Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The London townhouse felt different now as they returned, three weeks after their nuptials.
Eliza stood in the entrance hall, the same one where she’d once served tea as a maid, where Arabella had exposed her identity, where her entire world had been turned upside down.
But now she entered through the front door, Morgan’s hand warm in hers, the staff bowing and curtsying as she passed.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dawson said warmly, her earlier awkwardness entirely gone. “Again,” she laughed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson. For preparing everything, for coming ahead.”
“Everything has been arranged for your arrival and to your specifications.”
“Thank you,” Eliza repeated, still not quite used to the deference in the housekeeper’s voice. “You are a wonder.”
“The Duke and Duchess of Welton sent word that they’ll be calling tomorrow afternoon,” Mrs. Dawson continued. “And Miss Winslow asked if you might have time to receive her as well.”
Eliza’s face lit up. “Of course! Please send word that I’d be delighted to see her!”
Morgan squeezed her hand, smiling at her obvious excitement.
“Shall I have your things taken to your chambers, Your Grace?” Mrs. Dawson asked.
“Our chambers,” Morgan corrected gently. “The Duchess will be sharing my rooms.”
If Mrs. Dawson was surprised by this deviation from aristocratic norms, she hid it well. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.”
As the housekeeper departed, Morgan turned to Eliza. “Are you all right? Being back here?”
“I think so.” Eliza looked around, memories washing over her. “It’s strange. This place holds so much fear for me. But with you here, it feels… different. Safer. A new London if you will.”
“Good. Because this is your home now, Eliza. No one can make you feel like a servant in your own house.”
She smiled up at him. “No. I suppose they can’t.”
The next afternoon, the drawing room erupted into chaos the moment Arthur and Philip spotted Eliza.
“Aunt Eliza!” they shouted in unison, abandoning all pretense of good behavior to race across the room.
“Boys!” Miss Winslow called after them, but she was laughing. “At least let Her Grace sit down first! Good heavens, boys!”
Eliza knelt just in time to catch both boys as they threw themselves at her. “Hello, my darlings! I’ve missed you so much!”
“We missed you too!” Philip declared. “Uncle Ambrose said we had to wait a whole month before we could visit because you and Uncle Morgan were on your honeymoon.”
“And Miss Winslow told us ALL about honeymoons,” Arthur added importantly. “They’re for married people to spend time together without interruptions.”
“That’s exactly right,” Morgan said, entering the room with Ambrose and Imogen. “Though I’d argue that visits from one’s favorite nephews hardly count as interruptions.”
The boys beamed at him.
Imogen moved to embrace Eliza warmly. “You look radiant. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
“It does,” Eliza said, and meant it. “More than I ever expected.”
“I’m glad.” Imogen’s eyes held knowing warmth. “I told you Morgan would surprise you.”
Ambrose shook Morgan’s hand, then turned to Eliza with a bow. “Your Grace. Congratulations again. Though I have to say, I’m relieved. Imogen was about ready to stage an intervention if Morgan didn’t stop moping about you.”
“I was not moping,” Morgan protested. “You always exaggerate.”
“You absolutely were moping about like a sad bear,” Ambrose countered. “It was pathetic, really.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Yes, and we’re all very happy you finally did something about your feelings instead of brooding dramatically in corners.”
Eliza bit back a laugh. The easy friendship between the two men was obvious, and it warmed her heart to see Morgan so relaxed, so himself.
“Miss Winslow,” Eliza said, turning to the governess who stood slightly apart from the group. “It’s so very good to see you.”
Helen Winslow’s smile was genuine. “And you, Your Grace. Though I confess, I’m still adjusting to calling you that instead of Miss Graham.”
“Please, when we’re alone like this, call me Eliza. I’d like us to be friends, if you’re amenable.”
Helen’s expression softened. “Most amendable, Eliza. I’d like that very much.”
Tea was served, and for the first time since returning to London, Eliza felt herself truly relax.
The boys chattered excitedly about their latest adventures, Ambrose and Morgan discussed Parliamentary business, and Imogen regaled them with a story about a disastrous dinner party they’d attended in their absence.
“And then,” Imogen said, barely containing her laughter, “Lady Johnson’s cat jumped onto the table and knocked the entire roast into Lord Clayton’s lap.”
“No!” Eliza gasped.
“Yes! The shrieking alone was worth the price of admission.”
As the laughter subsided, Arthur tugged on Eliza’s sleeve. “Aunt Eliza, can we come visit you at the country house again? We liked the beach. Warmer weather is on the horizon!”
“Of course you can,” Eliza said, ruffling his hair. “Anytime you like.”
“What about next month?” Philip suggested hopefully.
“Boys,” Helen interjected gently. “We mustn’t impose. I’m sure their graces have many obligations and have just returned to London!”
“They’re never an imposition,” Morgan said firmly. “In fact, I insist. Next month. We’ll make a proper holiday of it.”
The boys cheered, and Eliza caught Morgan’s eye across the room. He smiled at her, that private, knowing smile that was just for her, and she felt her heart swell.
This. This is what family feels like.
Not her parents’ cold manipulation, but this, warmth and laughter and genuine affection.
She’d found it. Against all odds, she’d found it.
Helen stayed after the others left, and she and Eliza retreated to Eliza’s sitting room. It was a smaller, more intimate space that Morgan had insisted be furnished entirely to her taste in delicate pinks and soft white fabrics.
