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“ C an you stand, my lady?”

The world lurched back into focus. Abigail’s throat burned with each breath, and she could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath the tender skin where the mugger’s fingers had pressed.

Her hands splayed against the filthy cobblestones—cold, rough, and gritty with substances she preferred not to contemplate.

The crushed flowers around her released their sweet fragrance, a strange counterpoint to the stench of the alley.

Dr. Redchester crouched before her—his severe features softened by the fading light, studying her with clinical concern. She had the absurd impulse to smooth her hair and adjust her skirts even as she sat crumpled in the muck.

“I believe so.” The words scraped against her raw throat, emerging as a rasp that hardly sounded like her own voice.

He extended his hand, and Abigail pulled against his steady hold, willing her legs to support her weight, but as she rose, a sharp lance of pain shot through her ankle. Her knees buckled, and she clutched at his arm with undignified desperation.

This is mortifying. Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d prided herself on maintaining at least the appearance of composure through scandal and heartbreak, but all she could do now was cling to a virtual stranger like a drowning woman to driftwood.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, “I’m not typically so?—”

“You’ve suffered a shock,” he interrupted, his arm sliding firmly around her waist. Through the layers of her gown and stays, she could feel the heat of his palm pressing against her side, steadying her. “Breathe deeply.”

Abigail obeyed, drawing a ragged breath that sent a stab of pain through her ribs where she’d struck the wall.

Her bonnet hung askew, the silk ribbons torn and stained.

Wisps of hair tickled her neck and face, having escaped their pins during the struggle.

She must look like a woman pulled from the Thames—bedraggled, disheveled, utterly ruined.

Dr. Redchester’s gaze roamed over her. Abigail looked away as she tugged her beleaguered bonnet back in place and smoothed the bodice of her dress. She pulled her spine straight and lifted her chin.“I don’t suppose there’s a hackney carriage to be found in this wretched place?”

“Not likely.” His gaze swept the darkening street where shadows pooled in doorways and beneath eaves.“What on earth possessed you to walk these streets alone?” His voice was tight with what might have been anger or concern as he led her from the alley.

The question stung, reminding her of her own foolishness.

How could she have been so careless? She’d been so eager to escape the confines of that tilted carriage, so desperate to avoid another evening of Verity’s incessant chatter.

Pride and impatience—the very flaws her father had always condemned in her.

“My carriage—” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, wincing at the pain. “The axle broke near Blackfriars. I thought I knew the way to Reedley Manor from there.”

I thought I knew better . I always think I know better, and look where it leads me.

Dr. Redchester’s jaw tightened. “A dangerous miscalculation.”

His words held no judgment, merely stating fact, yet Abigail felt the weight of her error all the same. This wasn’t simply a wrong turn—it was a reminder of how precarious her position in the world truly was. One misstep, one moment of rebellion, and everything could be lost.

“Yes, I’m becoming painfully aware of that fact.” She bit her lip to stifle a gasp of pain as she limped along.

“Can you walk as far as the main thoroughfare? We might find one there.”

Abigail nodded, though her ankle throbbed with every step. She would crawl out of this place if she had to.“I’ll manage. Just—go slowly if you please.”

The slick cobblestones made for difficult going. A slip jarred her ankle and a gasp of pain escaped before she could stifle it. Tears sprang to her eyes though she blinked them away.

Stupid, stupid . Now he’ll think you completely helpless.

Dr. Redchester’s arm tightened around her waist, his grip unflinching yet somehow careful. “Lean on me. I’ve got you,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument, though he averted his gaze, avoiding the intimacy of their position.

Abigail felt a peculiar flutter in her chest at the commanding tone.

How long had it been since anyone had reassured her with such certainty?

At Beacon House, she was the one who provided direction and comfort.

At Reedley Manor, she was the spinster cousin, invisible except when needed for some tedious errand.

But here, in this filthy alley with danger still lurking in the shadows, this man spoke as though her well-being were his only concern.

“This is most improper,” she murmured, even as she allowed herself to be supported while they made their way out of the alley.

