Page 36

They had just begun making a list of potential donors when Thompson appeared at the door, his expression uneasy. “There’s a Mr. Prentiss here from Barclays Bank. He requests an audience with you.”

Abigail and Marjory exchanged glances.

“Show him in,” Marjory said.

“They haven’t wasted any time,” Abigail groused, tucking their notes away from prying eyes.

Mr. Prentiss entered in a well-tailored suit, pocket watch gleaming, wearing the confidence of a man who wielded power. He swept his gaze around the room and the cold calculation in his eyes tallied the worth of everything—including her—in pounds and shillings.

“Your Grace,” he began, nodding to Abigail. “Your Grace.” He acknowledged Marjory. “I apologize for the unannounced visit, but the bank has instructed me to conduct a routine audit of the Beacon House charitable fund.”

This is a man who forecloses on a widow’s home without losing a night’s sleep.

“Routine?” Marjory arched an eyebrow. “How curious that in almost two years of operation, we’ve never had such a visit.”

Mr. Prentiss adjusted his spectacles. “New policies, Your Grace. Entirely standard procedure.”

“Of course,” Abigail said, keeping her anger in check. “We’re happy to cooperate. The ledgers are right here.”

For the next half hour, Mr. Prentiss combed through the accounts. His quill scratched against his notepad with every entry he questioned, each sound pricking at Abigail’s composure. She sat rigid, hands folded in her lap, as he dissected her work with clinical precision.

“This withdrawal on May third,” he said, tapping the page. “Five pounds, seventeen shillings. The notation simply says ‘emergency.’”

Abigail’s throat tightened. The day Timothy had been so sick. The day Graham entered her life. The memory of the boy’s feverish face followed by a flash of the attack in the alley. Graham’s face as he nearly killed her attacker and the way he’d looked at her with such tender care.

“Medical supplies,” Marjory jumped in when Abigail remained silent. “We had an outbreak of fever.”

“And you withdrew this money personally, Your Grace?”

Abigail nodded, yanking her thoughts back to the present. “I did.”

“With no receipts?”

He’s treating me like a criminal. She thought of Timothy’s small hand in hers, of Mrs. Welling’s worried face, of the hours spent grinding willow bark into powder.

“The apothecary was closed. I purchased the medicines from a physician who came to attend the boy.”

“This physician—would that be the Duke of Eyron? Your husband?”

They think I’ve been stealing money and giving it to Graham. The realization turned her stomach sour. As if he would need five pounds from a charity.

“At the time, he was not my husband,” she said, each word measured despite the indignation burning in her chest, “merely a doctor who was kind enough to assist us.”

Mr. Prentiss made a note and moved on to another line. “Recurring payments to a Mrs. Chambers?”

“She provides overflow laundry services,” Marjory supplied.

“And how is she connected to Beacon House?” He steepled his fingers before him, regarding Abigail over the top of them.

Mary Chambers and her three children lived in our attic for six months. She scrubbed floors until her hands bled to earn enough for her own lodgings.

“She is one of our success stories and now runs her own laundry,” Abigail said, pride momentarily overshadowing her anger.

“So she would be happy to provide services without close accounting.”

Abigail curled her fingers into her skirts. After everything Mary had endured, to have her name twisted into suspicion?—

Mr. Prentiss closed the ledger with a snap. “Your Grace,” he addressed Marjory directly, “might I speak with you privately?”

Bile rose in Abigail’s throat as the full weight of the accusation settled on her shoulders. Every hour spent balancing ledgers, every penny carefully allocated, every child fed and clothed—all of it now tainted by suspicion.

Marjory’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You may not. Any concerns about Beacon House may be addressed to both of us, as we are jointly responsible for its operation.”

“I merely thought you might wish to distance yourself from?—”

Before Marjory could unleash what promised to be a blistering retort, a thundering of footsteps erupted from the staircase, followed by excited shouts.

“A carriage! A fancy one!”

“With gold bits on the wheels!”

A parade of children stampeded past the doorway toward the front entrance.

Mr. Prentiss jumped, smearing ink on his notes. “Good heavens!”

“I think I shall see what the ruckus is about,” Abigail said, relieved to have an excuse to escape the odious man and his insinuations.

“We’re in the middle of an important discussion,” the banker protested as Abigail rose.

