Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Morgan stood by the window of the drawing room, arms crossed and back stiff as the wheels of his mind turned.
Eliza sat at the desk reviewing the notes with focused eyes.
The usually ornate space was transformed into a war room.
Maps of London marked up with locations, lists of former Whitfield employees, timelines of the three wives’ deaths were all spread before them, pieces of a puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.
“The valet is the key,” Hartley said, pacing the length of the room as he puffed on his pipe.
“Thomas Pritchard. He was in Whitfield’s employ for eight years, which means he would have been there for both Lady Margaret’s death and Lady Abigail’s.
If anyone knows what really happened, it’s got to be him. ”
“But he won’t talk,” Eliza said, frustration evident in her voice as she set down the notes. “You’ve approached him three times now without success.”
“He’s terrified, Your Grace. And with good reason. Whitfield is a dangerous man, and Pritchard knows it. The generous severance package was essentially hush money, a very effective bribe to ensure his silence.”
Morgan turned from the window. “What would it take to convince him? More money? Protection?”
“Both, potentially.” Hartley pulled out his notebook.
“I’ve been watching him. He’s struggling financially despite the severance.
The usual gambling debts, it seems. The money is almost gone.
If we could offer him enough to start fresh…
somewhere far from London… plus assurances that he’d be protected… ”
“Done, done and done,” Morgan said immediately. “Whatever amount he needs, plus passage to America or the continent if he wishes. And I’ll personally guarantee his safety. Hire bodyguards if necessary.”
“Morgan,” Eliza said softly, “that’s incredibly generous.”
“It’s necessary. If this man can testify to what Whitfield did, if he can help us bring that monster to justice…” Morgan’s jaw tightened as he stifled a growl. “Whatever it costs, it is worth it.”
Hartley nodded approvingly as he gathered his materials into a dossier.
“I’ll approach him again with these new terms. But Your Graces, I must warn you,” he said as he packed his pipe with fresh tobacco. “If Pritchard does agree to talk, Whitfield will know. The man has eyes and ears everywhere. You’ll need to be extremely careful.”
“We will be,” Eliza said, though a slight tremor prickled her voice.
After Hartley departed, Morgan crossed to where Eliza sat and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her like a warm blanket.
“Are you all right, darling?” he murmured against her hair.
“I keep thinking about Abigail. About how close we are to getting justice for her.” Eliza pressed her face against his chest and took a deep breath. “But I’m also terrified. Whitfield is dangerous, Morgan. If he finds out what we’re doing!”
“He won’t touch you. I won’t let him.”
“You can’t be with me every moment of the day.”
“Watch me.”
“Be reasonable!”
“Then I’ll hire guards. You won’t leave this house without proper protection.”
Eliza pulled back to look at him. “That’s not a life, Morgan. Living in fear, constantly looking over my shoulder…”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“I want to finish this. I want to find the evidence, bring him to trial, and watch him hang for what he did.” Her voice was fierce, determined. It made Morgan smile with pride.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said, cupping her face in his hands.
“I want him to pay,” she whispered.
“We will. Together.”
The gossip reached Eliza’s ears before she’d even removed her cloak at the Hartwell Soirée, three nights after their meeting with Hartwell.
“Absolutely humiliated him! Choosing Kirkhammer over Whitfield!”
“Can you blame her? A handsome duke versus an old lord with three dead wives—”
“—they say ole Whitfield was flaming mad. Apparently, he’d already ordered wedding invitations printed!”
Eliza’s hands tightened on her reticule, turning white. Morgan, helping her with her wrap, leaned close and brushed his lips on her cheek.
“Ignore those vultures,” he murmured. “They’re simply jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of the fact that you escaped Whitfield’s clutches.
Half the ton suspects what he is, but no one has the courage to say it out loud.
” Morgan offered his arm. “You were brave enough to run. That makes you dangerous to people who prefer comfortable lies. It also may have something to do with how smashing you look in that red velvet gown. You are a vision, Duchess.”
They entered the Hartwell drawing room then to the usual mix of curious stares and whispered conversations. But Eliza noticed something different tonight. The way people looked at her had shifted.
There is still curiosity, yes, but also… respect? Admiration, even?
Lady Pemberton approached with a genuine smile. “Your Grace, how lovely to see you. That gown is absolutely divine.”
“Thank you, Lady Pemberton.”
“And I must say, you’re looking wonderfully well. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
As Lady Pemberton drifted away, Imogen appeared at Eliza’s elbow. “Did Lady Pemberton just compliment you without a single barbed comment?”
“I believe she did.”
“Miracles do happen.” Imogen linked her arm through Eliza’s. “Come, let’s get some champagne. Ambrose is already holding court by the refreshment table, and you know how he gets when he has an audience.”
They laughed lightly as they made their way through the crowd. Somehow, Eliza found herself relaxing slightly in Imogen’s company, heightened by the bubbly drink.
Perhaps this won’t be so terrible after all, she thought as she tipped the flute back.
Then she saw him.
Lord Whitfield stood near the far window, immaculately dressed, his silver hair catching the candlelight.
He was speaking with Lord Ashford, his expression pleasant, his posture relaxed.
But when his eyes met Eliza’s across the room, something cold flickered in their depths.
He was more serpentlike than man, a snake in the grass and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
“Don’t look at him,” Imogen advised quietly, as if reading Eliza’s thoughts. “He’s trying to intimidate you.”
“It’s working.”
“Then don’t let him see that.”
Eliza lifted her chin and deliberately turned away, rejoining the conversation Imogen was having with Morgan and Ambrose.
But she could feel Whitfield’s gaze on her.
