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“ Y ou think I did this?” Graham’s face hardened as the last traces of sleep left him.

She fixed her gaze on the papers scattered across his desk, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe. You disappear in the middle of the night without a word, and by morning, your enemy’s property is in ashes.”

Graham stood, yanking his rumpled waistcoat straight with sharp, angry movements.

Exhaustion carved deep lines around his eyes, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw like a bruise.

“I was with Nedley until three, then calling on... acquaintances.” He stepped around his desk, his movements rigid with controlled fury. “But if my word isn’t sufficient?—”

“It’s not about your word.” She forced herself to look at him directly. “It’s about what you’re capable of when provoked. That night in the alley?—”

“That was different.” Fire flashed in his eyes. “I was protecting you.”

“And now you’re protecting the girls.”

Silence stretched between them. The grandfather clock’s ticking hammered against her eardrums, each second marking the growing chasm in their fragile trust.

“Where were you, Graham?” The question scraped out of her, raw and desperate. “Tell me.”

Morning light carved harsh angles across his profile as he turned to the window. When he finally spoke, each word seemed dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling.

“I spent the night calling in debts.”

Ice settled in her stomach. “What sort of debts?”

His shoulders went rigid, muscle and sinew drawn tight beneath his shirt. “The kind one accumulates when treating London’s less reputable citizens.”

She frowned. “You were hiring thugs?”

“No.” His gaze snapped back to hers. “I was gathering information. These men move through London’s underbelly like fish through water. They hear things, see things. I asked them to uncover whatever they could about Hollan’s activities.”

“And if they found nothing?”

The pause stretched too long, heavy with implications.

“You told them to fabricate evidence.” Not an accusation. Just recognition of the line he’d cross.

“I told them I’d be grateful for anything that might help our cause.” His chin lifted, challenging her to condemn him. “Does that shock you? Disappoint you?”

The question hung between them, waiting for her judgment. She studied his face—the man who’d saved Timothy’s life with gentle hands, who read bedtime stories with stilted tenderness, who’d kissed her last night with such fierce, desperate need.

He would burn London to ash if it meant keeping those girls safe. And God help me—so would I.

“No,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He raised a brow in surprise. “Truly?”

“When it comes to protecting my family, I find I’m rather less principled than I once imagined.” She stepped closer with a shrug. “If your contacts must be creative, I’d consider that justice, not subterfuge.”

Wonder softened the harsh lines around his eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Seems my compass has found a new north.”

“You didn’t start this war,” she said, resting a hand on his arm. “But I won’t fault you for fighting it with every weapon at your disposal.”

His hand covered hers, warm and solid and real. The rigid set of his shoulders eased by degrees. “I didn’t burn down his warehouse, Abigail.”

“I believe you.” The doubt that had clawed at her chest since James had handed her the paper dissolved. “I shouldn’t have questioned?—”

“You had reason to wonder.” His thumb traced gentle circles on her wrist, the touch sending warmth spiraling up her arm. “I’ve not always been transparent with you.”

The grandfather clock chimed eight, its bronze voice echoing through the morning quiet.

“The girls will be up soon,” she murmured, though her feet seemed rooted to the carpet.

Graham nodded, but neither moved. The space between them hummed with the memory of last night’s kiss and this new understanding that had just passed between them—the acknowledgment that they would both cross lines they’d never imagined crossing, for love, for family, for each other.

“You know,” Abigail said, the thought crystallizing as she spoke, “I wouldn’t put it past Hollan to have orchestrated the fire himself.”

Graham went perfectly still. “What?”

“It’s remarkably convenient timing, isn’t it? A sympathetic tragedy to make him appear the victim rather than the aggressor, just before our court appearance.”

Graham stared at her for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed—a sound of pure, delighted disbelief.

“You,” he said, stepping closer, his hands framing her face with reverent care, “are brilliant.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m merely observing?—”

His mouth claimed hers, cutting off her protests.

This wasn’t the tentative exploration of last night, but something more urgent, more purposeful.

His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her until her toes barely brushed the carpet.

