Page 47

T he carriage careened around the corner, wheels skidding on rain-slicked cobblestones. Through the window, the imposing facade of the Court of Chancery emerged from the morning mist like a behemoth rising from the deep.

"Fifteen minutes," Richard announced, consulting his pocket watch with a grimace. "Cutting it rather fine."

Graham squeezed Abigail's hand, and she squeezed back, leaning into his solid warmth. He stunk like a privy and looked worse, but she couldn’t get close enough to him.

Please let this nightmare end.

The carriage had barely stopped before Admiral Birkins flung open the door. "No time for decorum," he barked. "Out, all of you!"

They tumbled from the carriage in an undignified rush. Anthony steadied the admiral when his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. In a ragtag band that looked more like a group of escaped convicts than members of the peerage preparing to appear before the court, they scaled the stairs.

Inside the cavernous lobby, Bridget rushed forward, her practical eyes taking in Abigail's bedraggled appearance with a single sweep.

"Good God," she muttered, seizing Abigail's arm. "You look like you've been shipwrecked."

Marjory appeared on her other side. "Twice."

Mr. Nedley hurried toward them with papers clutched in one hand and his case in the other. Behind him, Ms. Norwood stood with her back straight as a cavalry officer's.

"Where are the girls?" Graham asked immediately.

"Safe at Reedley Manor with the countess and the Dowager," Ms. Norwood assured him. "Quite content with being stuffed full of tarts and stories."

Graham's shoulders lowered a fraction. "No trouble?"

"None whatsoever." Ms. Norwood offered a small smile.

"Court convenes in twelve minutes," Nedley reminded them, his voice rising with alarm.

"Then we'd best hurry," Richard responded calmly. "Admiral, commandeer us a room."

Admiral Birkins harrumphed, then marched to a nearby doorway marked "Private." Without hesitation, he flung it open and peered inside. "This will do," he announced to no one in particular. "In the name of His Majesty's Royal Navy, I commandeer this room for matters of national importance."

A startled clerk emerged, sputtering protests, but wilted under the combined stares of three dukes, their duchesses, and a decorated admiral.

"Ten minutes," Elias promised the man. "For king and country."

"For king and—" the clerk began, bewildered.

"Just so," Elias agreed, shepherding them all inside and closing the door firmly in the clerk's face.

The anteroom was little more than a glorified closet, designed for barristers to confer privately with clients. With everyone crowded inside, it felt like a particularly well-appointed sardine tin.

Mr. Nedley squashed himself into a corner, clutching his case to his chest and mopping his forehead while the Admiral took up a post at the door, presumably to ward off any enemy advances.

"Nine minutes and forty-seven seconds until court convenes,” the admiral announced. “Look sharp.”

"Sit, both of you," Bridget commanded, shoving Graham and Abigail unceremoniously into the only two chairs.

Marjory heaved the carpet bag onto the small table with a thud that made the inkwell jump. "We brought everything we could think of, not knowing what state we'd find you in." She cast a critical eye over Abigail. "Though I confess, even my imagination fell short of this."

From the bag, an arsenal of combs, brushes, ribbons, and pins emerged. The sisters exchanged a single glance that contained an entire conversation, then divided their forces with military precision.

Bridget descended on Abigail, pulling the few remaining pins out. “This will require a minor miracle,” she muttered as she attacked the tangles.

Abigail winced, bracing against her sister’s ruthless tugs. “Ouch!”

Looking a little alarmed, Graham grabbed a comb and began to work on his own disheveled hair. His knuckles cracked open and blood oozed down the back of his hand.

“Allow me,” Marjory said, plucking the comb from his hand. With a considerably more gentle touch, she went to work.

Graham submitted to her ministrations with grim resignation. His hand found Abigail's, interlacing their fingers with quiet desperation. The warmth of his palm against hers steadied her racing heart.

Ms. Norwood knelt at Abigail's feet, nimble fingers working at the mud-caked hem of her dress. "This gown is beyond saving, but we can at least make it presentable from a distance."

"Six minutes!" Elias barked from the door.

"Your boots, if you please," Richard said, extending his hand to Graham.

Graham blinked. "My boots?"

"They're hardly fit for a pig farmer, let alone a duke appearing before the Lord Chancellor." Richard gestured impatiently.

Graham hesitated only a moment before toeing off his boots, revealing socks that had once been white. Richard wrinkled his nose but accepted the offending footwear, passing them through the door to his waiting footman with hushed instructions.

"The man deserves hazard pay," the Admiral said.

"While we address the cosmetic disaster," Mr. Nedley tugged at his cravat, "allow me to update you on some recent developments, Your Grace. I’ve taken the liberty of engaging Mr. Jonathan Bellamy to present our case before the court.”

“Bellamy?” Anthony whistled. “Isn’t he the one who made mincemeat of the Duke of Lichfield’s solicitor last year?”

“The same,” Nedley said. “I assumed, given the public scrutiny and the nature of the charges, you wouldn’t mind if I called in the heavy artillery.”

“Well done, Mr. Nedley,” Graham said with a nod.

"Hold still," Marjory admonished. "Unless you wish to appear before the court with half your ear missing."

"I've prepared for every contingency. The witness statements are in order, character testimonials ready. Should things not proceed favorably, I've drafted a countersuit alleging malicious prosecution and defamation."

"A countersuit?" Abigail's grip tightened on Graham's hand. "You expect we might lose?"

"We will not lose," Graham said, his voice low but resonating with iron certainty. "One way or another, the girls will remain with us."