It followed her throughout the evening, whether she visited the refreshment table or the balcony, a constant weight between her shoulder blades that pressed.
An hour into the soirée, Morgan was pulled away by Lord Pemberton to discuss some Parliamentary matter.
Ambrose had gone to fetch more champagne, and Imogen had been cornered by Lady Ashford.
For the first time that evening, Eliza found herself alone.
She’d taken refuge near a potted palm, trying to look occupied while actually planning her escape route to rejoin a member of her group, when a voice spoke beside her.
“Your Grace. How delightful to find you unattended.”
Eliza’s blood ran as cold as a fjord at the sound. She turned to find Whitfield standing far too close, his smile charming, his eyes calculating.
“Lord Whitfield.” She kept her voice steady, neutral. “Enjoying the evening?”
“Very much. Lady Hartwell always throws the most interesting gatherings.” He moved closer, and Eliza resisted the urge to step back. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to speak with you privately. We have so much shared history, after all.”
“I’m not sure what history you’re referring to as we have shared nothing, my Lord.”
“Come now, don’t be coy. We were engaged, however briefly.” His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his lifeless eyes. “Though I understand you found a better offer. A duke, no less. Very cleverly done.”
“I married his Grace because I love him.”
“Of course you did,” Whitfield said with a playful click of his tongue that gave her a cold sweat. “Tell me, how is married life treating you? I do hope His Grace is… attentive to your needs.”
The implication in his words made her heartbeat fast against her chest.
“My marriage is none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it? I was so looking forward to making you my wife. To teaching you your proper place.” Something dark flickered in his expression. “But I suppose Kirkhammer beat me to it. Lucky man.”
Eliza kept her chin high, refusing to show fear. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“I heard an interesting rumor recently,” Whitfield continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. His voice dropped lower, taking on a harder edge. “Something about a Bow Street Runner asking some funny questions. Very specific questions. About my late wives.”
Eliza’s heart began to race more, if that were possible, but she kept her expression carefully blank. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Whitfield leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.
His pleasant facade was cracking now, showing glimpses of the monster beneath.
“Let me give you some advice, Your Grace. Be very, very careful about the rocks you turn over. Sometimes what slithers out from underneath can be… dangerous.”
“Is that a threat, my lord?”
“It’s a warning. Plain and simple. For your own safety, of course.” He straightened. “Accidents happen so easily. A fall down the stairs. A balcony railing that gives way. A horse that suddenly bolts. One can never be too careful. Isn’t life funny?”
The casual way he listed ways his wives had died, the ways he had killed them, made bile rise in Eliza’s throat.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, and was surprised to find it was true.
Whitfield’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should be.”
“Why? Because I won’t cower like your other victims? Because I escaped your clutches?” Eliza’s voice was quiet but fierce. “You have no power over me anymore, Lord Whitfield. And soon, everyone will know exactly what you are.”
For a moment, just a moment, Eliza watched Whitfield’s charming mask drop completely. His face contorted with rage, his hand shooting out to grip her arm with bruising force.
“You little bitch,” he hissed. “You think you’re safe because you married a duke? You think Kirkhammer can protect you? I’ve killed three wives, and not a single person has been able to prove anything. What makes you think—”
“Lord Whitfield!”
Several heads turned at the sharp exclamation from a nearby group, whose voice it was, Eliza was unsure.
Luckily, they’d noticed Whitfield’s aggressive posture, his grip on Eliza’s arm, the fury in his expression.
Instantly, Whitfield’s pleasant mask snapped back into place.
He released Eliza’s arm and stepped back, his smile returning as though nothing had happened.
“My apologies,” he said loudly, his voice jovial as if it were Christmas Day. “I was simply trying to convince Her Grace to save me a dance, but I fear I was too enthusiastic in my request.”
But the damage was done. People had seen. They’d witnessed the crack in his facade, the glimpse of the monster beneath.
“Is everything all right, Eliza?”
Morgan appeared at her side, his eyes moving from Eliza to Whitfield and back again. His expression was calm, but Eliza could see the tension in his jaw, the protective fury simmering beneath the surface.
“Perfectly fine,” Eliza said, though her arm throbbed where Whitfield had gripped it. “Lord Whitfield was just leaving.”
“Indeed,” Whitfield said smoothly. “I’ve monopolized enough of Her Grace’s time. Your Grace.” He bowed to Morgan, then to Eliza, but his eyes held a dark promise.
As he walked away, Morgan gently took Eliza’s arm, examining where Whitfield had grabbed her. Even through her glove, she could feel the tenderness of his touch.
My husband’s touch…
“He hurt you,” Morgan rasped.
“I’m fine.”
“Eliza…”
“He knows, Morgan. He knows we’re investigating him. And he threatened me. Not subtly, either. He listed the ways his wives died as though, as though he was giving me ideas for my own demise.”
Morgan’s eyes darkened with fury. “That’s it. We’re leaving. Now.”
“But, what will others think if we just run off?”
“Now, Eliza. I won’t have you in the same room as that monster a moment longer.” He guided her toward the exit, his hand protective at the small of her back. “And tomorrow, I’m hiring guards. Full-time protection, no arguments.”
Eliza wanted to protest, to insist she could handle herself. But the echo of Whitfield’s threats, the memory of his hand on her arm, the cold certainty in his eyes when he’d talked about his wives’ deaths, and Abigail…
She nodded. “All right. Whatever you think is best.”
“Let us be off.”
They left the party with a curt wave to Imogen and Ambrose and before Eliza could blink, their carriage pulled away from the Hartwell residence. She looked back, just for a moment, to see Whitfield standing in the window. Just watching them leave. His smile was visible even from a distance.