Page 41

G raham sat rigidly upright, his hands clasped in his lap to hide their tremor. Three o'clock had struck moments before Magistrate Gorse emerged from his chambers like a black beetle scuttling from beneath a stone.

The courtroom at Bow Street bore no resemblance to the grand chambers of Chancery where tomorrow's hearing would unfold.

Here, justice wore a shabby coat—scuffed wooden benches, grimy windows that filtered the afternoon light into something jaundiced and mean.

The air hung thick with the accumulated misery of a thousand petty criminals and desperate souls.

"Dr. Graham Redchester, Duke of Eyron," Gorse intoned without inflection, settling behind his bench with the weary air of a man who had processed human wreckage for decades. "You stand accused of arson in the matter of the Riverford Warehouse fire."

Stay calm. As if the fate of his nieces didn't hang in the balance. As if every minute in this room wasn't another minute away from Abigail. As if his life wasn’t on the line.

Graham's jaw tightened. Beside him, Nedley shifted, his substantial bulk causing the bench to groan in protest.

"This is a preliminary hearing only," Nedley whispered. "They have insufficient evidence for formal charges. Say nothing unless specifically spoken to.”

Magistrate Gorse cleared his throat. "Mr. Beck, please summarize your findings."

Beck rose with the fluid motion of a man accustomed to courtrooms. His gaunt face betrayed no emotion as he addressed the magistrate.

"Your Honor, sometime between the hours of one and four o'clock this morning, a fire broke out at Baron Hollan's timber warehouse near Blackfriars. The structure was completely destroyed." Beck handed a stack of papers to the magistrate and proceeded to lay out his case against Graham including Mrs. Cartwright’s witness statement and his lack of alibi after three o’clock.

"Mr. Nedley, do you wish to respond to these allegations?" Magistrate Gorse asked, steepling his fingers.

"Indeed, Your Worship." Nedley rose, his substantial frame lending gravity to his words. "The prosecution's case rests on absurdly circumstantial evidence.”

“I’m forced to agree.” The magistrate drummed his fingers on the desk. "Mr. Beck, what evidence connects His Grace directly to the fire beyond this single witness?"

Beck hesitated. "The investigation is ongoing, Your Worship. However, the pattern of escalation in the dispute between His Grace and Baron Hollan?—"

"So you have nothing concrete," Nedley interjected.

"I have a sworn statement from a witness with no reason to lie," Beck countered.

Gorse raised his hand again. "I've heard enough from both of you.

Given the circumstantial nature of the evidence presented, I am inclined to release His Grace on his own recognizance pending further investigation.

The seriousness of arson cannot be understated, but neither can the position of the accused. "

Relief surged through Graham. He would be home to Abigail within the hour and attend the hearing tomorrow with a clear head and renewed focus. He unclenched his fists, pressing them flat against his thighs.

The doors at the back of the courtroom flew open with a bang that made the clerk drop his pen. A thin man with a sallow complexion and an immaculate black suit strode down the center aisle, trailed by a harried-looking clerk.

"Your Worship, forgive the intrusion." He held his hand out to the clerk, who gave him a handful of papers. "Silas Pratt, representing Baron Frederic Hollan. I have evidence pertinent to these proceedings that must be considered before judgment is rendered."

Graham's momentary relief curdled into dread.

"This is highly irregular, Mr. Pratt," Gorse frowned.

Nedley surged to his feet. "This is outrageous! Mr. Pratt has no standing in this proceeding. Whatever 'evidence' he claims to possess cannot possibly be relevant to the matter at hand–which is an allegation of arson only."

Magistrate Gorse frowned, glancing between the two solicitors. "Mr. Pratt, we are not calling additional testimony relates at this time."

"Your Honor, when considering whether to release the accused, the court must assess risk to the community." Pratt's voice carried the oily smoothness of practiced persuasion. "Baron Hollan fears for his safety—and more importantly, for the safety of the young Misses Redchester."

At the mention of his nieces, Graham's hands clenched into fists. "You will not use the children in your machinations," he growled.

Gorse rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Your Grace, please control yourself. Say what you have to say, Mr. Pratt. The court has other cases to attend."

Pratt handed his papers to the magistrate. “These statements suggest His Grace suffers from violent episodes consistent with battlefield trauma—episodes that make him uniquely dangerous given his resources and current state of mind.”

Gorse skimmed the pages, his frown deepening by degrees. “It says here Mr. Allen Garrick, an orderly at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, claims His Grace shouted incoherently at him, issuing orders and talking to people who weren’t there when a dropped surgical tray."

The incident came back to Graham in a rush—the clatter of metal on tile, sharp and echoing–had sent him back a desperate moment in the bowels of a frigate, under attack.

He'd only been back from the Peninsula a month.

He flushed with shame and studied the scarred tabletop in front of him as the magistrate continued.

"And here," Gorse continued, "Nurse Margaret Denton describes an incident in which His Grace struck a wall near the children's ward."

Graham breathed deeply. That had been much more recent, though still several months ago. The boy had been no older than seven, brought in too late with a ruptured appendix. Of course he'd been angry—at the needless waste, at the parents who'd delayed seeking help, worried about the cost.