She clutched at his shoulders, anchoring herself in the storm of sensation.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes blazed with focused energy that transformed his exhausted features with predatory sharpness. “You may have just handed me the key to our victory.”

“I merely suggested?—”

“You saw what I couldn’t.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle now. “I’ll be back by supper. We’ll rest easy tonight, I promise you. Nothing is going to harm this family.”

Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the study with the lingering taste of his kiss on her skin and her body humming with heat.

To busy herself, she moved to his desk and gathered the scattered papers into neat stacks.

His certainty had been infectious, but experience whispered warnings in her ear—victory was rarely so simply achieved.

Still, the fierce determination in his eyes had kindled something in her chest, a flame that refused to be extinguished.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

“Your Grace?” Ms. Norwood stood in the doorway, already dressed for the day in her sensible gray gown. “The girls are asking for you. Mary Ann is most concerned about her hair ribbons for today’s outing.”

Abigail smoothed her nightdress, acutely aware of how she must look—hair tumbled, lips still tender from Graham’s kiss, eyes bright with secrets. “I’ll be right there.”

Ms. Norwood’s gaze flicked to the empty desk, then to the faint smile still playing about Abigail’s lips. “I trust His Grace is well this morning? James mentioned he had an eventful night.”

“He’s quite well. Just stepped out on an urgent errand.” Abigail closed an open ledger and stacked it neatly with the others. “He seemed rather excited about it, actually.”

“Ah.” The governess’s mouth quirked with knowing amusement.

“I’ve observed that dukes, as a species, are prone to peculiar bouts of inspiration at the most inconvenient hours.

My previous employer, the Duke of Wemberly, once ordered the entire east lawn dug up at midnight because he was convinced Roman artifacts lay beneath it. ”

“Did they?”

“Nothing but worms and one very disgruntled badger.” Ms. Norwood’s eyes twinkled. “The duchess was not amused.”

Laughter bubbled up from some deep place in Abigail’s chest, washing away the last traces of morning tension. “Well, I doubt His Grace’s quest will involve digging up the garden, at least.”

Though if all goes well, he’ll unearth a skeleton or two in Hollan’s affairs.

At White’s, the bustle of earnest men had faded into the shuffle of those who excelled in the art of appearing important. Graham wove through clusters of tables and chairs, ignoring the whispers and silences that followed in his wake.

The admiral, installed behind a teetering barricade of newspapers and porridge bowls, looked up just as Graham approached. His eyes flicked to the restless set of Graham's shoulders, then to the crumpled Morning Post tucked under one arm.

"Good God." Elias spoke without preamble. "You look as if you mean to put someone's eye out. Shall I pour you coffee, or is this a brandy-for-breakfast sort of morning?"

"I'm not here for breakfast," Graham said, tossing the paper into the nearest chair. The thought of food turned his stomach.

Elias arched a brow. "This is the part where you inform me you require a fast ship to Holland, and a false beard for disguise?" He spoke lightly, but studied Graham's face.

God, I wish it were that simple.

He scoffed and sat down. "Everyone seems hell-bent on picturing me galumphing about with tar barrels under my coat. I know a dozen ways I'd injure the bastard without leaving a trace."

The thought slid through his mind like a shadow. This darkness had always lived inside him, this capacity for calculated violence. In the war, he’d been deployed to kill as often as he had to save. The darkness was a weapon, and he would wield it to protect what was his.

A slow, incredulous laugh slipped from Elias. "Merciful God. He's making jokes. We're doomed."

"I wasn't joking."

A pause, the kind that made gentlemen stiffen in their boots and tug their cravats higher.

Elias recovered with a shake of the paper and a disconcerted huff. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you have saved half a dozen wretches by now? Or are you just intent on giving me indigestion?"

Graham ignored the jibe. "I need your help." The admission cost him something—pride, perhaps, or the illusion of self-sufficiency he'd cultivated for so long. Strange how easily he'd surrendered it now, when Abigail and the girls were at stake. He would beg if necessary.

The admiral straightened, discarding the paper. "Tell me," he said, all hints of levity gone.