“No, Mr. Prentiss,” she corrected, “you’re in the middle of an inquisition based on malicious gossip. I, however, have children to attend to.”

She swept from the room, Marjory close behind, to find a crowd of Beacon House children rushing out the front entrance. Through the open door, Abigail spotted an elegant carriage bearing the Eyron crest.

“Oh! I’d forgotten they were coming today,” she murmured.

Heather and Mary Ann tumbled from the carriage, each clutching books to their chests. Ms. Norwood descended more sedately, carrying a wicker basket.

A hired hackney pulled up just behind them. Two men emerged—one with a sketchbook tucked under his arm, the other with a small notebook already open.

Vultures. They followed them.

She hurried out among the milling children as Heather and Mary Ann bounded toward her.

"Look, Aunt Abigail!" Heather called, spotting her in the doorway. "We brought books for your children!"

Hooves thundered on the cobblestones, heralding the arrival of a third carriage. Graham’s personal conveyance rumbled toward them as a swirling mass of children filled the front yard of Beacon House.The men scratched and scribbled furiously across their pages.

"Charming tableau," one of the men drawled. "The disgraced daughter turned duchess, now mixing her titled nieces with gutter-born charity waifs."

Before Abigail could respond, Graham's carriage door flew open. He descended with the controlled fury of a hurricane, his eyes fixed on the journalists. The set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders spoke of barely contained rage.

"I suggest you gentlemen make yourselves scarce," Ms. Norwood called out, glancing back at the duke. "And I do hope you're as quick on your feet as you are with your pens."

Abigail's heart leapt to her throat. She had seen that look in Graham's eyes before—in an alleyway, with his hands around a mugger's throat.

"Graham," she called, but her voice was lost in the commotion. Children pressed all around her in excited oblivion to the adult drama unfolding.

Graham strode directly toward the men, coat tails flying. "You dare to come here?" he demanded. "To harass children and women?"

"The public has a right to know how their charitable contributions are being spent," one of the men countered, though he took a step back.

"The public can mind its own bloody business," Mrs. Welling declared, appearing with remarkable speed for a woman of her years. "And you can take your gutter-press nonsense elsewhere before I mistake your head for a cabbage and put it in tonight's soup."

Thompson materialized beside Mrs. Welling, his presence alone a formidable deterrent. "The gentlemen were just leaving, Your Grace."

Graham's eyes never left the journalists. "Indeed they were. And should they return, they'll find themselves explaining their conduct to my solicitor."

The men exchanged glances. The sketch artist closed his pad with a snap. "We've seen enough."

The journalist tipped his hat with mock courtesy. “A suggestion, Your Grace. Give us a better story before someone else does.”

Graham's eyes hardened to steel. "The next story involving you will be an obituary if you come near my family again."

They retreated to their coach with far more haste than dignity, glancing repeatedly over their shoulders at Graham.

"Inside, children," Marjory called, clapping her hands. "Quickly now. Abigail, perhaps you and the duke would prefer the garden? Away from prying eyes."

Abigail nodded and hurried to her husband’s side. "Come with me," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

He stood rooted in the street, every muscle taut with barely contained rage. His breathing came in measured, controlled bursts, nostrils flaring slightly as he fought to keep it all in side. When she touched his arm, he flinched as if her fingers burned through his coat.

"Graham," she murmured, closing her hand with a gentle pressure, an anchor. "Please."

Once the hackney disappeared around the corner, he allowed her to guide him around the side of the house to the small walled garden. Only when the gate closed behind them did his shoulders relax. He still radiated tension, but his gaze met hers and was steady, the shadows slowly receding.

"You came," she said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.

"Of course I came. When I saw the papers..." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you all right?"

The simple question, even though it was uttered like an oath, warmed her. In the midst of scandal and crisis, he had rushed to her side.

"I'm managing," she said, then more honestly, "I'm angry. Not for myself, but for what this means for Beacon House. For you."

Graham's expression darkened. "Hollan will pay for this."

"Not with violence," she said quickly, laying her hand on his arm. He didn’t flinch. "We need cooler heads."

"I’ll try." He covered her hand with his own, squeezing it slightly. "I can't stay. I have a patient in a bad way, but I came as soon as I could."

She nodded, fighting disappointment. "Of course. Your work is important."

"So is this. I had to know you were alright." His eyes held her, intense and sharp. "Be careful, Abigail. Hollan is dangerous in ways we're only beginning to understand."