“More improper than dying in an alley with your throat crushed?” One dark eyebrow lifted.

Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the lingering shock—a startled laugh escaped her and brought tears with a fresh wave of pain tore through her throat.

The absurdity of worrying about propriety when she’d nearly been killed struck her suddenly, and she felt a hysterical bubble of mirth rising in her chest.

“You’re rather direct, Dr. Redchester,” she whispered, finding it easier to speak if she kept her voice low. The pressure against her throat had left a tender ring that would surely bloom into a livid bruise by morning. Another mark of shame to hide beneath high collars and ribbons.

“Graham.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name. It’s Graham. Since I’ve already compromised your reputation by touching your waist, we might as well dispense with formalities.”

His face remained utterly serious, but Abigail detected the faintest glimmer of dry humor in his eyes. She looked away, suddenly conscious of the solid warmth of his arm around her, the medicinal scent clinging to his coat.

Graham. It suited him—solid and unembellished, yet with a quiet strength. But saying it out out loud with him so close was too intimate, too improper.Names invited familiarity, and propriety was the only armor she had left.

“May I ask what brings you to this part of London, Dr. Redchester? It seems an unlikely place to find a physician of your caliber.”

“I had another patient to see after the boy,” he replied.

“An elderly man with consumption, living with his daughter off Blackfriars Road.” He paused.

“I spotted you walking alone as I was leaving. You looked out of place. I intended to offer my escort, but you’d already turned down that alley before I could reach you. ”

His words sent a peculiar warmth through her. He had noticed her, had recognized her vulnerability before she herself had acknowledged it. Had he felt some obligation to protect her, or was it simply the physician’s instinct to intervene where help was needed?

“How fortunate for me that you followed,” Abigail said, refusing to slow their pace. The sooner they reached the main road, the sooner she could escape this nightmare. “Though I’m thoroughly ashamed you found me in such a predicament. I’m usually more sensible than this.”

“Are you?” His tone suggested skepticism.

The question stung more than it should have. Indignation rose through her exhaustion and pain.

“You know nothing about me,” she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “One afternoon and a rescue don’t qualify you to judge my character.”

“True enough.” He agreed with a shrug. “Though wandering alone through the worst parts of London does suggest a certain recklessness.”

Abigail pressed her lips together, fighting a wave of bitter memories.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. In fleeing one unwanted fate, she had sealed another.

Her reputation in tatters, her prospects destroyed, she had become exactly what her father had predicted—a burden, an embarrassment, a cautionary tale whispered about in drawing rooms.

“Another mistake to add to my collection.”

After a beat of silence, he murmured, “We all have collections of those.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.The fading light cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, emphasizing the stern set of his mouth. A haunted look crept into his eyes.

“The next street over might have a cab. You’re almost there,” he said, taking more of her weight and lengthening his stride.

She wondered what mistakes kept the good doctor awake at night, for they did not allow him rest even in the daylight.

They emerged onto a wider street where gas lamps cast pools of yellow light at regular intervals.

The buildings here looked marginally more respectable, though still a far cry from Mayfair’s elegant facades.

The stench of the river and rotting fish gave way to the milder odors of coal smoke and horse dung.

Voices called from tavern doorways, less desperate than those in the alley but still rough with drink and hard living.

Abigail felt a measure of tension ease from her shoulders. They weren’t safe yet, but at least here there were witnesses, light, the possibility of help.

“No cabs,” Dr. Redchester said as he looked up and down the street.

“Just my luck,” she muttered and doggedly kept limping along.“You fight rather well for a doctor,” she said, making conversation to keep her mind off the pain.

His expression darkened, a muscle tightening along his jaw. “I served in the Peninsula.” His hand flexed at his side, an unconscious gesture that spoke of memories too vivid to fully suppress. “One acquires certain skills when surrounded by both the enemy and the dying.”

Abigail tried to imagine it—the blood and chaos of a battlefield, the screams of wounded men, the constant threat of death.

She thought of the clinical detachment with which he had subdued her attacker, the cold precision in his eyes.

How many horrors did man have to witness to develop such control?