Page 49

For one long moment, the courtroom was silent. Abigail sat shellshocked. Graham’s thigh stayed pressed hard against hers, but she could barely feel it. The lingering stench of the asylum drifted around her.

Bellamy didn't rise immediately. He sat for a moment, hands folded before him, as if considering a difficult move on a chessboard that he hadn’t anticipated.

A single tear escaped and trekked down her cheek.Then another. She tasted salt and the iron tang of helpless rage.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Mr. Bellamy stood.

"Your Worship," he began, voice steady but quiet, "my learned friend has given us a powerful story. One of seduction, impropriety, and moral rot posing as virtue."

A murmur rippled through the gallery. Someone coughed. A woman whispered something to her companion. The magistrate adjusted his spectacles, his expression unreadable.

Abigail's throat was dry as sand. She wished desperately for water, for air, for escape from this nightmare. But there was nowhere to go. Nothing to do but endure.

Bellamy turned, pacing just slightly as he spoke. "But I submit to the court that this is not, in fact, a story about scandal. It is a story about choices and growth."

He stopped, hands clasped behind his back. The simple statement hung in the air, unexpected enough to cause a lull in the whispers behind them.

"It is true that the Duchess of Eyron was once Lady Abigail Finch. It is true that she left a prominent engagement. Following which she chose a life of purpose over a life of polite compliance, and involved herself—deeply—in the lives of London's forgotten."

He looked toward Abigail—not pitying, not grandstanding. Just seeing her. For the first time since Tate began his evisceration, she took a full breath. The room steadied around her.

"And in doing so, she helped build something.

Together with the Duchess of Sherton, Beacon House has become a refuge for the abandoned.

A place where, by all testimony and record, women who had nothing but shame left to their name found healing, trade, dignity, and in many cases, their children returned to them. "

Tate shifted in his chair. Hollan shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss the importance of the statement. Bellamy didn't so much as glance at either of them.

"As for the 'inappropriate' company she keeps," Bellamy continued, voice rising slightly, "I remind the court—we should not measure a woman's worth by the silk of at her cuffs, but by the calluses on her hands."

Abigail's throat tightened. She didn't dare look at anyone—not at Graham, not at her sisters, not at the magistrate who held their fate in his hands. She fixed her gaze on a point on the wall, fighting to maintain her composure.

Mr. Nedley handed Bellamy a sheaf of paper.

He held them up for the room to see the rough penmanship.

The rustle of parchment was loud in the hushed room.

"These are statements, signed and sworn, from some of the women the Duchess has worked with.

Not saints. Not debutantes. But mothers, fishwives, washerwomen—women who testify not to scandal, but to salvation. "

He placed them gently on the magistrate's bench.

"And this," he said, lifting a single sheet, "is a note written in a child's hand, by a girl who until recently refused to speak. It reads, quote: 'Miss Abby helps me sleep when the dark is scary. She sings bad but gives me jam. I love her best.”

There were a few soft exhalations in the gallery. One handkerchief dabbed discreetly at an eye.

Tears rolled down Abigail’s cheeks. Mary Margret.

She remembered the night the child had crawled into her lap, silent and trembling, clinging as though she might fall off the world if she let go.

No one knew the horrors the child witnessed or who left her on the Beacon House stairs in the dark of night.

Graham put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him.

Just as he promised—never to let me fall.

Bellamy's tone sharpened.

"My learned colleague would have you believe the Duchess is a seductress.

That her charity work is a stain. That her presence is a threat to the noble futures of Misses Mary Ann and Heather.

And yet I ask this court, what could be more noble than teaching two frightened children that love is not contingent on perfection? "

The silence was deeper now. Even the rustling of fabric had ceased. The magistrate looked down, expression unreadable, but his hand had stilled on his notes.

Abigail felt something uncurl inside her chest—not hope, not yet, but the possibility of it.

Bellamy returned to the table and picked up the folio. The leather creaked as he opened it, drawing all eyes to him.

"And as for reputation," he said, flipping open the leather cover, "since Mr. Tate wishes to speak of financial impropriety, let us examine his client's."

The courtroom tensed. Hollan sat up straighter, his confident smile faltering. Beside him, his solicitor leaned forward, whispering urgently in his ear. A fierce, savage satisfaction burned in Abigail’s chest.

Revenge.

"Baron Hollan, we now know, carries debts exceeding seven thousand pounds. Gambling, primarily. Debts owed to men whose methods of collection would cause this court to blanch."

He paused, then added, "And yet this is the man who claims moral authority."

A breath. A page turned. Someone in the gallery made a small, shocked sound quickly muffled. The magistrate's eyebrows rose fractionally.

"And the warehouse fire that caused such public stir? The insurance policy was taken out three weeks ago. The building, insured for five thousand, had an assessed market value of less than half that."

Tate half-rose. "Speculation, Your Worship?—"

"Facts," Bellamy said firmly. "And I have brought documentation to support every claim. I am not speculating on motive. I am presenting a pattern with a most concerning trajectory."

He placed the final page on the magistrate's bench. The paper whispered against the polished wood.

"A pattern of financial ruin. Of opportunistic slander. And of attempting to use the court not to protect these children—but to access the fortune that accompanies them."

Bellamy pivoted and looked squarely at Abigail and Graham, who leaned into each other. Bedraggled and battered, they clung to each other because they were the only thing sure in each other’s world.

"Your Worship," Bellamy said, his voice steady, "if this court finds the Duke and Duchess unsuitable, let it not be because of scandal or slander. Let it be because they have failed in the only measures that should matter: love, safety, and healing."

