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" U ncle Graham promised us a story," Heather said, her lower lip jutting forward as Abigail tucked the coverlet around her small form.

The clock in the hall had chimed half-past ten some time ago. Far later than the girls' usual bedtime, but Abigail hadn't had the heart to send them off while Graham's chair remained conspicuously empty at supper.

"He must be terribly busy at the hospital," Mary Ann offered, her solemn eyes betraying none of her sister's petulance, though her fingers worried at a loose thread on her nightgown. "People get sick at all hours."

If only it was so simple.

Abigail smoothed Mary Ann's hair back from her forehead. "That's very understanding of you."

"But he promised ," Heather insisted, sitting up and dislodging Abigail's careful tucking.

Ms. Norwood stepped forward, gently but firmly pressing Heather back against her pillows. "His Grace will read you a story tomorrow, I'm certain. For now, you must sleep."

"But I'm not tired." Heather’s proclamation dissolved into a yawn, thoroughly undermining her case.

"Curious. You appear positively exhausted to my trained eye," Ms. Norwood remarked, adjusting Heather's pillow. "Perhaps I need spectacles."

A soft knock at the door drew their attention. James stood in the doorway, his normally impassive expression tight with strain.

"Your Grace," he said with a slight bow, "Admiral Birkins has arrived and requests an immediate audience."

The girls perked up like puppies who had heard the rattle of a treat jar.

"The admiral?" Heather squealed, throwing back her covers. "Is he wearing his medals? Did he bring his spyglass?"

"Back to bed this instant," Abigail said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. Both girls froze, Mary Ann's eyes widening in surprise.

Abigail pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm sorry, girls. I didn't mean to snap." She perched on the edge of Heather's bed and took the girl's small hand in hers. "The admiral is here on important business, and I need you both to be very grown-up right now. Can you do that for me?"

Mary Ann nodded, her gaze searching Abigail's face. "Is it about Uncle Graham?"

The question twisted something in Abigail's chest. She exchanged a quick glance with Ms. Norwood. Of course, the children had sensed the tension in the house.

"Yes," Abigail admitted, seeing no point in lying. "That's why I need you to be especially good tonight. Stay in your beds, and listen to Ms. Norwood."

"Is Uncle Graham hurt?" Heather's voice trembled.

"No, no," Abigail rushed to assure her, hoping her face didn’t reflect her doubt. "He's just delayed."

God, please don’t let him be hurt.

Ms. Norwood stepped forward. "Perhaps a chapter from your book would help pass the time until you drift off?"

Mary Ann watched this exchange with solemn eyes. "We'll be good," she said quietly. "Won't we, Heather?"

Heather nodded, though she still pouted.

"Sleep well, my darlings," Abigail said, rising from the bed.

At the door, she paused for one last look at the two small figures. Ms. Norwood had settled into the chair between their beds, a book open on her lap. The governess gave Abigail a slight nod—wordless reassurance that the girls would be safe in her care.

James waited in the corridor, his posture stiff, his expression tighter still.

"Where is the admiral?" Abigail asked as they descended the stairs.

"In the study, Your Grace. I took the liberty of bringing brandy."

"Thank you, James." She laid a hand on his arm. "Has there been any word from His Grace?"

She had to ask, even though she knew the answer. The staff would have brought any message straight away.

The slightest flicker passed through the footman's eyes. "No, Your Grace."

Abigail nodded and steeled herself as they reached the study door. James opened it for her, then withdrew with another bow.

Admiral Birkins stood at the window with a glass of brandy, his silhouette stark against the dying light. He turned at her entrance, and Abigail's heart sank at the grim set of his mouth.

"Where is he?" she asked without preamble.

The admiral sighed. "I wish to God I knew.

" He crossed to one of the leather chairs and lowered himself into it with a grimace.

"When he didn't return to the club at our appointed time, I started checking. The hospital hasn’t seen him since yesterday, so I hit his old haunts.” The admiral shook his head and finished his brandy.

“I even climbed up that blasted monk's hill where he goes to think.

Nearly gave myself apoplexy halfway up."

Despite her worry, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I appreciate your efforts, Admiral."

"Please, call me Elias. I even dispatched a man to check the docks and less savory establishments. Nothing." Elias's expression hardened.

Abigail sank into a chair, her mind racing through possibilities. "This isn't like him. Even at his most withdrawn, he sends word. He wouldn't leave us wondering."

