“Is that a promise?”
“I look forward to it.”
He bent down and kissed her, deep and grateful. As they lost themselves in delicate pecks, Morgan felt that sense of peace settle more firmly into his bones, his marrow.
“This happiness, it feels too good to be true,” Eliza said. “Like it might vanish if I look away for even a moment. You have to remember all that I’ve come from… so much, so fast.”
Morgan pulled back to look at her, cupping her face in his hands. “It’s not going to vanish. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Eliza. For better or worse. In sickness and health. Until death do us part.”
“We already said those vows.”
“I know. But I’ll keep saying them every day for the rest of our lives if that’s what it takes to make you believe them.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I believe you. I do. It’s just…”
“Hard to trust good things when you’ve been hurt so badly before. I know, darling. I know.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. That’s what marriage is, choosing each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
“Is that a quote?” Eliza let out a shaky laugh.
“Something like that. A wise friend.”
“Did Ambrose tell you that?”
“He did. And he is right.”
“He usually is, from what I’m learning,” Eliza laughed. Don’t tell him I said that, though.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I do like that though… choosing each other, even when it’s hard. Goodnight, husband,” she said as she turned over and set her head back down on the pillow.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” he said with a growl as he rolled her onto her back.
“Morgan! You are incorrigible!”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he winked. “Really though, we do not have to if you are too tired…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s a good girl.”
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.”