"I will if you will," she replied, attempting a smile.

Graham hesitated, then pulled her into a brief, fierce embrace.

Abigail stiffened, unaccustomed to such spontaneous affection from him.

She softened against him, her hands cautiously rising to rest against the wool of his coat.

The warmth of him—solid and real—sent a flutter through her chest that was equal parts relief and longing.

When he began to pull away, her fingers instinctively curled into the fabric, reluctant to let go of this rare moment of connection.

"I'll be home for supper," he said as he released her.“Keep Thompson close.”

As she watched him hurry away, she wrapped her arms around her, willing the feel of him to stay with her for just a moment longer. She made her way inside, unsurprised to find Marjory waiting for her.

"That was quite the spectacle. Are you all right?" Marjory asked quietly.

“No,” Abigail admitted. “I’m wondering if my presence here is doing more harm than good.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marjory said. “Beacon House needs you.”

“But what if it needs me gone? What if I’m bringing down everything we’ve built?” Abigail’s voice caught.

“If you’re quite finished feeling sorry for yourself,” Marjory said briskly, “I have a bank clerk to eviscerate and you have an audience awaiting a puppet show.” She spun on her heel and headed for the parlor.

Beside her Ms. Norwood took off her bonnet and gloves.“In my experience,” the governess said, “children possess an extraordinary gift for distinguishing between what matters and what does not. Perhaps we might follow their example.”

Abigail nodded.“Of course. Come this way.”

She led Ms. Norwood to the schoolroom where the children crowded around the battered puppet theater that the older children had made from an old crate.Georgie toddled over and raised his arms up to her. She picked the child up and he immediately snuggled in with his head on her shoulder.

Her anxiety settled as if the little boy had reached out and stopped a spinning top in her chest.

“See what I mean,” Ms. Norwood murmured as they took their seats for the puppet show.

The afternoon unfolded in a flurry of activity.

Timothy and Jenny’s puppet show—featuring a wedding, three sword fights, and an improbable sea voyage—in which Heather improvised a pirate using one of her own stockings–drew delighted laughter from the children.

Once the theatrical performance ended, Mary Ann and Ms. Norwood read the tale of a brave rabbit who outsmarted a fox to a group of younger children, while the older ones poured over the new books.

Abigail drank it all in with Georgie nestled on her lap. The jagged, broken parts of her spirt settled back into their places.

As the afternoon waned, Mrs. Welling brought in milk and biscuits, her earlier ferocity replaced by her usual brisk efficiency.

“You’ve worked magic again,” she murmured to Abigail as she set down the tray. “Haven’t seen them this contented in days.”

“It’s not me,” Abigail demurred. “It’s the girls. They’ve brought new life to the place.”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Welling gave her a knowing look.

Before Abigail could respond, Marjory appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. “Mr. Prentiss has completed his initial review,” she said quietly.

“And?”

“He concluded the accounts are in order. He took particular interest in those anonymous donations, but in the end could find no fault with them.”

Abigail’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you for handling that.”

“What are sisters for, if not to intimidate bank clerks?” Marjory’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But we should prepare for more scrutiny. This is only the beginning.”

The clock chimed five, startling Abigail. “Goodness, is it that late? Thompson,” she called. “Would you have the carriage brought around to the back alley?”

The footman nodded and disappeared.

“Girls, it’s time to go,” she announced, raising her voice to be heard above the cheerful din.

Protests immediately erupted, but Ms. Norwood expertly shepherded her charges toward the door, helping them gather their things and say their goodbyes.

“Why aren’t we leaving out front?” Heather asked as they headed toward the back of the house.

Abigail hesitated, considering how much to explain. “Because there are people who wish to say unkind things,” she said honestly. “And sometimes, it’s best just to avoid them.”

“Like hiding?” Mary Ann frowned.

“No,” Abigail said firmly. “ Not hiding, but no need to make ourselves easy targets.”

Heather considered this, then nodded decisively. “Like when you know cook is angry, so you sneak biscuits through the pantry instead of the kitchen.”

Abigail laughed and exchanged a glance with Ms. Norwood, who shrugged and tried to look innocent. With a sigh, she settled in the carriage and they rumbled toward home.

Let Hollan print his lies. Let the storm come. She knew how to stand when the wind blew.