Page 9

T he same table, the same chair, the same hour. Graham handed his hat and gloves to the attendant at White’s with practiced efficiency, nodding once at the man’s deferential bow.

“Your usual corner, Dr. Redchester?”

“Yes, thank you, Phillips.” Graham checked his pocket watch—quarter past seven, precisely when he preferred to arrive. Early enough to avoid the parade of fashionable gentlemen who treated breakfast as a theatrical performance.

His boots clicked on the polished floor as he crossed to the secluded alcove near the window. Only a few of the other tables were occupied and no one glanced up from their morning papers. A single fresh rose in a crystal vase sat on the table catching the morning light.

“Coffee, sir? And perhaps the kedgeree this morning?” Phillips asked.

“Just toast and coffee,” Graham replied, settling into his chair with military precision.

As Phillips retreated, Graham arranged his table with the same careful precision he applied to every other corner of his life. Napkin folded once, placed to the left. Silverware aligned with surgeon’s accuracy. The small crystal vase centered exactly between plate and cup.

Last night’s violence still clung to him like smoke—the satisfying crack of bone beneath his knuckles, the familiar rush of cold clarity that came in moments of danger

I nearly killed that man yesterday. And I wanted to.

That was the part that troubled him the most. Not the violence itself—he’d seen enough of that to last several lifetimes—but the savage pleasure he’d taken in it. When had he become that man?

The coffee arrived steaming, its bitter aroma curling through the air, mingling with last night’s pipe smoke and old varnish.

Graham added a modest splash of milk—an indulgence he’d allowed himself only since returning to London—and stirred once, twice.

He set the spoon aside, precisely parallel to the saucer.

He reached for the cup, but his hand betrayed him, trembling slightly before he forced them still.

The tremors had returned last night—not from the danger or the blood, but from the woman who’d pulled herself up from the muck and stood like a queen among scattered rose petals.

Her eyes had been defiant, her throat blooming with bruises.

And she had said his name like it meant something.

Graham.

Not Dr. Redchester. Not Your Grace. Just Graham. The sound of it in her voice had slipped past his defenses with unsettling ease.

“Blast,” he muttered, shaking himself free of the memory.

He exhaled and brought the cup to his lips with a precise movement. The coffee, bitter and too hot, scalded his throat, but he took another drink before setting it aside and reaching into his coat pocket for the letter.

His fingers hesitated over the seal. The letter’s weight in his pocket had been a persistent reminder of obligations he’d been avoiding.

Whatever Beatrix Norwood had penned in that precise, upright hand would ask something of him—something he wouldn’t know how to give.

Her letters never carried disaster, only truth. And that was often worse.

Dr. Redchester,

I write with some concern.

Mary Ann has taken to sleeping beneath her bed.

She says it feels safer there. She claims the curtains whisper at night, though I suspect it is more memory than mischief that troubles her.

Heather refuses to leave her sister alone, which is good of her, though she now insists on staying awake “in case he comes back.” I am unsure who he is meant to be—ghost, goblin, or grief itself—but she will not be persuaded otherwise.

Neither child has slept properly in three nights.

They’re cross in the mornings, slower with their sums, quick to tears.

Yesterday Mary Ann spilled her inkpot and cried for half an hour over it.

Heather has begun correcting my grammar with great vigor, which I believe is her way of asserting control in a world that feels unsteady.

I know you are busy. I know silence feels safer to you than words. But I believe the girls need reminding that you are still here. Not in the house, but with them. If you could manage to join us for supper—just once this week—I think it would do more good than all my stories and warm milk combined.

In friendship and frankness,

Miss B. Norwood

Graham’s jaw tightened. He folded the letter neatly—reflex more than thought—and returned it to his pocket.

The coffee had gone tepid. He took a sip anyway, tasting nothing but the bitterness.

Edward had been the one meant for fatherhood, the dukedom, a life of domestic tranquility. Graham was the second son, the spare, free to pursue medicine before losing himself in the brutal arithmetic of war.

It had been raining the night the carriage overturned on the Bath road. Horses spooked, wheels splintered, and that was the end of it. The Duke and Duchess dead and two little girls were left blinking in the aftermath, trying to understand why everyone kept saying they’re gone .