He looked now to the magistrate with quiet conviction.

"But if they have provided a home built on love, if they have offered safety and begun to mend what was broken—then I ask you, sir, by what standard could they be deemed unfit?"

He sat.

The courtroom did not erupt. There were no gasps. No muttered outburst.

Just stillness.

The kind of stillness comes after a lightning strike, and you don’t know where the next one will land.

The magistrate took a long breath, then lowered his gaze to the papers before him. The scratch of his pen against the parchment was the only sound in the room.

They'd made their case. The die was cast. Now, they would wait to see if their truth was enough.

Minutes ticked by. Murmurs and whispers rustled behind them. Hollan and his legal team spoke in low tones while Abigail and Graham sat in utter silence. Mr. Nedley cast concerned glances their way and Mr. Bellamy sat back, relaxed in his chair.

Finally, the magistrate tapped his fingers against the bench, surveying the courtroom. "I believe I've heard sufficient evidence to render judgment. Will the Duke and Duchess of Eyron please rise?"

Abigail's breath caught. Graham's hand found hers again, his grip so tight it bordered on painful. She welcomed the pressure, anchoring herself in the warmth of his palm against hers as they stood. The magistrate cleared his throat.

"The Court of Chancery exists to uphold the welfare of those who cannot advocate for themselves—most particularly children," he began. "In matters of guardianship, we must look not only to legal rights, but to the best interests of the vulnerable parties in question."

He adjusted his spectacles, peering down at his notes. "I have reviewed the testimonies, affidavits, and evidence presented today with great care. Baron Hollan's familial connection to the children through their late mother is valid, and the evidence he has provided does merit consideration."

Abigail's heart stuttered in her chest. Beside her, Graham tensed. The world narrowed to this moment, this breath, this unbearable waiting.

"After careful consideration of all the facts presented, I must conclude that the interests of the Misses Redchester are best served by maintaining their current guardianship.

The Duke and Duchess of Eyron have demonstrated both commitment to and compassion for these children during a period of profound loss.

Baron Hollan's petition is hereby denied.

Custody shall remain with the Duke and Duchess, with no further hearings on this matter to be entertained without substantial new evidence. "

Abigail’s knees threatened to buckle with relief. The tension that had been holding her upright dissolved in an instant, replaced by a surge of joy so powerful it nearly took her breath away.

"Graham," she whispered, turning to find his eyes already on her, blazing with an intensity she'd never seen before.

“We did it,” he murmured, framing her face with his hands.

Before she could speak another word, Graham's mouth claimed hers in a kiss that silenced the erupting courtroom around them. His lips were warm and firm against hers, not tentative or questioning, but certain—a declaration more powerful than any words.

For a suspended moment, Abigail forgot where they were—the crowded courtroom, the watching eyes, the propriety that should have governed such a display. Her hands found his lapels, holding tight as if he might vanish if she let go. Graham's heartbeat thundered beneath, strong and alive and hers.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, the courtroom had descended into chaos.

Gasps and whispers swirled around them like autumn leaves.

Someone in the gallery actually applauded, quickly hushed by their neighbor.

Hollan stormed past, his face mottled with fury, but Abigail barely registered him.

"That," Bridget remarked dryly as she approached, eyes twinkling despite her stern tone, "will certainly make tomorrow's papers."

Graham laughed against Abigail's hair. "Good. I'll commission copies for every room at Eyron Manor."

Abigail pulled back just enough to see his face. "They'll call you mad after all."

"Perhaps I am," Graham said, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "Madly fortunate to have found you."

"Good God," Admiral Birkins boomed from behind them, his voice carrying across the courtroom. "Save the rest for after dinner, would you? Some of us haven't eaten since yesterday, and this old sea dog is about to mutiny for want of a decent meal!"

“Clear the court, if you please!” The clerk yelled over the hubbub.“The court calls Thronton versus Majors! Opening arguments in fifteen minutes!”

They spilled out into the bustling lobby. Graham turned to Mr. Nedley and Mr. Bellamy, grasping each man's hand in turn.

"We are forever in your debt," Graham said. "Your expertise and dedication have preserved our family."

"Indeed," Abigail added, smiling through tears and exhaustion. "Words cannot express our thanks for what you've done today."

Mr. Bellamy offered a modest bow. "It was my honor to represent such a worthy cause, Your Grace."

"The paperwork will be finalized by week's end," Mr. Nedley assured them.“I will send you a letter from the seaside—and the bill.”

Graham laughed.“Worth every pound, Mr. Nedley.”

The solicitor hurried away, and they turned back to their family.

“We considered a celebratory luncheon, but thought better of it,” Marjory said, casting a look at their bedraggled state.

“You don’t like people thinking you’re dining with fugitives?” Abigail asked, though she wasn’t up for anything beyond hugging the girls and falling into her bed.

“We’ll see that the Admiral gets a proper meal, and I took the liberty of summoning your carriage,” Richard said, offering his arm to Marjory as the group was swept toward the exit.

“Thank you all, for everything,” Graham said, his gaze encompassing their entire group.

“Get used to it, Redchester,” Anthony said.

Bridget tsked.“What he means is welcome to the family.”

“Your Grace,” Ms. Norwood said, falling into step next to Abigail.“I shall retrieve the girls from Reedley Manor and bring them home for supper. That should give you both enough time to freshen up and get some rest.”

Graham’s arm slid around Abigail’s waist.“Make it late supper, Ms. Norwood.”