Page 35

“ M iss Abby! Miss Abby! Look what we made!”

Timothy pelted down the steps of Beacon House, waving what appeared to be a gray woolen sock with buttons sewn on for eyes. Jenny followed close behind, clutching her own creation—a once-white stocking adorned with yarn hair and a mouth stitched in red thread.

Abigail stepped from the carriage, grateful for the enthusiastic greeting after a morning spent rehearsing responses to questions the Court of Chancery might pose. “What have we here?”

“Puppets!” Jenny thrust hers forward. “This one’s you, Miss Abby. See the pretty hair?”

The puppet’s yarn locks bore no resemblance to Abigail’s light brown waves, being both violently orange and standing straight up like flames. Still, she nodded solemnly. “The likeness is remarkable.”

“We’re getting married,” Jenny announced and then added, “The puppets. Not us!”

Timothy scoffed. “That would be silly,” he said, though he blushed to the tips of his ears.

Abigail laughed and shepherded them toward the door, though her steps slowed as she took in Thompson, Marjory’s footman hovering just inside, scanning the street.

The ex-military footman rarely stationed himself at the front unless trouble lurked nearby.

During the dock riots, he’d stood sentry for three days straight.

“Thompson? Is all well?”

“Perfectly fine, Your Grace.” His gaze continued to sweep the street. “Just ensuring the premises remains undisturbed.”

Abigail’s skin prickled. “I see. Timothy, Jenny, please return upstairs to finish your lessons. I’ll come see your puppet show this afternoon.”

The children groaned but obeyed, racing back inside with their sock creations bobbing along.

She took off her bonnet, frowning at the low hum of voices carried from the parlor.

The familiar weight of dread pooled in her stomach.

She stopped just inside the room when she discovered what appeared to be a family council of war.

Newspapers covered every flat surface and the women of her family, including her mother and Verity, turned to face her with grim expression.

Abigail hesitated. “I didn’t know we were having a family tea, this morning. I would have worn something brighter.” She smiled, but it was forced.

“Have you read the papers?” Bridget asked.

“Not after yesterday’s fiction.” Abigail moved further into the room thinking of Sunday’s article that described their outing to the park as “a carefully curated tableau of virtue—ducks, nieces, and a dutiful husband—all arranged to distract from less savory origins.” She sighed.

“What is it now? A witty account of how I held my fork at dinner?”

Marjory and Bridget exchanged glances.

“It’s rather worse than that,” Marjory said, holding out a folded newspaper.

Abigail read the headline and her stomach fell to her toes. “CHARITY OR CHICANERY? Questions Arise About the Duchess of Scandal.”

“Good heavens,” she murmured, scanning the first paragraph.

“Every single paper from gossip rags to the Post ran it,” Bridget said, looking around at the discarded newspapers.

Every eye in London had seen this fresh disgrace. Sweat broke out on her brow as nausea churned.

“Skip to the third column,” Verity said. “That’s where the real venom starts.”

Abigail’s eyes found the passage. Her breath caught. “They’re accusing me of embezzlement?”

“Utter rubbish,” Mrs. Welling declared, slamming down a teacup with enough force to slosh liquid onto the saucer.

“Keep reading,” Bridget said grimly.

Abigail forced herself to continue. “’One wonders whether the Duke of Eyron knew what manner of family he was allying himself with when he hastily wed the daughter of the late Gerald Finch, whose disgraceful exit from society is still whispered about in certain circles.’”

Of course they would drag him into it. Familiar shame burned through her veins.

“Finish it. The worst is at the end,” Marjory said, gathering up the papers into a messy stack and patting the now empty seat next to her.

She sat down, skimming through paragraphs that detailed Graham’s absence on their wedding night, citing sources at the hospital that wondered at his presence there instead of his marital bed.

The words blurred before her eyes. Her throat constricted and hot tears of humiliation rose, though she blinked them away.

They’ve made our private struggle into public spectacle. Graham will be mortified.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d endured gossip before—whispers in drawing rooms, sidelong glances at assemblies—but this violated something sacred between them, something fragile and still forming.

“How did they know?” she whispered. “Who would—” She broke off, unable to complete the thought.

She pictured Graham reading this over his morning coffee, the careful control in his face slipping as strangers dissected their marriage bed. He, who struggled daily with demons no one could see, valued privacy above all things.

She almost rose, almost reached for her wrap and the carriage bell. But where would she go? To the hospital? Hunt him down at a patient’s bedside and cry into his coat while he silently withdrew into himself?

