Chapter 22 #2
I am particularly interested in any witnesses who might have information about the nature of these deaths, any evidence of foul play that was overlooked or dismissed, and any patterns in Lord Whitfield’s behavior leading up to each death.
Money is no object. I need facts, evidence, and testimony that could be used to bring criminal charges if warranted. Be thorough but discreet. Lord Whitfield is a dangerous man, and I don’t want him to know he’s being investigated.
Report directly to me at Kirkhammer Hall.
The Duke of Kirkhammer
He sealed the letter with wax, pressing his signet ring into it firmly. By this afternoon, Bartlett would have it. And by the end of the month, Morgan hoped, they’d have something, anything, that could be used to bring Whitfield to justice. He owed Eliza that much. He owed Abigail that much, too.
He rose from the desk, the letter heavy in his hand, and stepped out into the quiet corridor.
The house was beginning to stir with the soft, ghost-like movements of the domestic staff.
He found Mrs. Dawson near the morning room, her keys jingling softly at her waist as she consulted a ledger.
She looked up, her expression shifting instantly from professional focus to maternal concern at the sight of his haggard face.
“Your Grace? You’re up early.”
“Mrs. Dawson,” Morgan said, his voice low and raspy from lack of sleep.
He held out the letter, the red seal catching the dim light.
“This must go out with the first post. It is to be handled with the highest priority, but it is not to sit in the common mail tray. Ensure it is given directly to the rider.”
Mrs. Dawson took the missive, her fingers brushing the crisp parchment. She didn’t ask who it was for. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second as he released the paper.
“Consider it done, Your Grace,” she said softly, tucking the letter into her apron pocket as if shielding it from prying eyes. “I shall see to it personally.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson. Please see breakfast is brought to our quarters this morning, I will break my fast with her Grace.”
“Consider it done, Your Grace,” she said as she walked and continued her work.
Morgan felt a momentary shiver of relief. The wheels were turning. Now, all he could do was wait. And keep Eliza safe until the truth caught up with the man who had destroyed so much.
The bookshop on Baker Street was narrow and dim, smelling of paper and cedar, its shelves so densely packed that the spines overlapped like fish scales. Eliza had passed it a dozen times in the carriage and never once been permitted to stop with her parents.
“You mentioned Defoe at dinner last week. I thought you might want to look,” Morgan held the door open without ceremony.
She didn’t ask what had prompted it, nor could he have known just how much this meant to her.
She was learning that asking Morgan why he did things often caused him to undo them, as though generosity, examined too closely, embarrassed him.
So she simply walked deeper into the shop, trailing her fingers along the shelves, and let herself be glad.
He followed at a distance, browsing without any apparent purpose, occasionally pulling a volume out and replacing it with the dissatisfied air of a man who already owned everything he wanted.
“Did you read much as a boy?” she asked, not looking at him as she examined a tome.
A pause. “When I could. My father considered it idling.”
“And your mother?”
“She was too busy with social engagements to care much for what I did, or didn’t do. She died when I was twenty five.” He said it plainly.
Eliza looked at him then. He was studying the spine of a small green book, not looking back at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And your father?”
“A few years ago now, and don’t be. It’s ancient history as far as I am concerned, much like these books.” He set the book back. “What about you? You read constantly. Someone must have encouraged it.”
“My governess, Miss Leband. She was old as dirt and slightly terrifying and she believed that an unread woman was an unfinished one.” Eliza smiled at the memory.
“Thank goodness for a respite from my parents… She gave me The Odyssey when I was nine and told me it was about solitude. I thought it was about adventure.”
“Isn’t it both?”
She considered that. “I suppose it is.”
They moved deeper into the shop, into a quieter alcove where the shelves nearly met overhead. The sounds of the street disappeared entirely.
“Do you find it lonely?” Morgan asked. He wasn’t looking at her, still browsing, but his voice had shifted into something more careful. “This life. The marriage. All of it.”
