Page 6

Without comment, Dr. Redchester guided her into the shadow of a large elm tree until the carriage passed.

The rough bark pressed against her back as they stood motionless, waiting.

His body shielded her from view, his breath warm against her temple.

She imagined they were conspirators in some grand adventure rather than participants in a desperate flight from scandal.

“This is ridiculous,” Dr. Redchester muttered. “We can’t dodge carriages all the way through Mayfair.”

“Just a little further,” Abigail pleaded. “Reedley Manor is only a few streets away.”

He sighed but continued supporting her as they resumed their slow progress.

With each passing street, the houses grew grander, the pavements wider and better maintained.

Gas lamps burned at regular intervals, illuminating wrought-iron fences and polished brass door knockers.

The evening air carried the scent of flowering shrubs from hidden gardens rather than the reek of the slums.

Every time a carriage passed, Abigail ducked her head and the doctor dutifully shielded her from view. In a slow mockery of a dance, they wove their way between the pools of light, dodging the handful of people out for a stroll.

By the time they reached the narrow lane behind Reedley Manor, Abigail’s ankle throbbed ceaselessly, her throat burned like she’d swallowed lye, and her ribs ached where they’d struck the wall. But the servants’ entrance beckoned—a humble door that promised blessed anonymity.

Never had she been so grateful for the back stairs, the discreet pathways designed to keep servants invisible. Tonight, she would use them to hide her own shame.

“I can manage from here,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing from Dr. Redchester’s supportive arm. The sudden absence of his warmth left her feeling strangely bereft, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain.

He frowned, studying her face in the dim light spilling from a kitchen window. “Your ankle needs attention.”

“And it shall have it, once I’m safely upstairs. My maid is quite capable.” She attempted a smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. “Thank you, Dr. Redchester. I owe you a debt.”

“Graham,” he corrected again, his expression softening slightly. “And you owe me nothing.”

But she did—more than he could possibly understand.

Abigail hesitated. In the space of a few hours, this man had seen her at her worst and most vulnerable, yet treated her with a respect she had almost forgotten she deserved. “Will you... that is, shall I see you again at Beacon House?”

“Perhaps.” His face gave nothing away, though something flickered in his eyes—a warmth quickly banked, like embers carefully covered to preserve their heat through a long night.

Say something more, she urged silently. Ask to call on me. Tell me when you’ll return to Beacon House. The intensity of her own desire for some promise of a future connection startled her.

“Good night, Lady Abigail.”

“Good night, Graham.”

His name felt strange on her lips—intimate, almost forbidden, like a secret shared between them. She savored the sound of it, the way it connected her to this man who had, for a brief time, made her feel protected instead of pitied.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, then stepped back, watching as she limped the last few steps to the servants’ door.

She could feel his gaze on her back—steady, assessing, concerned.

It gave her the strength to straighten her spine and lift her chin, despite the pain that shot through her with every step.

Abigail stepped inside and closed the door behind her, only to nearly collide with a startled footman carrying a tray of empty teacups.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, juggling the tea tray with an expert hand. “We thought you had gone to Hawthorne House for the evening.” He paused and his widened as he took in her bedraggled appearance. “Are you all right?”

The concern in his voice nearly undid her. She swallowed hard as she steadied herself against the wall and blinked back the fresh surge of tears.

“All is well, James,” she assured him, though her hand trembled against the faded wallpaper. “Please send a note to Hawthorne House informing them that I’ve arrived safely. My sister will be concerned.”

“Of course, my lady. Shall I fetch the countess or perhaps some tea?”Years of service kept his expression carefully neutral, but Abigail saw the shock in his eyes. By morning, the entire servants’ hall would know of her return.

“No, thank you. I require nothing else.” Abigail forced a smile, summoning the last of her dignity. “Please, just the note.”

James bowed and hurried away, leaving Abigail to make her painful way up the servants’ stairs.When she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she sank onto her bed and wrapped her arms around herself as she trembled and tears coursed down her cheeks.

What story would she tell tomorrow? How would she explain the bruises, the torn dress? Another careful fiction to maintain the illusion of propriety.

She curled into a ball of pain and fear, tugging a cover over her despite the warmth of the evening.

Through the storm, the unexpected gentleness in Graham’s eyes swam into focus.

For the first time since she’d returned to her father’s home in disgrace, she felt seen—not as Lady Abigail, the spinster relation dependent on her cousin’s charity, but simply as herself.

A woman still capable of feeling. Still worthy of protection. Still alive.