The fierceness in his tone created a momentary silence. Abigail studied his profile—the rigid jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath his composed exterior.

"Of course we won't lose," Nedley hastened to add, "but a good solicitor prepares for all outcomes.”

Abigail closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself against the surge of fear. She would not lose her family. Graham traced soothing circles on the back of her hand. She took a deep breath and leaned into him before forcing her mind back to Nedley’s words.

“We found evidence that another of Hollan’s properties, insured well above its value, suffered a suspicious fire three years ago in Birmingham," he was saying. "And the gambling debts, Your Grace—far worse than we imagined. He owes money to some particularly unsavory individuals."

"The kind who don't accept late payments," Richard added grimly.

"Which explains his desperation," Graham said, wincing as Marjory worked through a tangle.

"Indeed," Nedley said, suppressing a yawn. "He needs the girls' inheritance to save his skin."

"You look like death warmed over, Nedley," Graham observed.

"Thank you for noticing, Your Grace." The solicitor's voice dripped with exhaustion and sarcasm in equal measure. "I've spent the night calling in every favor accumulated in thirty years of legal practice. You owe me a month's leave on a quiet beach. With an abundance of brandy.”

“Well, that’s as good as it’s going to get,” Marjory said, giving Graham a light pat on the shoulder. “Now, the rest of it,” she said, eyeing his stained shirt and breeches.

His waistcoat, belt, and coat had been surrendered at Hallowcross and some lucky orderly was likely celebrating his good fortune to inherit such fine garments.

“You’re too broad in the shoulders, my love,” she said to her husband before sliding her gaze over to the Duke of Wilds, “but you’ll do. Waistcoat and jacket please.”

Anthony didn’t hesitate to stand and shrug out of the requested garments. Graham squeezed Abigail’s hand before letting it go to don the clothes. Marjory fussed and tucked, hiding the worst of the stains on his shirt as Bridget tugged the last of Abigail's coiffure into place.

“That will have to do,” she murmured, and slid her shawl off, draping it around Abigail’s shoulders. “That’ll cover most of it and this,” she dabbed a bit of perfume on Abigail’s wrists and neck, “will do its best. It’s all going to work out, Abby. Hang in there.”

Abigail nodded and rose, smoothing her ruined gown and looked at Graham as he shoved his feet into his boots that didn’t exactly shine, but were at least mud free.

Marjory snapped her fingers. “He needs a cravat.” She whirled around to her husband and began unknotting his.

"If I'd known you were so eager to undress me, I'd have positioned us closer to home," Richard murmured, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Behave yourself," Marjory admonished, though her lips curved upward. "This is hardly the time."

"You're both scandalous," Bridget observed with a disapproving sniff, though the look she cast toward Anthony held a heat that belied her prim tone.

Marjory handed the cravat to Graham, who attempted to arrange it at his throat. His fingers, stiff and bloodied, fumbled with the fine linen.

"Good God, man," Richard exclaimed, "you'll ruin a perfectly good piece of Valenciennes. One of the most delightful aspects of matrimony," he cast a meaningful glance toward Abigail, "is having assistance in such matters."

Graham turned to Abigail, an unspoken question in his eyes.

She took the cravat from his hands. "I don’t have a lot of practice with this," she said.

She stepped close—closer than propriety would strictly allow, but propriety had been left behind in an asylum corridor hours ago. His breath warmed her cheek as she flipped his collar up, her fingers brushing against his neck.

"You're trembling," he murmured, for her ears alone.

"So are you," she returned, just as softly.

His pulse jumped beneath her fingertips as she wound the cravat into place, her movements deliberate and slow.

The room around them faded—the chatter, the bustle, even Elias's increasingly agitated timekeeping receded until there was only Graham, the heat of him, the whisper-soft brush of linen against skin.

"There," she said, smoothing the finished knot, letting her hands linger on his chest.

Graham's eyes, dark and intent, held hers.

"Our case has been called!" Elias announced, jerking the door open. "Two minutes early—preposterous! One would think the courts would run a tighter ship."

The spell broke. The room erupted into a flurry of final adjustments before they filed out into the lobby.

Weaving through the crowd of black-robed barristers and scrambling clerks, Abigail held tight to Graham’s arm.

Her sisters and their husbands trailed behind them with Mr. Nedley, Ms. Norwood, and the Admiral, all marching forward to fight for their family.

Just inside courtroom three, a robed man approached and nodded to Graham and Abigail. “Your Graces. A pleasure to meet you despite the unfortunate circumstances. I am Jonathan Bellamy, and Mr. Nedley has provided me with all the necessary documents pertaining to the case.”

He spoke in undertones as they walked toward the front of the room where two tables sat facing a third that was on a slightly raised dais, setting it apart from the others.

The magistrate did not look up from his writing as they approached.

Hollan, his solicitor and barrister waited at the other table and the Baron nodded to them with the cool confidence of someone who believed their victory was assured.

“Is there anything you’d like to add to what Mr. Nedley has shared before we begin?” Bellamy asked as they took their seats.

The others fanned out across the benches just inside the door. Abigail glanced over her shoulder and her sisters smiled their encouragement. She took a deep breath and turned back to the barrister.

“You will use any and all evidence in whatever way is needed to ensure our girls stay with us,” Abigail said, ferocity plain in her words.

The barrister’s eyes widened, and Mr. Nedley cleared his throat as he shifted in his chair.

“Is there a problem with that?” Graham asked, clasping her hand beneath the table.

“None at all, Your Grace. I will see it done.”