Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The knock at the door came at precisely three o’clock, as arranged.
Morgan stood as Jenkins showed James Hartley into the study and immediately knew from the Runner’s expression that the news wasn’t good.
Eliza must have sensed it too. She set down her teacup with trembling hands, her face going pale.
“Mr. Hartley,” Morgan said. “Please, sit down.”
Hartley removed his hat, turning it over in his hands. His usually composed demeanor was shaken and he didn’t even have his pipe in his mouth.
“I’m afraid I have unfortunate news, Your Graces. Thomas Pritchard is…”
“Is what?” Morgan barked.
“Dead.”
The word hung in the air like a ghost, swirling around them like thick smoke.
“Dead?” Eliza whispered. “How?”
“Officially? He fell from his boarding house window. Landed in the alley behind the building. Broke his neck.” Hartley’s jaw tightened. “The magistrate ruled it an accident, said he was drunk, and leaned out too far.”
“But you don’t believe that,” Morgan said.
“No, Your Grace, I don’t. Not for a minute.
” Hartley pulled out his notebook, though he didn’t open it.
He just took out his pipe and tapped it against it.
“I’d spoken with Pritchard just two days prior.
He was nervous, yes, but he was considering our offer.
Said he needed time to think. He wasn’t drinking that night either.
Landlady confirmed it. And the window in question?
It’s barely large enough for a man of Pritchard’s size to fit through, let alone fall out of accidentally. ”
“Whitfield killed him,” Eliza said quietly. “He found out we were getting close, and he killed the only witness who could testify against him.”
“I believe so, Your Grace. Though proving it is another matter entirely.” Hartley finally met their eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how much was riding on this lead. I did my best.”
Eliza stood abruptly, moving to the window and pulling a shawl tight around her shoulders. Morgan could see her shoulders shaking, though she made no sound.
“What about other leads?” Morgan asked, though he already suspected the answer. “Surely there must be someone else you can find—”
“I’ve interviewed every former servant I could track down, Your Grace.
Most have nothing useful to say, and those who might know something are too terrified to talk.
After what happened to Pritchard…” Hartley shook his head as he finally lit up his pipe.
“Word travels fast in the servants’ quarters.
Everyone knows what happens to people who cross Lord Whitfield. ”
“So that’s it then?” Eliza turned from the window, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears that shone in midday light. “We just… give up? Let him get away with murdering three innocent women? Let Abigail’s death mean nothing?”
“Your Grace—”
“No!” Eliza’s voice cracked. “He killed my best friend. He tried to force me into marriage, and when I escaped, he threatened me at a social event. And now he’s killed a man who was going to testify against him, and we’re just supposed to accept that there’s nothing we can do? What will he do next?!”
“Eliza,” Morgan said gently, moving toward her.
She held up a hand, stopping him. Tears were streaming down her face now.
“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t Mr. Hartley’s fault. I just…” She pressed her hands to her face, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. “I promised Abigail I would make this right. I promised her.”
Morgan pulled her into his arms, holding her as she wept. Over her head, he met Hartley’s sympathetic gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza said again, her voice muffled against Morgan’s chest. “Mr. Hartley, please forgive me for losing my composure.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. This is a devastating blow.”
Eliza pulled back from Morgan, wiping at her eyes. She was quiet for a long moment, and Morgan could practically see her mind working. Then her head snapped up.
“Wait,” she said. “At the Hartwell soirée. When Whitfield confronted me.”
“What about it?” Morgan asked.
“He lost control. Just for a moment, but he did. When I stood up to him, when I refused to be intimidated…his mask slipped. People saw it.” Eliza’s eyes were bright now with something other than tears. “His need for control, his rage when he’s challenged… that’s his weakness.”
Morgan felt ice form in his stomach. “Eliza, what on Earth are you suggesting?”
“We make him lose control again.”
“You cannot mean—”
“But this time, we’re prepared for it. We document it. Get him to confess.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Morgan, listen to me—”
“No. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no.”
Eliza turned to Hartley. “Mr. Hartley, is such a plan feasible? Could you position Runners to overhear a conversation? Record a confession?”
Hartley looked uncomfortable, glancing between them as he puffed on his pipe. “Your Grace, what exactly are you proposing?”
“I act as bait. I provoke Whitfield into another confrontation, but this time, we have witnesses. Runners positioned nearby who can hear everything. If I can get him angry enough, if I can push the right buttons, he might confess. Or at least say something incriminating enough to warrant further investigation.”
“Absolutely not,” Morgan repeated, his voice hard. “I won’t allow it.”
“It’s not your decision to allow,” Eliza said quietly. “This is my choice.”
“Your choice? To put yourself in danger? To deliberately antagonize a man who’s already threatened you, who’s killed three women and God knows how many others who got in his way?” Morgan’s voice rose like thunder. “No. Find another way.”
“There is no other way!” Eliza’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t you see? Every lead we had is dead or too terrified to talk.
We have nothing. No evidence, no witnesses, no proof.
