn’t immune. And that troubled him more than he cared to admit. Attachments were a luxury he’d long since taught himself to avoid—yet here they were, piling up around him like kindling waiting for a spark.

The door opened again as Ms. Norwood returned with a tray. Three glasses of milk steamed gently in the lamplight.

“One for each of you,” she said, offering the tray first to Graham, then to each of the girls.

“Thank you.” Graham accepted the glass. He thought wistfully of his plan for brandy and medical journals, but warm milk would do. He no longer felt like reading anyway.

“Perhaps we should take these back to our room?” Beatrix suggested.

Mary Ann’s hand shot out to grip Graham’s sleeve. “No! Please, can we stay? Just tonight?”

Heather nodded vigorously. “We’ll be quiet as mice. Promise.”

Graham looked at their upturned faces, then at Beatrix’s questioning gaze. He should send them to bed. Establish proper routines. Maintain boundaries.

But the lines had already been redrawn—by laughter, by flowers, by frogs and fairy-tales.

With the Beacon House children, Abigail had said there were times for rules and times for grace. He wasn’t sure which this was, but he’d rather face cannon fire than disappoint the pleading gazes turned up at him.

“It appears we’ll be bivouacking on the study floor tonight, Ms. Norwood,” he said.

Ms. Norwood gave a nod and moved to draw her chair closer.

“That won’t be necessary,” Graham added. “Go get some rest. One stiff neck in the household tomorrow is sufficient.”

She paused, then gave him a long look—measuring, approving. “Very well. But if they’re swinging from the curtains come morning, you can deal with Mrs. Graves.”

Graham nodded. “Understood.”

“Ladies, finish your milk and go straight to bed. I won’t have you falling asleep in your lessons tomorrow.”

“We will,” the girls chorused as the governess swept from the room, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Graham settled back against the wall beside the desk. The girls watched him over the rims of their cups.

“What’s bi-voo-ving?” Heather asked.

“Bivouacking,” Graham corrected. “It’s what soldiers call it when they camp outdoors instead of in proper barracks.”

“Did you have a tent?” Mary Ann asked.

“Sometimes. Other times just the stars above.”

“Can we go sleep under the stars?” Heather asked, already moving to gather her blanket.

“Not tonight,” Graham said. He could only imagine what Ms. Norwood would say if she found them in the garden damp with morning dew.“Drink your milk.”

Heather launched into a rambling tale about a robin’s nest she’d discovered in the front hedge row.

Mary Ann added precise details—three eggs, blue as the sky, the mother bird with her rust-colored breast. Graham listened, offering occasional nods, marveling at their endless capacity for wonder despite all they’d endured.

Gradually, their chatter slowed. Heather’s head nodded, then came to rest against his arm. Mary Ann fought sleep longer, but eventually curled up with her thumb half in her mouth, pressed against his other side.

Graham remained seated on the rug, watching them by the lamp’s soft glow.

He’d thought his duty was to stand between them and the world.

But perhaps they needed more than a shield.

Perhaps they needed roots. And stories. And laughter.

And someone who wasn’t afraid of the dark—someone who could light it up with frog voices and flower crowns.

He leaned his head back against the bookshelf, listening to the gentle rhythm of the girls’ breathing.

In that space, the weight of Frederic Hollan’s legal challenge, his impending marriage, his acceptance of his title seemed less crushing.

These girls were his to protect, but also his to cherish.

And for that, he needed more than grim determination.

He needed her .