Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Pemberton ballroom glittered with a thousand candles, their light reflecting off mirrors and crystal until the whole room seemed to shimmer.
But Morgan barely noticed any of it. His attention was fixed on the careful choreography they’d planned, the subtle movements that would set their trap in motion.
As he and Eliza were announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Kirkhammer, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Kirkhammer”, Morgan nodded almost imperceptibly to Lord Pemberton, who stood near the entrance.
Pemberton understood his charge and within moments, he’d moved to a cluster of gossiping matrons, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard.
“…such shocking allegations about Lord Whitfield… quite shocking!”
“…three beautiful, young wives, all dead under suspicious circumstances…”
“…heard the Duke of Kirkhammer himself has engaged investigators…”
“…at least someone is taking this seriously, even if the authorities are not!”
The whispers spread like wildfire through the ballroom. Morgan watched as heads turned, eyes seeking out Whitfield, who stood near the refreshment table. Morgan gave another subtle nod to Pemberton.
It is done.
The effect was immediate. Conversations stuttered to a halt as Whitfield passed.
People who’d been perfectly cordial moments before now avoided his gaze, turned away, formed new groups that deliberately excluded him.
Morgan saw the exact moment Whitfield realized what was happening.
His jaw tightened, his hand clenching around his champagne glass hard enough that Morgan expected it to shatter.
“It’s working,” Eliza murmured beside him, her hand tight on his arm.
“Too well, perhaps. He looks ready to explode now.”
“Good. That’s exactly what we need.”
Morgan forced himself to appear calm as they moved through the room, greeting acquaintances, all while keeping Whitfield in his peripheral vision.
Hartley’s men were in position, three disguised as footmen, strategically placed around the ballroom.
Three more were in the gardens, watching through the windows.
Everything is ready. Now we just need Whitfield to take the bait.
An hour into the ball, after enough time had passed to make their movements seem natural rather than staged, Eliza leaned close to Morgan.
“I’m going to powder my nose,” she said, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. Then, quieter she whispered, “Are you ready?”
Morgan’s hand tightened on hers. For one wild moment, he wanted to call the whole thing off, to whisk her away from here and damn the consequences. But he saw the determination in her hazel eyes. The courage. The absolute certainty that this was the right thing to do.
“I’ll be watching,” he said. “The moment you need me…”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand once, then released it as she dangled her fan. “I’ll be fine.”
He watched her cross the ballroom, the deep crimson of her gown making her easy to track. She passed the conservatory, too obvious, and instead turned down the corridor toward the ladies’ retiring room.
But she didn’t go in.
Instead, she slipped into the small writing room just past it, a room Morgan had suggested specifically because it had only one entrance, making it easier for the Runners to control access.
And because it would feel private enough to make Whitfield comfortable speaking freely.
Morgan counted to thirty, then began making his way around the perimeter of the ballroom.
One of Hartley’s men, dressed as a footman, stood near the corridor entrance, ostensibly arranging refreshments.
Their eyes met and he gave a slight nod.
Whitfield has taken the bait.
Morgan’s heart began to hammer. He forced himself to remain still, to trust the plan, even as every instinct screamed at him to rush down that corridor.
Trust her. Trust the plan.
Eliza stood at the writing desk, her back to the door, when she heard it open behind her. She didn’t turn. Not yet. She had to be smart. Controlled.
“Well, well,” Whitfield’s voice was cold as ice. “How convenient. I was hoping for a chance to speak with you privately, Your Grace.”
Eliza turned slowly, keeping her expression neutral even as her heart raced. “Lord Whitfield. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time—”
“Oh, I think it’s a perfect time.” He closed the door behind him with a soft click. “I think we’re alone now.”
She noticed that he thankfully did not lock it.
That would have been too obvious, even for him.
But his threat was clear, that they were alone.
Except they weren’t. Eliza knew that just outside, Runners were positioned.
That Morgan was watching. That she was safer than Whitfield could have ever believed.
“What do you want, my lord?” she asked.
Whitfield’s pleasant mask was gone now. His eyes were hard, his mouth a thin line. “I want you to fix what you’ve broken.”
“I haven’t broken anything.”
“Don’t play coy with me.” He moved closer, and Eliza had to force herself not to back away at the smell of his acrid breath.
“You and your husband have been spreading vicious rumors about me. Hiring investigators. Poisoning society against me. And tonight…those whispers in the ballroom? That was your doing.”
“Was it? Or are people simply drawing their own conclusions about a man who’s buried three wives?”
Whitfield’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with bruising force that made her flinch. “You will repair my reputation. You will tell everyone that these accusations are baseless. That you were mistaken. That you hold no ill will toward me.”
“Or what?” Eliza lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “You’ll kill me like you killed Abigail?”
“Careful, girl. Your father didn’t teach you to watch your tongue, did he—”
“Like you killed all of them? Charlotte, Margaret, Abigail?” Her voice was steady now, strong. “How did you do it, Whitfield? Did you push Abigail yourself, or did you just ensure she was in a position where a fall would be fatal?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Abigail was my best friend. She told me everything. How you terrorized her. How you threatened her. How you beat her for failing to give you an heir.”
“She was useless!” The words burst from Whitfield before he could stop them. “Just like the others. Weak, pathetic, useless women who couldn’t even perform the one duty required of them!”
“So, you killed them.”
“They killed themselves with their inadequacy!” Whitfield’s grip tightened painfully.
“Charlotte died in childbirth, a weak constitution. Margaret was clumsy, always stumbling about. And Abigail, Abigail was the worst of them all. Months of marriage and not even a hint of pregnancy. She was defective. Broken.”
