Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Arthur! Philip! Inside voices, please!” Miss Winslow’s patient but firm voice echoed through the entrance as the twins barreled through the front door of the townhouse.
Eliza watched from the shadows of the upstairs landing, a smile tugging at her lips despite the anxiety coiling tight in her chest. She’d missed the boys more than she’d expected to.
Their uncomplicated joy, their boundless energy, the way they made everything seem simpler just by being their sweet little selves.
“MISS ELLIE!”
Too late, she realized as Philip spotted her.
“Oh Miss Ellie, you’re here!” Arthur joined his brother’s cry, and before she could retreat, both boys were racing up the stairs toward her.
“Young knights,” she said, laughing as they reached her, unable to maintain her proper distance in the face of their enthusiasm. “You’ll trip and hurt yourselves.”
“We missed you!” Philip declared, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“We told Aunt Imogen all about you,” Arthur added, beaming up at her. “About how you helped us build sandcastles and find shells and—”
“Boys.” Miss Winslow had reached the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath but smiling warmly. “Let Miss Graham breathe, please.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Winslow.” Eliza gently disentangled herself from the twins’ embrace. “It’s wonderful to see you again. All of you,” she smiled at Miss Winslow.
“And you, Miss Graham.” Miss Winslow’s expression held genuine warmth. “I hope you’ve been well?”
“Very well, thank you,” she lied.
“Miss Graham.” Morgan’s voice carried up from the entrance hall, formal and careful. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with Ambrose and Imogen, his expression neutral. “If you could see that the dining room is prepared? Our guests will be joining us for dinner.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Eliza curtsied, avoiding his eyes. “Right away.”
As she descended the stairs, she was acutely aware of three sets of adult eyes watching her. The Duke of Kirkhammer, unreadable. The Duke of Welton, curious. And the Duchess, Imogen.
Imogen was studying her with an intensity that made Eliza’s pulse quicken. Not hostile, exactly. But knowing and that was enough.
As though she could see straight through Eliza’s carefully constructed facade to the frightened girl hiding underneath.
Dinner was a strange sort of torture, but Eliza endured.
She moved through her duties mechanically, serving courses, refilling wine glasses, ensuring everything ran smoothly, while trying desperately to remain invisible.
But it was difficult when Arthur and Philip kept trying to catch her eye, grinning at her whenever she came near, clearly delighted to have her in the same room again.
“Miss Graham makes the best toast,” Philip announced at one point, apropos of nothing.
His Grace, who had been in the middle of discussing something political with the Duke of Welton, paused. “Does she?”
“The best,” Arthur confirmed solemnly.
“Yes. She is very helpful. Thank you, Miss Graham.”
“Your Grace.” Eliza curtsied and retreated to the sideboard, trying to ignore the way the Duchess of Welton was watching the entire exchange with barely concealed interest.
The Duchess was a beautiful woman. She had brilliant green eyes, dark brown hair and an air of quiet intelligence. Eliza had been careful to avoid drawing her attention. That careful distance felt increasingly precarious.
“His Grace tells me you’ve been invaluable to the household,” Imogen said suddenly, her gaze settling on Eliza. “He speaks very highly of your work.”
Eliza’s hands tightened on the wine decanter. “His Grace is too kind.”
“I don’t think he is.” Imogen’s tone was gentle but penetrating. “I think you’re precisely as capable as he says you are. Perhaps even more so.”
There was something in the way she said it, something weighted with meaning, that made Eliza’s breath catch.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she managed shakily as she poured wine to refresh their goblets.
The conversation moved on, but Eliza could feel Imogen’s attention returning to her again and again throughout the meal. Like a puzzle the Duchess was determined to solve.
After dinner, the gentlemen retreated to Morgan’s study for brandy and cigars, while Her Grace claimed she needed a moment to freshen up.
Miss Winslow took the boys to the drawing room to show them a collection of curiosities from the Duke’s travels.
Which left Eliza alone in the corridor, carrying an armful of used linens toward the servants’ stairs.
She was eager for the day and its tasks to be done.
“Miss Graham?”
Eliza froze. Turned.
Her Grace stood at the far end of the hallway, her expression calm but purposeful.
“Your Grace,” Eliza curtsied awkwardly around the linens. “Did you need something?”
“A word, if you have a moment.”
Not quite a request.
Eliza’s mouth went dry. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“In here, I think. We’ll have more privacy,” the Duchess said.
Every instinct screamed at Eliza to refuse, to make some excuse and flee. But refusing a duchess wasn’t an option. She followed her into the sitting room, setting the linens carefully on a chair. She closed the door.
“I want you to be honest with me,” she said finally. “About who you are.”
Eliza’s heart was pounding so hard she was certain the whole house could hear it. “Your Grace, I don’t…”
“Please. Let’s dispense with pretense.” Imogen’s voice was gentle yet firm. “I know you’re not who you claim to be. I knew it the moment I saw you at Kirkhammer Hall, though it took me a while to place where I’d seen you before…”
Eliza felt the blood drain from her face. “Your Grace. Please…”
“Lady Eliza Newmont,” she continued quietly. “Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Ramersby. Missing for weeks. The subject of considerable gossip and speculation. Am I wrong?”
