Page 5

“It is a good thing you are able to adjust your bedside manner accordingly,” she murmured, attempting to match his dry tone.

A passing cart rattled over the cobblestones, its wheels striking a loose stone with a sharp crack. Dr. Redchester tensed beside her. His free hand twitched toward his hip where no weapon hung. The movement was so quick Abigail might have missed it had she not been pressed against his side.

His eyes took on a far away look as his gaze darted around, searching for the threat. She’d seen soldiers down on the docks during her time at Beacon House. Returned in body, but fractured in mind and spirit.

The war isn’t over for him .

“I never noticed how loud London can be at night,” she said. “Are you always so watchful?” she asked, trying to draw him back from whatever far off battlefield lingered in his mind.

He blinked, focus returning. “Only when escorting injured ladies through questionable neighborhoods.” His voice was controlled again, though strain edged his words. “And you? Are you always this determined to court danger?”

“I’m typically quite dull, actually,” she replied, grimacing as they navigated around a puddle.

Her ankle protested each movement, and she found herself leaning more heavily against him with every step.

“I spend my days counting linens and teaching women to read. Hardly a heroine in an adventure novel.”

I’m the character readers forget .

“Yet here you are.”

“An aberration, I assure you.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “I’ve found most people reveal their true character in moments of crisis, not in their carefully planned days.”

“Then you must think me a complete fool,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“I think you’re someone who values independence enough to take ill-advised risks.” His gaze remained fixed ahead, but his words carried a weight that suggested he understood more than she had given him credit for. “There are worse qualities.”

“And you?” she asked. “Do you value independence or avoid entanglements?”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t look at her. “I value control.”

“Over what?”

“Everything.”

There was no heat in the word—just weariness, as if control were something he pursued out of necessity, not pride. Abigail said nothing, sensing he wouldn’t answer if she pushed.

They reached the main thoroughfare when Abigail caught the heel of her boot on an uneven stone.

She pitched forward with a small cry, her heart leaping into her throat as she braced for the impact of stone against her already battered body.

Instead, she found herself caught against Dr. Redchester’s chest, his arms encircling her with surprising gentleness for a man of his size.

For a moment, they stood frozen in the unexpected embrace.

His breath, warm on her cheek, the steady pressure of his hands at her waist. Each detail stood out as she looked up into his face—so close now that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the small scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the shadowed hollow beneath his cheekbone.

Not handsome—not in the conventional sense. There’s something compelling in that face—something carved by experience rather than blessed by nature.

“My apologies,” she gasped, pressing her hands against the solid wall of his chest. Beneath her palms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath layers of wool and linen. The intimacy of the contact sent a flutter of awareness through her that had nothing to do with pain or fear.

He didn’t immediately release her. “You need to rest that ankle before it worsens,” he said, his voice huskier than before.

“I’ll manage,” she insisted. Pride, that old familiar companion, refused to let her admit weakness.

“There’s a house just there where you might wait while I find a carriage.” He nodded toward an imposing townhouse across the street.

Abigail followed his gaze and her heart sank as she recognized the distinctive blue door and ornate brass knocker. Of all the houses in London.

“Lady Winterbourne’s residence? Absolutely not.”

“You need to sit down before you collapse.”

Panic fluttered in her chest at the thought of facing Lady Winterbourne in her current state.

The woman had once described Abigail as “that poor Finch girl who threw away her one chance at respectability.” To appear on her doorstep now, disheveled and leaning on a strange man, would provide fodder for gossip that would last until Christmas.

“The woman is London’s most notorious gossip,” Abigail countered, the words tumbling out in her desperation.

“By tomorrow morning, every drawing room in Mayfair would be buzzing with tales of my ‘unfortunate incident’ and ‘disheveled appearance.’” She shook her head, unable to bear the thought.

“Besides, she still holds a grudge because I refused her cousin’s proposal.

The man was nearly fifty and smelled perpetually of mothballs and stale brandy. I’d rather be a spinster.”

