Page 43

Abigail's chest tightened. "I'm not so sure about love."

"My dear lady, if you could see the way he looks at you when you aren't watching—" He broke off at her expression. "Forgive me. It's not my place."

Abigail swallowed the knot in her throat. "How long did you and Graham serve together? He speaks so little of his time in the Navy."

"Several stints across nearly a decade. I commanded battle frigates; he saved lives belowdecks." Elias gazed out the window, his eyes distant. "Though he wasn't just a surgeon in the war."

Something in his tone made Abigail's skin prickle. "What do you mean?"

"There was a unit. Unofficial. Never appeared on any roster or dispatch." Elias's voice lowered, though they were alone in the carriage. "They called it Gideon's Line—men with particular skills who undertook missions too delicate or too bloody for regular forces."

A chill washed over Abigail. "And Graham?"

"He was recruited for his mind as much as his medical expertise. He sees patterns others miss, stays ice-cold under pressure." Elias's gaze drifted to the window. "Useful traits when infiltrating enemy camps, interrogating prisoners, eliminating targets."

The words hung in the close confines of the carriage. Abigail's mind filled with unbidden images. Graham moving through shadows with surgical precision, the same hands that gently bandaged Heather's scraped knees wielding other tools with equal expertise.

"He never speaks of it," she said, suddenly understand so much and nothing at all.

What it must do to a man to bear that burden—a healer and a killer.

"No, he wouldn't." Elias's expression darkened. "It nearly destroyed him, that contradiction." He met her gaze directly. "That's why he ran to London's worst slums after the war—penance, perhaps. Why he treats the poorest, most desperate cases. As if saving enough lives might right the balance."

The carriage slowed as they approached Bow Street. Light spilled from the courthouse windows despite the late hour.

"Will this change how you see him?" Elias asked, studying her intently.

Abigail considered the question, turning it over like a strange coin. "No," she said finally. "It simply helps me understand what he carries."

Elias nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. Because the man needs someone who won't flinch from his shadows."

Abigail turned her gaze to her clasped hands, allowing the admiral's words to settle. Her husband carried wounds that went far deeper than she ever imagined.

How many times had he tried to warn her, to show her the darkness he believed made him unworthy? Yet in that darkness, she'd found only a man desperate to protect what he loved, willing to bear any burden to keep others from harm. The thought filled her with a fierce, protective tenderness.

"I won't flinch," she whispered, more to herself than to the admiral. "Not now. Not ever."

The carriage halted. Bow Street Magistrates' Court loomed before them, a solid building of weathered brick with barred windows and an imposing oak door.

A solitary gas lamp cast harsh shadows across the entrance where a uniformed constable stood sentry, his expression hardening as they approached.

Abigail measured her step to allow the admiral to keep pace.

"State your business," the constable said, shifting to block their path. "Court's closed for the night."

Elias drew himself to his full height. "We're seeking the Duke of Eyron. We have reason to believe he was brought here earlier today."

The constable's gaze flicked between them, assessing. "Can't say I know anything about that. But you can go on in and ask the clerk at the desk. He keeps the records of who comes and goes."

Inside, the stark reality of Bow Street assaulted Abigail's senses.

She pressed her handkerchief to her nose, blocking out the scent of stale beer and unwashed bodies.

Flickering oil lamps cast sickly yellow light across water-stained walls and splintered wooden benches where a few unfortunate souls slumped in varying states of misery.

In one corner, a man retched into a bucket while a bored guard looked on.

The clerk's desk stood like an island in this sea of human wreckage—a scratched wooden barricade behind which a thin man with ink-stained fingers sorted papers with mechanical indifference.

"Excuse me," Abigail approached the desk, back straight, chin lifted. "I'm inquiring about the Duke of Eyron.”

The clerk barely glanced up from his papers. "No dukes here, ma'am. Just drunks and thieves."

"This is the Duchess of Eyron," the admiral growled. "Show some respect."

"Please check your records," Abigail pressed. "He may have been registered under Dr. Graham Redchester."