No. He would need time and space to absorb the information. But whoever did this would pay dearly for the pain they caused him.

Everything came clear in the final line.

She read aloud through clenched teeth. “Baron Frederic Hollan, cousin to the late Duchess of Eyron and blood relation to the girls, expressed grave concern for their moral welfare. ‘Children require proper guidance,’ His Lordship remarked. ‘One wonders what influences they now encounter.’”

The paper trembled in Abigail’s hands. “He planned this. That snake.”

“Who planned what?” Verity demanded.

She crumpled the paper, resisting the urge to shred it. “Baron Hollan is petitioning for guardianship of Mary Ann and Heather. He claims Graham is unfit—because of me.”

Marjory stilled.“That slimy bastard.”

The Dowager gasped and Bridget hid a smile. Marjory waved a dismissive hand. “As if my language is the worst part of this conversation. When did this happen?”

Abigail smiled at her sister, but the seriousness of the situation made it too heavy to hold. “I learned of it Saturday at the park.” She massaged her temples. “Graham knew before but didn’t tell me.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Bridget muttered. “Men and their misguided protectiveness.”

“And as for the wedding night...” Abigail faltered.

Her mother spoke for the first time, her voice gentle. “My dear, no one at this table had a conventional wedding night. There’s no shame in it.”

“Perhaps not,” Abigail said, “but it’s humiliating to have it broadcast across London.”

Mrs. Welling snorted. “Men have been finding reasons to flee their marital obligations since Adam blamed Eve for the apple. It sorts itself out eventually.”

Despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Is that your professional assessment?”

“Seen enough marriages in my time,” Mrs. Welling replied with a shrug. “The good ones, the bad ones, and the ones held together with spit and prayer.”

“Not to minimize your pain,” Marjory said, giving Abigail a sympathetic look, “but we must consider what this bloody circus means for Beacon House. Several donors have already withdrawn their support.”

Abigail swallowed down a wave of frustrated tears. They would not solve empty bellies and cold hearths.

“And Henderson’s Bakery has paused deliveries ‘until things are clarified,’” Mrs. Welling added, her mouth pinched with disapproval. “As if sending day-old buns to orphans needs clarification.”

“All over lies,” Abigail muttered.

“Truth hardly matters in these cases,” Bridget replied. “Perception is everything.”

“Well, I perceive we need a strategy,” Verity declared, setting her tea aside and leaning forward.

“Norman may be useless in a crisis, but he has connections and will utilize them as we tell him. I’ve arranged tea with Lady Hemsley shortly.

Her circle controls half the charitable purse strings in London. ”

Abigail blinked at her. “You have?”

“We may squabble like squirrels in a sack,” Verity said, chin lifted, “but no one does this to my family.”

“I’ve spoken with Lady Harrington. She’s rallying support among the more influential matrons. And Anthony has sent word to several key merchants who depend on Wildmere business,” Bridget said. “They’ll think twice before aligning themselves with Baron Hollan’s crusade.”

“Richard is drafting a legal response,” Marjory said, rising to pace the room. “The paper can’t prove a single allegation, which opens them to charges of libel.”

Her mother took her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “You are not your father,” she said firmly. “Don’t let them drag you down into his shadow.”

Abigail covered her mother’s hand with her own. “Thank you. All of you.”

Verity gathered her things. “I should go. Lady Hemsley detests tardiness. Don’t fret, my dear.”

“And I promised Anthony I’d return by noon,” Bridget said, rising. “Henry has been an absolute tyrant of late. Mother, would you like me to drop you at Reedley Manor?”

“I think I’ll stay and help with the sewing circle this afternoon,” the Dowager said. “I find my hands want to be busy.”

Abigail accepted Bridget and Verity’s fierce hugs with a lump in her throat. After they left, she looked at the remaining women. “Well, now what?”

“Now, we’ve got mouths to feed and not enough to fill ‘em,” Mrs. Welling pushed to her feet and gathered the tea tray.“We need to scrounge up more donations.”

Marjory nodded. “Let’s get to work.”

Mrs. Welling nodded approvingly. “I’ll leave that to you ladies. Snack time for the little ones. They get fractious when their bellies rumble.”

“I’ll help,” her mother said and gave Abigail’s shoulder a final squeeze. “Stand tall, darling.”

She nodded and helped Marjory gather the ledgers and paper and ink as they prepared to send letters to shore up support.