Brief, clinical—like battlefield days. Graham's convictions sharpened. "I need information about the insurance policy." He held Elias' gaze. Abigail had uncovered the key. He knew it with utter certainty and the pieces were falling into place in his mind with clinical precision.

"You suspect fraud?" The admiral whistled low under his breath.

"I suspect he's staged this tragedy for public sympathy—and personal gain.

Hollan doesn't give a damn for the girls' welfare.

But if he can appear the aggrieved guardian, newly impoverished by disaster—well.

They'll hand him the keys to every charitable purse in London, and the Chancery may believe the girls' trust ought to be administered 'for their direct benefit.

' Convenient, is it not?" The words tumbled out with rising heat.

He could almost see Hollan's smug face as he calculated his windfall.

The admiral nodded. "And if he loses custody, he's still well ahead—insurance paid, debts vanished, reputation laundered by pity."

Graham's jaw worked. "If he wins the girls, he gains control of their dowries and annuals—doubled, tripled, set for a lifetime. The warehouse is nothing beside that."

"Even if you're right," Elias said, scratching his chin, "proving it is another matter entirely. Insurance fraud isn't child's play. These companies employ investigators who could spot a forged signature from across the Thames."

"They might find it eventually, but the hearing is tomorrow.

Nedley is up to his neck in combing through the rest of Hollan's affairs.

That's why I need you." Graham ran a hand through his hair.

Time was slipping through his fingers like sand.

Every hour brought the hearing closer, every minute another opportunity for Hollan to solidify his position.

"Graham." Elias's tone was uncharacteristically stern.

"You have a custody hearing tomorrow and yesterday they accused your wife of embezzlement and trapping you in a sham marriage.

This is not the moment to be seen running about London investigating fires that half the city already believes you started. Think of your duchess."

At the mention of Abigail, Graham's heart gave a peculiar twist. The memory of her standing in his study, encouraging him to use every weapon in his arsenal, warmed something cold and hard in his chest.

"My duchess," he said, savoring the words, "is the one who suggested this line of inquiry. She's rather more formidable than you give her credit for." Pride swelled in him, unexpected and fierce.

"It seems the two of you are well suited. I knew I liked her." Elias dabbed his mouth with his napkin and set it aside.

"Will you help me?" Graham pressed. The question hung between them, weighted with all he couldn't say: that he was desperate, that he was afraid, that for the first time in years he had something to lose that mattered.

"Do I have a choice? You've got that look about you." The admiral sighed, pushing back from the table. "Of course, I'll help you. I've a cousin at Lloyd's who owes me a favor. And perhaps a chat with the fire brigade wouldn't go amiss."

"Find the terms, the beneficiaries, the sum. If he's had previous claims—any history at all." Graham's voice thrummed with purpose. His mind was already racing ahead, cataloging possibilities, plotting contingencies.

Elias waved his words away. "My dear fellow, I've been gathering intelligence since before you learned to shave.

If there's anything to find, I'll get it.

Discreetly." He leveled a glower in Graham's direction.

"The city's hungry for blood—yours, your duchess, Hollan.

They don't care. Just so long as someone bleeds. "

They can take every drop of mine, but not before I finish this.

Graham was already rising, his mind racing ahead to his next move. A half-formed plan was taking shape—risky, perhaps, but necessary. "Don't forget, I'm a doctor. I know how to fix bleeding."

"Good Lord. Two jokes in a single morning. What is the world coming to?" Elias said, stacking his papers. "Seriously, though. You should go home. Change your clothes. Try to look like you've slept sometime this century."

"I'll sleep when they're safe," Graham muttered and turned to leave. He carried the weight of them all—Abigail, the girls, even his own fractured self—like precious cargo on a storm-tossed sea.

The admiral grabbed his arm. "Be careful. Men like Hollan—men who would use children for financial gain—they're more dangerous than you think."

He paused and looked at his friend. A stillness not unlike the profound darkness in a cave settled in his chest. "You’ve miscalculated. He's not the dangerous one in this equation."

Sadness flickered across Elias’s face. "How well I know. Don't do anything rash.”

“I won’t be rash,” Graham said. “But I won’t be merciful, either.”