Chapter 11 #2
Later in the evening, Morgan found himself near the refreshment table, attempting to escape yet another determined widow, when a snippet of conversation caught his ear.
“…disappeared completely, I tell you.”
“Lady Eliza Newmont?”
“The very same. One moment she was at the ball, the next she’d vanished. No one’s seen her since.”
Morgan slowed, pretending to examine the selection of pastries while he listened.
“I heard she eloped with a stable hand,” one woman whispered.
“Nonsense. I heard she was ruined and then sent away in disgrace.”
“My cousin swears she’s been committed to an asylum. Apparently, she had broken into hysterics after Lady Whitfield’s death.”
“Poor Lady Whitfield. Such a tragedy.”
“Do you think Lady Eliza had something to do with it?”
“Don’t be absurd. They were the closest of friends.”
The voices faded as the women moved away.
The ton was always full of gossip, most of it wildly exaggerated or entirely fabricated. The disappearance of one young woman, likely explained by something perfectly mundane, was hardly cause for concern.
He pushed the thought aside once more and returned to the drawing room, where the musicale had mercifully concluded. Guests were mingling now, the hum of conversation filling the space.
“Your Grace.”
Morgan turned to find a tall, silver-haired gentleman approaching. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, impeccably dressed, with pale blue eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“Your Grace,” the man said with a bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. David Booth, Viscount Whitfield.”
“Ah. Good evening, Lord Whitfield,” Morgan replied, with a curt bow. “Morgan Sedgewick, Duke of Kirkhammer. A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine. I’ve heard a lot about you, Your Grace. Your work in Parliament is quite impressive.”
“You’re too kind.”
Morgan found himself increasingly uncomfortable given all he had heard that night.
There was something about Whitfield that set his teeth on edge.
The man’s smile was too practiced, his tone too smooth.
He reminded Morgan of a predator wearing a gentleman’s skin, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“I understand you’re recently returned from Sussex,” Whitfield said. “How did you find the countryside?”
“Peaceful. Restorative.”
“Quite. I have an estate in Derbyshire myself. Beautiful country. Though I confess, I prefer the liveliness of London.”
Morgan made a noncommittal sound, already looking for an escape.
“Well, I shan’t keep you,” Whitfield said, as though sensing Morgan’s disinterest. “I simply wanted to make your acquaintance. I do hope we’ll have the chance to speak again.”
“Of course.”
Whitfield bowed and moved away, disappearing into the din. Morgan watched him go, frowning.
“Who was that?” Ambrose asked, appearing at his elbow.
“The Viscount Whitfield, apparently.”
“Ah.” Ambrose’s expression darkened slightly. “Charming fellow, isn’t he? Or so I’ve heard.”
“Not the word I’d use.”
“Three dead wives,” Ambrose said quietly.
Morgan’s head snapped toward him. “Three?”
“The first died in childbirth. The second from a carriage accident. The third…” Ambrose hesitated. “Lady Abigail Whitfield. She fell from a balcony at the Fontaines’ ball last month. Another tragic accident, supposedly.”
Morgan’s blood ran cold. “Three dead wives,” he repeated slowly. “And no one finds that suspicious?”
“Oh, people find it plenty suspicious,” Ambrose said. “But suspicion isn’t proof. Whitfield is wealthy, well-connected, and very wise. There’s never been any evidence of foul play.”
“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t any.”
“No,” Ambrose agreed grimly. “It doesn’t.”
Morgan’s gaze drifted across the room, seeking out Whitfield. He found him near the window, laughing with a group of gentlemen, his expression genial and relaxed.
Nothing like a man in mourning.
Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at a monster.
“Three wives,” he murmured again.
“Indeed,” Ambrose said. “One might be tragic. Two might be unfortunate. But three?”
“Three is a pattern.”
“Precisely.”
Morgan made another mental note, this time to learn more about Lord Whitfield. And stay far away from him and his dealings.
By the time Morgan returned home that night, it was well past midnight. The house was dark and quiet, most of the servants already abed. He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his mind still churning with the events of the evening.
As he reached the landing, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure at the far end of the hallway, disappearing around the corner.
Ellie.
Morgan’s breath caught. Even from a distance, even in the shadows, he recognized her. The way she moved, the tilt of her head, the quiet grace that set her apart from every other woman he had ever known.
For a moment, he considered following her, speaking to her—ending this absurd avoidance that had plagued them both for the past week.
But then, he remembered the kiss. The way she’d looked at him afterward, shocked, dismayed, as though he’d betrayed some unspoken trust.
No.
It was better this way. Better to keep his distance. Better to let whatever this was between them fade into nothing before it became something he couldn’t control.
Morgan turned and entered his chambers, closing the door firmly behind him.
Yet even as he undressed and climbed into bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About her eyes and their kiss. About the way she’d felt in his arms, for just one perfect, suspended moment.
Sleep, when it finally came, brought no relief. Only dreams of a woman he couldn’t have, and shouldn’t want.
But did.