Graham hadn’t learned of the accident until long after the funeral had passed and the will had been read. By the time he returned to England, the title was his.

So were the seven-year-old twin girls.

He had accepted the guardianship because it was expected. Because it was right. Because the thought of anyone else—especially Baron Frederic Hollan, the late Duchess’s cousin and nearest living relative on her side—laying claim to them made his blood run cold.

The girls were already living at Eyron Park, tucked away in the country. A rotating cast of nurses and tutors had seen to their care. His brother had preferred it that way, raising his daughters far from London’s endless scrutiny. It had suited the family—private, distant, rarely seen in town.

Graham had been content to leave them there. But little girls needed more than provision. They needed presence. Stability.

Not a war-scarred uncle who cannot even tell them apart.

He’d hired Beatrix Norwood on instinct and desperation. The Quaker governess had arrived with plain gowns and quiet authority and had taken over the nursery in less than an hour. The girls had clung to her without hesitation.

He had almost envied that.

Since then, he’d visited Eyron Park only twice—brief, structured appearances that made the girls wary and the house feel no more his than it ever had. He’d stayed in London under the pretext of caring for the sick, but the truth was simpler.

Distance felt safer than failure.

Now he was being called home to supper.

He pressed a hand to his temple, willing the silence of the club to press back the chaos gathering in his head. He’d known this pretense—this life half-lived in the ambiguity of London—couldn’t last forever, but he was not ready to relinquish it.

I will not expose them to the demons that cling to me.

A sharp rap on the table startled him from his reverie. Elias Birkins dropped heavily into the chair opposite, scattering a stack of penny papers and sending his hat tumbling to the floor. He grinned, teeth flashing, the epitome of robust health and irrepressible energy.

“Redchester!” Elias declared, as if announcing him to the assembled company.

Graham straightened the stack of papers automatically and adjusted the silverware that had been jostled out of position before retrieving the hat and settling it back in its place. “Admiral,” he said, acknowledging his battlefield comrade.

“Too early for pleasantries, is it?” Elias leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically. “Why are you hiding in the corner?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m having breakfast.”

“Alone, in the furthest corner, with explicit instructions to poor Phillips that you’re not receiving visitors.” Elias signaled for coffee and straightened his waistcoat. “Fortunately, I’ve never counted myself among the rabble of ‘visitors.’ I’m practically family.”

“I will have to make my instructions more specific in the future,” Graham grumbled, though he knew that no instructions would keep Admiral Elias Birkins from interrupting his breakfast. The man had been doing it for years.

That was the trouble with Elias—he saw through Graham’s carefully constructed walls as if they were made of glass. He’d been doing it since Corunna when the Admiral commanded an evacuation frigate whileGraham worked frantically to save those he could in the blood-soaked hold.

“You look as though you’ve spent the night in a Turkish dungeon. Or worse, a meeting of the House of Lords. Did you sleep at all?” Concern sounded through Elias’ banter.

Graham offered a curt nod. He’d slept, after a fashion—fitful hours punctuated by dreams of the alley. But in the dreams, he’d always arrived too late. In the dreams, her eyes stared up at him, empty and accusing.

The Admiral knew better than to press any further. He pulled the top paper from the stack and unfolded it. “Ah, the Morning Post. My favorite purveyor of malicious half-truths.” His eyes scanned the page, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Graham poured himself another cup of coffee with a sigh. “Must we?”

“We must,” the older man replied with relish, spreading the Post on the table with a flourish. “Well, well. The Finch women are at it again. They have a positively unerring sense for drama.”

Graham’s hand stilled over the cup. “Finch?”

For one irrational moment, he wondered if Elias had somehow read his mind, had plucked the name from his thoughts where it had been circling since dawn.

Elias arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. The eldest daughter, I believe.” He jabbed a finger at a column.

“Here it is. Lady Abigail Finch, observed in a state of dishabille, clinging to some mystery man near Balmoral Square.” He looked up from the paper with his eyes dancing with anticipation.

“The Countess of Edgerton must be apoplectic this morning.”