“Your home is most beautiful,” Helen said, settling into one of the plush chairs. “Though I admit, it’s strange seeing you as mistress of it rather than…”
“Rather than a maid?” Eliza finished. “I know. It’s strange for me too sometimes.”
They were quiet for a moment, sipping tea.
“I want to apologize again,” Eliza said finally. “For lying to you. For letting you believe I was someone I wasn’t. You gave me friendship, and I gave you lies. It was wrong and it was—”
“Eliza, you don’t need to—”
“I do. You were nothing but kind to me, and I deceived you. I know you said you understood, but I need you to know how sorry I am.”
Helen set down her teacup, her expression serious. “Can I tell you something? In confidence?”
“Of course.”
“My situation isn’t so different from yours.
Not exactly, but… I understand what it’s like to need to escape.
” Helen’s hands twisted in her lap. “My father lost everything, the same old story. Gambling, bad investments. When I was eighteen, he tried to marry me off to a man three times my age to settle his debts. So, I ran.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Oh my! Oh Helen…”
“I changed my name, sought employment as a governess, and I’ve been running ever since. So, you see, I have no room to judge you for doing what you had to do to survive. If anything, I admire your courage.”
“Does anyone know?”
“The Duke of Welton. He figured it out, he’s annoyingly perceptive. But he’s kept my secret, just as his Grace kept yours.” Helen smiled slightly. “We’re both fortunate in our employers, it seems.”
Eliza reached across and squeezed Helen’s hand. “Then we understand each other.”
“We do. And I hope we can be true friends now. No more secrets between us.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Three days later, the man who entered Morgan’s study was unremarkable in every way. He was of medium height, medium build, dressed in plain but respectable clothing. Nothing about him suggested he was one of London’s most respected Bow Street Runners, which was his advantage.
“Mr. Hartley,” Morgan said, standing to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” James Hartley bowed to both Morgan and Eliza. “I’m pleased to report some progress on the matter you engaged me for.”
Eliza’s hands tightened in her lap. Morgan moved to stand beside her chair, his hand resting supportively on her shoulder.
“Please, sit,” Morgan said. “Tell us what you’ve found.”
Bartlett settled into the chair across from them, pulling out a small notebook.
“I’ve been investigating Lord Whitfield’s history, particularly regarding the deaths of his three wives.
As you noted, the first two deaths occurred years ago, 1819 and 1822, which makes gathering evidence more challenging.
Many witnesses have moved away or passed on themselves. ”
“But you found something?” Eliza asked, unable to keep the hope from her voice. “Please… tell me you found something…”
“Possibly.” Bartlett flipped through his notes.
“Lady Charlotte Whitfield, the first wife, died in childbirth. The physician who attended her is deceased, but I was able to locate the midwife. She’s elderly now, but her memory is clear as crystal.
She told me something interesting. Lady Charlotte was doing well throughout the labor, no complications.
But then Lord Whitfield insisted on being present in the room, which was highly unusual.
The midwife was sent out to fetch something, and when she returned… Lady Charlotte was dying.”
Eliza’s breath caught. “He killed her during childbirth?”
“The midwife couldn’t prove anything, but she found it suspicious. She also mentioned that Lady Charlotte seemed terrified of her husband. Would flinch whenever he entered a room.”
“Like Abigail,” Eliza whispered.
Bartlett nodded grimly. “Lady Margaret Whitfield, the second wife, died from a fall down the stairs. Two servants witnessed the aftermath, but not the fall itself. One of them, a housemaid, told me that Lady Margaret had confided in her that she was planning to leave Lord Whitfield. She’d written to her family asking for help. That was three days before she died.”
“And no one found that suspicious?” Morgan’s voice was hard.
“Suspicion and proof are different things, Your Grace. And Lord Whitfield is a powerful man. No one wanted to make accusations they couldn’t substantiate.”
“What about Abigail?” Eliza asked. “Lady Whitfield…the third wife?”
“Ah. That’s where things get interesting.” Bartlett leaned forward. “I’ve been investigating Lord Whitfield’s former valet, a man named Thomas Pritchard. He left Whitfield’s employment very suddenly after Lady Abigail’s death, with what I’m told was a very generous severance package.”
“You think Whitfield paid him off?” Morgan asked.
“I think Pritchard might have seen something. Or knows something. I’ve tracked him to a boarding house in Cheapside, but he’s been… most reluctant to speak with me.” Bartlett’s expression was apologetic. “Fear, most likely. If he testifies against Whitfield, his life could be in danger.”
“Can you convince him?” Eliza asked desperately. “Please, Mr. Hartley. Abigail deserves justice. All of them do!”
“I’m working on it, Your Grace. But these things take time. I need to earn his trust, convince him that he’ll be protected if he comes forward.” Bartlett closed his notebook. “I’ll continue investigating. If there’s evidence to be found, I will find it. You have my word.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said.
“Your welcome, Your Graces.”
“And Mr. Hartley? Money is no object. Whatever you need, bribes, protection for witnesses, anything, you have my full financial backing.”
“I appreciate that, Your Grace. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have more information.”
After Bartlett left, Eliza sat in silence, processing everything they’d learned.
“Three women,” she said finally. “He killed three women, and he’s walked free all this time. It is madness!”
“Not for much longer,” Morgan said grimly. “If Pritchard knows something, we’ll get it out of him. One way or another.”
“And if he doesn’t? If we can’t find proof?”
Morgan knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “Then we’ll find another way. I promised you we’d bring him to justice, Eliza. I won’t break that promise. I would walk to the ends of the earth for you.”
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.