“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 makingyoumy 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?”