"No, he wouldn't," Elias agreed grimly.

"Which suggests interference," Abigail said, biting the inside of her lip against her rising panic.

Elias didn't deny it. "Graham was looking into the fire and now he’s missing. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

“If Graham doesn't appear at the hearing—" Abigail’s stomach churned as her mind raced ahead. "They'll say he's abandoned the girls and is unfit."

"Or worse—they might believe he truly did start that fire—which will earn him transportation or even the noose." Elias's jaw tightened. "Either way, Hollan walks away with custody and Graham's life is ruined."

Abigail rose in a rustle of skirts. "I won't let that happen." She rang the bell for the footman. "I'm going to find my husband."

The admiral pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. "I didn't doubt it for a moment. And I'm coming with you."

She looked up, surprised. "Admiral, I couldn't ask?—"

"You didn't ask. I offered." He squared his shoulders. "I'm old and my joints protest every step, but I'll be damned if I leave a friend behind enemy lines."

The phrase sent a chill through her. Enemy lines. As if they were at war. And perhaps they were.

"We should call on your brother-in-laws," Elias said, watching as she dipped her pen in ink. "The Duke of Sherton has connections throughout London. Wilds is a bit of a recluse, but influential in his own right."

"Yes," Abigail said, pulling out pen and paper. "I'll send word to both of them and I’ll have the Countess and my mother come here." She wrote quickly, the scratch of her pen against paper the only sound for several minutes.

"No one will get past the Countess," Elias observed with grim humor. "That woman could intimidate a cavalry charge."

"Precisely." Abigail managed a wan smile.

She scribbled an additional note to Beacon House, warning them to be vigilant and to lock their doors, but to watch for Graham in case he sought shelter there.She was sealing them when James entered.

"Have these delivered with all haste," she instructed, handing him the letters. "And ready the carriage. The doors to the house are to be locked and opened for no one save family.”

James bowed. "At once, Your Grace."

When the door closed behind him, Abigail turned to find the admiral watching her with undisguised approval.

"Graham is a lucky man," he said after a quiet pause.

"Not if we don't find him," Abigail replied, reaching for her shawl. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to it from where he’d held her, kissed her.

The admiral nodded, his expression hardening. "I'll help you search every corner of London if need be."

Abigail gathered her resolve around her like armor. "Then let's begin."

Admiral Birkins hauled himself back into the carriage, his knee cracking audibly as he settled onto the leather seat opposite Abigail.

"Nothing?" Abigail asked, though his expression had already delivered the verdict.

"No sign of him at the Lamb and Flag." Elias tugged his gloves tighter. "But I may have found something."

Abigail straightened, hope flaring in her chest like a struck match.

After hours of fruitless searching, despair was creeping in despite her best efforts.

They’d criss-crossed London twice over, checking hospitals, gentlemen’s clubs, and a string of increasingly desperate places without so much of a whisper.

"The proprietor—McNair—said the fire inspector took someone at the scene and took them to Bow Street earlier today." Elias's weathered face was grave in the shifting light. "He couldn't swear it was Graham, mind you. Just that there was a commotion."

Abigail glanced out the window at the grimy tavern Elias had just exited. A pair of men lounged against the wall, passing a bottle between them. A woman with hollow cheeks hurried past, clutching a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.

What fresh madness is this?

"At least it's a direction." She rapped sharply on the roof. "Driver! Bow Street, with all haste!"

The carriage lurched forward, wheels clattering against the cobblestones. Abigail braced herself against the sudden movement, her mind racing ahead to Bow Street, to Graham.

"If Graham has been arrested, why haven’t we heard from him, or at least Mr. Nedley?” She mused as they rattled along.

“I cannot say, but it does not sit well, does it?” The admiral glowered out the window. “I told him to steer clear, but he never was one to listen.”

The carriage swayed as it rounded a corner, sending them sliding across the seats. Abigail steadied herself, gripping the leather strap. Her stomach churned with a nauseating mixture of hope and dread. She

stared out at the darkened streets, at the scattered lamplights glowing like distant stars.

"Graham's always been clever," Elias said after a long silence. "Sometimes too clever for his own good. Though this time..." He trailed off, fidgeting with the gold buttons on his coat.

"This time what?"

"This time, I fear his concern for you blinded him. Made him reckless." The admiral's voice softened. "Love can do that to a man."