“She was a human being.”
“She was an investment that failed to produce returns!” Whitfield’s voice rose, his control slipping.
“Do you know how much I paid for her? How much I invested in that wedding, in establishing her in society? And for what? So, she could weep and cower and fail at the one thing women are meant to do?”
Eliza’s stomach turned, but she pushed harder. “So, you pushed her off that balcony.”
“I freed myself from a worthless burden!” Whitfield snarled.
“Just as I freed myself from the others. Charlotte was too weak to survive childbirth. I simply ensured the physician was too slow to save her. And Margaret’s fall down the stairs?
She was planning to leave me. To embarrass me. I couldn’t allow that. And Abigail…”
His eyes grew distant.
“Abigail begged,” he said softly. “When I backed her against that railing. She actually begged me not to do it. Promised she’d be better. Promised she’d try harder.” His smile was terrible. “I pushed her anyway.”
The door burst open.
“Lord Edmund Whitfield,” Hartley announced, flanked by two Runners. “You are under arrest for the murders of Lady Charlotte Whitfield, Lady Margaret Whitfield, and Lady Abigail Whitfield.”
For a moment, Whitfield simply stood frozen, his face cycling through shock, rage, and calculation. Then he moved. His hand shot out, grabbing the silver letter opener from the writing desk. Before anyone could react, he’d seized Eliza, spinning her around and pressing the blade against her throat.
“Back!” he roared. “All of you, back, or I swear to God I’ll slit her throat right here!”
Eliza felt the cold metal against her skin, felt Whitfield’s arm like an iron band across her chest. Her heart hammered, but she forced herself to remain still.
“You don’t want to do this,” Hartley said, his voice calm despite the tension radiating from him. “This only makes things worse.”
“Worse? You think anything could be worse than hanging?!” Whitfield laughed, the sound unhinged. “Let me leave. Let me walk out of here, and I’ll release her once I’m clear.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen,” Morgan’s voice came from the doorway.
Eliza’s eyes found him. He stood perfectly still, but she could see the violence coiled in every line of his muscled body, the rage barely contained beneath his calm exterior. His tall frame cast a shadow as all the light drained from his face.
“Stop this. Now.” Morgan said, hit teeth grit tight.
“One more step and she dies,” Whitfield warned, pressing the blade harder against her throat. “Your choice.”
“If you hurt her,” Morgan said, his voice deadly quiet, “there is nowhere on earth you’ll be able to hide from me.”
“Then don’t make me hurt her. Clear a path. Let me—”
He never finished the sentence.
Morgan moved faster than Eliza had ever seen anyone move before, like a samurai in the stories she had read of old Japan.
He crossed the room in three strides and tackled Whitfield with the full force of his body, his hand shooting up to grip Whitfield’s wrist. He forced the blade away from Eliza’s throat. But not quite fast enough.
Eliza felt a sharp, burning line across her neck as the blade nicked her soft white skin. She looked down to see crimson, the color of her gown, prickle her body. Then she was stumbling forward, free, as Morgan slammed Whitfield against the wall with a sickening thud.
“Don’t you ever—” Morgan’s fist connected with Whitfield’s jaw. “Touch—” Another blow. “-my wife!”
“Your Grace!” Hartley pulled Morgan back as his two men descended on Whitfield, wrenching his arms behind his back and securing them with iron shackles.
“No! No!” Whitfield thrashed against their grip, all pretense of civility gone. His face was twisted with rage and fear. “You can’t do this! I’m a lord! I have rights! I’ll have your positions for this! I’ll—”
“Hang,” Hartley said flatly. “We have six witnesses who heard you confess to three murders. You’re done, Whitfield. Finished.”
As the Runners dragged him toward the door, Whitfield’s eyes found Eliza. “This is your fault! You meddling little bitch! You should have married me when you had the chance! You should have—”
“Get him out of here,” Morgan ordered, his voice shaking with barely suppressed violence.
They hauled Whitfield away, his screams echoing down the corridor even as they faded.
“-you’ll all pay for this! I’ll see you ruined! I’ll—”
Then, sweet silence. Morgan turned to Eliza, and his face went white.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice strangled.
Eliza touched her neck, her fingers coming away with a smear of blood. She had almost forgotten, though it had just happened. Everything was so much, so fast.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, her breathing still ragged from the adrenaline.
“Nothing?” Morgan was beside her in an instant, his hands gentle despite the panic in his eyes. “He cut you. That bastard cut you!”
“Morgan, look at me.” Eliza caught his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Look. It’s barely a scratch.”
She tilted her head back, showing him the wound. It was shallow, already clotting.
“It’s not deep,” Hartley confirmed, examining it with a professional eye. “She’ll have a mark for a few days, but it’s not serious. It should not scar.”
“I should have been faster,” he said, his hands trembling as they hovered near her throat without quite touching. “I should have… I could have…”
“You were perfect,” Eliza said firmly. “You saved me. You stopped him. And now he’s going to pay for everything he’s done.”
“You could have died. If he’d pressed any harder, your throat…”
“It’s over, Morgan. He confessed. The Runners heard everything. It’s finally over. We did it.”
Morgan buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her so tightly she could barely breathe. But she didn’t complain. She needing his touch, to process the terror she’d been holding at bay for the past week.
“Abigail has justice. And Whitfield will never hurt anyone again.”
From the corridor, she could still hear the distant sounds of Whitfield’s protests as he was dragged away to face his reckoning. And despite the burning line across her throat, despite the trembling in her limbs, despite everything, Eliza smiled. They’d won.