But we do have one thing and that’s Whitfield’s pride.
” She stepped closer to Morgan, her voice softening.
“You promised me, Morgan. You promised you’d help me bring him to justice. Was that a lie?”
“Of course it wasn’t a lie, but—”
“Then help me do this. Help me end this. Because if we don’t, he’ll just keep killing. Other women will die. Other families will lose daughters, sisters, and friends. And we could have stopped him.”
Morgan stared at her, torn between his desperate need to keep her safe and his understanding that she was right.
He admired her conviction, her spirit. He knew that Whitfield wouldn’t stop.
He’d gotten away with murder three times already.
Without evidence, he’d continue his pattern until someone finally stopped him.
“Mr. Hartley,” Morgan said finally, not taking his eyes off Eliza. “Is this possible? Could such a plan work?”
Hartley was quiet for a long moment. “It’s risky, Your Grace. Extremely risky. But… yes. If we position men strategically, if we choose the location carefully, if Her Grace can provoke him into saying something incriminating…” He paused. “It might be our only chance.”
“And her safety?” Morgan’s voice was cool as steel. “Can you guarantee it?”
“No plan is without risk. But I can promise that Her Grace would never be alone with him. We’d always have Runners within earshot, ready to intervene at the first sign of any physical threat.”
Morgan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the decision crushing down on him.
Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to lock Eliza away somewhere safe where Whitfield could never reach her.
But he’d promised her. Not just empty words, but a real promise.
To help her seek justice for Abigail. To support her, not control her.
Choosing each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Ambrose’s words echoed in his mind.
“If we do this,” Morgan said slowly, opening his eyes, “we do it my way. With precautions. With backup plans. And if at any point I think you’re in real danger, Eliza, we abort. Immediately. No arguments.”
Eliza’s expression flooded with relief. “Agreed.”
“Mr. Hartley, you’ll need at least six men positioned around wherever this happens. Men you trust absolutely. Money is no object, they will be well compensated as long as Her Grace is safe.”
“I have them, Your Grace.”
“And we choose the location. Somewhere we can control, where we know the layout, where Eliza can retreat if necessary.”
“The Pemberton ball,” Eliza said suddenly, bringing her hands to her cheeks. “Next week. It’s at their townhouse. You know it well, Morgan. You’ve attended events there for years.”
Morgan’s mind raced through the layout of Pemberton House. The ballroom. The gardens. The various alcoves and retiring rooms.
It could work…
“The conservatory,” he said. “It’s partially separated from the main ballroom but still accessible. Glass walls on three sides, so Runners could observe from the garden. And there’s a door that leads directly outside, in case we need a quick exit.”
“Perfect,” Hartley said, making notes. “I can position men in the garden, disguised as guests or servants. If Her Grace can lure Whitfield to the conservatory…”
“How do I lure him?” Eliza asked. “I can’t exactly send him an invitation.”
“You don’t need to,” Morgan said grimly. “He’ll come to you. He always does. We just need to make sure you’re alone long enough for him to approach, but not so alone that you’re actually in danger.”
They spent the next hour planning. Hartley would plant three of his best men as additional footmen at Pemberton House—Morgan would arrange it through Lord Pemberton himself, claiming he wanted extra security after recent threats.
Three more would pose as guests in the garden, watching through the conservatory’s glass walls.
Eliza would wear a specific-colored gown, another deep crimson number, so the Runners could easily identify her.
She’d position herself near the conservatory entrance, make herself visible but not obviously available.
When Whitfield approached, she’d lead him into the conservatory under the pretense of needing fresh air or privacy. And then she’d push. Hard.
“He threatened you at the Hartwell event,” Hartley said. “What did he say that made him lose control?”
“I told him I wasn’t afraid of him. That he had no power over me. That soon everyone would know what he was.” Eliza’s voice was steady now, focused. “He hates being challenged. Especially by women. All his wives were young, timid, easily controlled. I’m none of those things.”
“Use that,” Hartley advised. “Challenge his masculinity, his control. Suggest that his wives died because he’s weak, not strong. That real men don’t need to murder women to feel powerful.”
Morgan felt sick listening to them strategize. But he forced himself to focus, to think tactically rather than emotionally.
“What if he becomes violent?” he asked, rubbing a hand across his brow.
“I’ll intervene immediately,” Hartley promised. “And Your Grace, you’ll be in the ballroom with visual line to the conservatory. You can reach her in seconds.”
“I want a signal,” Morgan said. “Something Eliza can do or say that means abort, get me out of here right now.”
“A fan,” Eliza suggested. “If I drop my fan, that means I need help immediately.”
They agreed on the signal and several backup plans. By the time Hartley left, Morgan’s head was pounding with anxiety, but it would be done.
“One week,” he said to Eliza once they were alone. “We have a week to prepare. We can do this, Morgan. For justice.”
“Can we?” He pulled her close, resting his chin on top of her head. “Because I’m terrified, Eliza. Absolutely terrified.”
“So am I. But we must…”