Dr. Redchester raised a brow. “Rejecting mothballs at your advanced age? How discerning.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Perceptive of you to notice.”

The unexpected humor in his voice startled her. The pain and fear receded a bit, replaced by a curious warmth. This man—this stern, controlled physician with his penetrating gaze and measured words—had just teased her. And stranger still, she found herself wanting to smile back.

“Please, Dr. Redchester. Reedley Manor isn’t far. If we could just continue?—”

Her words died as the front door of Lady Winterbourne’s house swung open, spilling warm yellow light onto the steps. A small, yapping dog bounded out, followed by a formidable figure in an elaborate evening gown, ostrich feathers trembling atop her silver-streaked coiffure.

“Come along, Bijou,” Lady Winterbourne called to the dog. “Just a quick constitutional before the Pembrokes arrive for?—”

Panic seized Abigail’s chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She pressed herself into the narrow space between two gas lamps, tugging Graham after her with a frantic pull. Her ankle screamed in protest as she stumbled, sending them both lurching into the full glow of the nearest lamp.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The pain radiated up her leg in waves, but it was nothing compared to the terror of being discovered like this—disheveled, bruised, clinging to a man she barely knew.

Lady Winterbourne shaded her eyes against the light, squinting into the street.

“Don’t move,” Abigail hissed. She dug her fingers into his coat and made herself as small as possible behind his broad frame. The scratchy wool of his coat brushed against her cheek as she held her breath though her heart pounded so violently she was certain Lady Winterbourne must hear it.

Please don’t see me. She’d survived one scandal in her life—barely. Another would destroy what little remained of her place in society. No more invitations, even the reluctant ones. No more polite nods in drawing rooms. She would be shunned completely, erased and forgotten.

The little dog yapped furiously, straining against its lead. Lady Winterbourne peered a moment longer, then muttered, “Just a beggar and his doxy. This neighborhood is going to the devil,” and turned back toward her house still grousing about the riffraff.

His doxy. Was that what she appeared to be now? A fallen woman? Her father’s voice echoed in her memory: You’ll bring nothing but shame to this family.

Abigail exhaled and pried her fingers from the doctor’s coat. “I don’t believe she could see clearly,” she whispered. “The light was poor. Besides, everyone says she’s half-blind after that business with the laudanum bottles last Christmas.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she knew it was a thin hope.

Dr. Redchester cast a pointed glance at the nearest gas lamp, which glowed with inconvenient brightness. “Indeed. All the more reason to call upon her aid and explain the situation.”

“Please. Just help me past her house,” she pleaded. “I promise I’ll never wander the streets alone again.” A penance, a vow, a bargain with fate to spare her this final humiliation.

He studied her for a long moment, those blue eyes unreadable in the gathering dusk.

Abigail felt suddenly exposed, as though he could see through her fear to the shameful truth beneath—that she cared what these people thought, that despite her work at Beacon House and her pretense of contentment, some part of her still craved acceptance from the very society that had rejected her.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he tightened his arm around her waist.

“Very well. But if you faint, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, propriety be damned.”

Abigail released a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“For aiding in your social subterfuge? You’re welcome.”

The faint trace of irony in his voice made her cheeks warm. Did he think her ridiculous? Probably. A man who had faced war and death would hardly understand the petty tyrannies of drawing room politics.

“For understanding,” she clarified, though she wasn’t entirely sure he did.

They continued in silence, each step sending fresh pain through her ankle. Abigail grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their position—his arm around her waist, her body pressed against his side, her hand clinging to his coat.

What would it be like to be held like this without fear or pain? To be touched with purpose rather than necessity? The thought came unbidden, and she pushed it away—selfish, dangerous, absurd.

A carriage approached, its lamps cutting through the twilight. Abigail tensed, recognizing the distinctive crest on the door panel as it drew alongside them.

“The Sutcliffs,” she whispered, turning her face away. “Lady Sutcliff has a standing invitation to tea with my cousin every Tuesday.”