With an exaggerated sigh, the clerk leafed through a ledger. "Redchester... Redchester... ah, yes. Brought in this afternoon. Left hours ago."

"Left? Where did he go?" Abigail leaned forward.

The clerk sniffed. "Not my concern where they go after they leave."

"Your Grace! Admiral!"

Abigail turned to see Graham's solicitor hurrying toward them, his massive frame heaving with each labored step. Nedley's face, normally merely florid, had achieved an alarming shade of purple, with sweat streaming from his receding hairline

"Where have you been?” Nedley rushed over, breathing hard. His waistcoat was buttoned incorrectly, and deep, bruise-like shadows hung beneath bloodshot eyes. “I've sent three messages to Eyron Manor!"

"We received nothing.” Abigail said, clutching the man’s arm, afraid he was about to collapse right before her. He looked like a man who had been dragged through hell and then run over by the carriage that brought him there. “Where’s Graham? We've been searching London for hours."

"Not here." Nedley wheezed as he took her elbow, guiding them toward a small door.

He led them into a cramped consultation room with a scarred table and three mismatched chairs. As soon as the door closed, Nedley took a deep breath, smoothing his rumpled clothes.

"I fear I have grave news."

Elias stepped forward. "Out with it, man."

"His Grace has been..." Nedley paused and heaved a ponderous sigh before finishing in a rush. "He's been remanded to Hallowcross Asylum for overnight observation."

Abigail lowered herself into one of the rickety chairs. “An asylum?”

Elias swore, his face draining of color. "On what grounds?"

"Magistrate Gorse ordered him held for psychiatric evaluation." Nedley sank into a chair, the wood groaning under his weight. "Hollan's solicitor produced statements claiming His Grace suffers from violent episodes—battlefield trauma that makes him dangerous."

"Preposterous!" Elias slammed his palm on the table.

"Why would Hollan go this far?" she asked, seeking some tether to reason in the whirlwind of insanity. "It's as if he's trying to ruin Graham, not just steal the girls’ inheritance."

Nedley sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't believe he planned it. He’s not that clever. I think these statements were prepared for the custody hearing to paint His Grace as unstable. But once the duke was detained, Hollan seized the opportunity."

What was worse? Deliberate malice or opportunistic cruelty? It hardly mattered. Graham was sitting in an asylum when it was the rest of the world that had gone mad.

"A man like Hollan doesn't plant traps," Elias said grimly. "He just walks around with matches, waiting for something to burn."

Abigail stood, forcing her mind from outrage to action. "How do we get him out? It’s past midnight. Our case is to be heard at eleven tomorrow morning."

"I've exhausted every legal avenue," Nedley said, defeat etched in every line of his weary face.

"I've invoked his title, his service record, his position at St. Bartholomew's. I've offered bail, guarantees, character witnesses. The magistrate was unmoved. His Grace will remain at Hallowcross until he’s been evaluated by a physician and deemed fit.”

This cannot be happening. "Then we go to Hallowcross ourselves," Abigail said, already moving toward the door.

"The asylum director, Dr. Wrenn, is notoriously rigid," Nedley warned, gathering his papers. "He won't be swayed by titles or tears."

"Then perhaps he'll be swayed by truth," Abigail said.

"My husband is not mad. He's a decorated physician who has been systematically targeted by an unscrupulous man, who does not hesitate to manipulate children and circumstance for his benefit.

I will not leave until this Dr. Wrenn understands that. "

Nedley looked between them, then sighed. "I'll send word to the Court of Chancery explaining the situation. Perhaps they'll grant a delay."

“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Nedley.” She moved to the door with Elias at her side. “We will send word, but one way or another, we will see you at the hearing.”

“Good luck, Your Grace,” the solicitor said as they left.

They hadn’t even made it outside before Elias began his objections. "Hallowcross isn't like other hospitals," he warned. "I've seen it. It's a warehouse for the unwanted, not a place of healing."

She paused on the front steps. A light drizzle had started. The droplets cooled her face and resolve. She met his gaze. "Then we must be swift."

The admiral nodded, looking both relieved and wary. "They won't let you see him easily."

"Let them try to stop me."