"Your Honor," Nedley interrupted, "these statements are hearsay, unsworn, and irrelevant to the question of arson."

"Mr. Nedley," Gorse said, still reading, "these allegations are troubling, to say the least.” The magistrate heaved a sigh.

“I find myself in a difficult position. The evidence regarding the fire itself is, as Mr. Nedley points out, rather thin.

However, the additional statements regarding His Grace's temperament raise concerns that cannot be dismissed out of hand. "

The magistrate adjusted his robes, an unconscious gesture that made Graham's stomach clench. He'd seen that movement before, in surgeons preparing to amputate.

"Given the seriousness of the allegations and recent events," Gorse said, "I am ordering His Grace to be remanded to Hallowcross Asylum for overnight observation and evaluation."

"No!" The word escaped Graham before he could stop it.

Hallowcross. The very name sent despair spiraling through him. Not a proper hospital but a depository for the inconvenient, the embarrassing, the forgotten. People disappeared behind those walls.

He surged to his feet. "Your Honor, I have a custody hearing tomorrow morning at the Court of Chancery. My nieces' future depends on my presence."

Magistrate Gorse regarded him with something approaching pity. "Then you had best hope the staff at Hallowcross are efficient in their evaluation, Your Grace. This court is adjourned until such time as we receive their assessment.”

"Your Worship," Nedley protested, lumbering up to stand next to Graham, "this is unconscionable. His Grace has no history of mental instability. He is a respected physician and a decorated veteran. To commit him to an asylum on the basis of unsubstantiated claims is a gross miscarriage of justice."

"My decision stands," Gorse said firmly. "The asylum staff will make their determination, and the court will reconvene to hear their findings. Until then, His Grace will remain in their care."

"This is Hollan's doing," Graham said, his voice dangerously low. "He orchestrated all of this—the fire, the witness, these statements. Can't you see that?"

Gorse's expression hardened. "Mind your tone, Your Grace. Such accusations do not help your case."

The clerk rose and called the next case. Bailiffs approached and for a dangerous moment, darkness flickered on the edges of his vision. The walls were closing. Threats all around. He had to move, to think.

Abigail. He had to stay present for her. He saw her face, focused on it with single-minded intensity.

Think. Plan. Survive.

His training kicked in and his hands were steady as he grabbed his solicitor’s arm. "You must stop this."

"I'll file an emergency petition with the Lord Chancellor himself if necessary," Nedley promised, his face grim.

"Get word to Abigail," Graham said, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat. "Tell her to keep the girls safe at all costs."

The bailiffs reached them, one taking Graham's arm with bureaucratic efficiency. "This way, Your Grace."

"I'll have you out by morning," Nedley called as they led Graham away. "This injustice will not stand!"

But Graham saw the uncertainty in the old solicitor's eyes, the same doubt that gnawed at his own heart. They'd been outmaneuvered at every turn.

The holding cell was six feet by eight—a stone box with a narrow bench and a single high window that admitted a thin slice of waning daylight.

Graham paced like a caged animal, counting steps to hold his mind together.

Three strides across. Four from door to wall. Eighteen circuits made a quarter-hour.

Think. Plan. Survive.

As he neared his one hundred and fiftieth circuit, a constable approached.

"Your carriage awaits, Your Grace," the turnkey announced, his voice heavy with irony as he unlocked the cell.

A hulking attendant in a stained uniform waited in the corridor. "Arms out,” he grunted.

"This is unnecessary," Graham said, even as he extended his arms. "I'm not resisting."

"Orders is orders."

The straps bit into Graham's wrists as the attendant secured them, checking the buckles with a professional tug. "Right, then. Let's be off before it's full dark. The night roads ain't friendly, and we've a fair drive ahead."

They led him through back corridors to avoid the public entrance, emerging into a narrow alley where a black carriage waited.

No crest adorned its sides, no lanterns illuminated its interior.

The only identifying mark was a small brass plate beside the door: Hallowcross Asylum for the Irretrievably Disturbed.

Irretrievably. As if madness were a place from which no traveler returned.

"In you go, Your Grace," Sharp said, his massive hand propelling Graham forward. "Mind your head."

Graham forced himself forward and climbed awkwardly into the carriage. The door slammed behind him, plunging him into near-total darkness. A key turned in the lock.

"Another lunatic for old Wrenn," the guard remarked. "Though this one's a fancy sort."

"Duke or dustman, they're all the same once they're inside," the attendant replied.

The carriage lurched into motion, its wooden wheels clattering against the cobblestones.

Graham leaned his head back against the padded wall, fighting the surge of panic that clawed at his throat. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, stirring memories he had spent years burying. The earthen cell in Spain, the cries of the men in the dark–always in the dark.

His chest seized as he fought for breath. He pulled against the restraints, leaning into the pain.

Think. Plan. Survive.

Abigail. He seized on her image like a drowning man clutching at flotsam. Her steady gaze. The surprising strength in her slender hands. The way she'd looked at him this morning, not with accusation but with fierce determination.

"They don't know what lies between us," he'd told her.

If Hollan thought this would break him, he was sorely mistaken. Graham had survived worse than a night in an asylum. He would endure. He would find a way back to his family—to Abigail.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.