The room tilted. Eliza groped for the back of a chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t…”
“I’m not going to expose you.” Imogen moved closer, her expression softening. “I’m not your enemy, Eliza. Quite the opposite, actually. You need not fear me. I wish to help…”
“I don’t understand.”
“Before I married Ambrose, I lived under a false identity myself.” Imogen’s smile was sad, almost wistful. “For months, I hid my father’s identity. I had my reasons, like you… good reasons, or so I thought. But the deception nearly destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Eliza stared at her, unable to speak.
“I know what it’s like to be so afraid that lying seems like the only option,” Imogen said gently.
“I know what it’s like to build walls so high you convince yourself no one can scale them.
But I also know what happens when those walls finally come down.
And it’s not pretty, Eliza. Especially when the person you’ve been lying to is someone who cares about you. ”
“His Grace doesn’t…” Eliza’s voice cracked. “I’m just a maid. He doesn’t care about me. Not truly.”
Her look was almost pitying. “Oh, my dear. You can’t possibly believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It doesn’t matter what he,” Eliza pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. “You don’t understand. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone.”
“Why not, Eliza? The truth always sets you free.”
“Because I’m running from a man who killed my best friend!” The words burst out of her before she could stop them. “Because my parents are trying to force me to marry him, and if they find me, I’ll end up just like her… Broken, and dead, and forgotten!”
The admission hung in the air between them.
Imogen’s eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with something harder. Anger, perhaps. Or determination.
“Lord Whitfield,” she said quietly. “You were engaged to him.”
Eliza nodded miserably, unable to speak.
“And you ran.”
“I had no choice.”
“I understand.” Imogen stepped closer. “And I promise you, your secret is safe with me. I will tell no one, not even Ambrose, if you don’t wish it. But Eliza, you need to tell His Grace the truth.”
“I can’t.”
“You must. Morgan is a good man, he will understand—”
“Why?” Eliza’s voice rose despite herself. “So he can pity me? So he can look at me and see a foolish girl?”
“So he can help you,” Imogen interrupted firmly. “Morgan is one of the most powerful men in England. If anyone can protect you from Whitfield, from your parents, it’s him. But he can’t do that if he doesn’t know.”
“’I don’t want to be anyone’s burden.”
“It’s not about what you want, Eliza. It’s about what’s right.” Imogen’s expression softened again. “And I’m not talking about the law, or propriety. I’m talking about the fact that Morgan cares about you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The way he defended you against Lady Fairfax—”
Eliza’s eyes widened.
“Oh yes, I heard about that.”
Eliza flushed.
“If you leave without telling him the truth,” Imogen continued, “he will blame himself. He’ll wonder what he did wrong, what he could have done differently. The not knowing will eat at him. I’ve seen it happen before…”
“Then I’ll tell him I’m leaving because I found a better position. He’ll understand.”
“I knew you were planning to leave,” Imogen said quietly. “I can see it in the way you move through this house, already halfway gone. But before you do, you owe Morgan the truth. Not for his sake. For yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because if you run without telling him, you’ll carry that guilt with you forever. You’ll wonder if things could have been different.”
Eliza wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that there was nothing real between her and Morgan, that whatever connection they’d formed was built on lies and would crumble the moment the truth came out.
But she couldn’t.
Because deep down, in a place she’d been trying desperately to ignore, she knew Imogen was right.
“I don’t know how,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to tell him.”
“You start with the truth. However messy and imperfect it is.” Imogen reached out, gently squeezing Eliza’s hand. “And you trust that he’ll listen. Really listen. The way someone who cares about you should.”
“And if he doesn’t? If he sends me away?”
“Then at least you’ll know. And you can leave with your head held high, knowing you were brave enough to be honest.” Imogen’s smile was sad but encouraging. “But I don’t think he will. I think he’ll surprise you.”
Eliza wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that Morgan could hear the truth and not turn away in disgust or disappointment.
But the fear was too strong. Too deeply rooted.
“I need time,” she said finally. “To think. To… prepare.”
“Of course.” Imogen released her hand. “But don’t wait too long, Eliza. The longer you wait, the harder it becomes. And the more it will hurt when the truth finally comes out—because it always does, eventually.”
Eliza nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Imogen moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave. Running from Whitfield, building a new life for yourself, one like this, that takes courage. But real courage isn’t running away. It’s standing still and facing the thing that terrifies you most.”
Then she was gone, leaving Eliza alone with the linens and the terrible weight of truth.
That night, long after the guests had departed and the house had fallen silent, Eliza sat on her narrow bed and stared at the wall.
Imogen is right. The truth will come out eventually. It always does.
But the thought of telling him, seeing his face when he learned who she really was, what she’d been running from…
It made her want to flee into the night and never look back. Eliza pressed her hands over her face and tried to imagine the conversation; she tried to imagine the words that would make him understand without making him pity her, without making him feel obligated to help.
But every scenario ended the same way: with him looking at her differently. Seeing her as Lady Eliza Newmont—spoiled, foolish, a liar.
She couldn’t bear it. And yet.
Don’t let fear rob you of something real.
Eliza lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.