“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 freshtobacco. “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.”