The question surprised her with its honesty, making her cheeks heat. She thought about deflecting, about saying something bright and manageable, the kind of answer she'd been trained to give. Instead she said, “Sometimes. Less than I expected.”
He glanced at her sideways.
“I expected to feel like a guest in my own life,” she admitted.
“As though everything happening to me was happening to someone else and I was simply watching from a very polite distance.” She pulled a slim volume from the shelf and turned it in her hands without reading it. “It isn’t quite like that."
“What is it like then?”
She looked up at him. He was watching her now, with the same focused attention he gave to ledgers and maps.
“Like standing in a room where I don't yet know where everything is,” she said. “But I’m beginning to learn the shape of it.”
Something shifted in his expression. He reached past her and took the book gently from her hands, examined it, and tucked it under his arm.
“We’ll get this one,” he said, as if the previous conversation had not happened at all.
But when they stepped back out into the pale morning light, his hand found the small of her back to guide her around a puddle, and she felt as if she were floating on air.
Later that evening, Eliza stood at the window of her private chambers, watching the sun set over the sea, when she heard the connecting door open. She turned to find Morgan standing in the doorway, still in his shirt and trousers from dinner, his eyes dark with desire.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Her heart began to race. “Yes.”
He crossed to her slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to ask him to leave. But she didn’t. Instead, she met him halfway, rising on her toes to kiss him first.
“I want you,” she said against his lips. “I’m ready now. I want this.”
“What about supper?”
“Food can wait.”
“Are you sure?” His hands cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “We can wait. There’s no rush.”
“I’m so sure. I have never been more so, Morgan.” She looked into his eyes, letting him see the truth of it. “I want to be yours completely. In every way.”
Morgan’s expression softened into something tender and fierce all at once. “Then come to bed, darling. Let me show you how much I want you too.”
He led her to the bed, undressing her slowly, reverently, as though unwrapping something precious. When she was bare before him, he shed his own clothes, and Eliza’s breath caught at the sight of him—all lean muscle and masculine beauty.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed.
“So are you.” He climbed onto the bed beside her, gathering her close. “More beautiful than anything I could have imagined.”
He kissed her deeply, his hands roaming over her body in ways that were becoming familiar now.
He knew what she liked, that was evident.
He could intuit what made her gasp and arch into his touch.
He’d spent the past week learning every inch of her, and now he used that knowledge to build her pleasure slowly, carefully.
And for that, she was eternally grateful.
When his fingers found her center, she was already wet, already wanting.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured approvingly. “So ready for me.”
He worked her with his fingers and mouth until she was writhing beneath him, desperate for more. Only then did he settle between her thighs, his weight a delicious pressure.
“This might hurt at first,” he warned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“I will. I trust you.”
“We’ll go slow.”
“Not too slow…”
He kissed her deeply as he began to push inside, slowly, giving her body time to adjust. There was a sharp pinch of pain that made her gasp, but Morgan stilled immediately.
“Breathe, darling. Just breathe through it. I promise, I will make you feel good.”
She did, and gradually the pain faded, replaced by a sense of fullness, of rightness.
“Okay,” she whispered. “You can move.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please, Morgan…”
Morgan began to move in slow, careful strokes, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only pleasure building again, different from before but just as intense. He picked up the pace, filling her and pumping.
“God, Eliza,” he groaned. “You feel incredible. So perfect.”
He buried his face in her neck, his movements becoming less controlled, more desperate as he licked her neck. Eliza wrapped her legs around his waist, instinctively seeking more, deeper.
“That’s it,” Morgan encouraged. “Take what you need, darling. I’m yours.”
The pleasure built and built until Eliza was crying out his name, her nails digging into his back as waves of sensation washed over her.
Morgan followed moments later, shuddering as he buried himself deep inside her.
They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat.
“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, pressing soft kisses to her temple. “Did I hurt you?”
“God, no, my love,” Eliza said, surprising herself with the truth of it. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”
“So were you, darling. So were you.”
He held her close as their breathing slowed, as exhaustion began to claim them both.