The casual way he listed ways his wives had died, the wayshehad killed them, made bile rise in Eliza’s throat.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, and was surprised to find it was true.
Whitfield’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should be.”
“Why? Because I won’t cower like your other victims? Because I escaped your clutches?” Eliza’s voice was quiet but fierce. “You have no power over me anymore, Lord Whitfield. And soon, everyone will know exactly what you are.”
For a moment, just a moment, Eliza watched Whitfield’s charming mask drop completely. His face contorted with rage, his hand shooting out to grip her arm with bruising force.
“You little bitch,” he hissed. “You think you’re safe because you married a duke? You think Kirkhammer can protect you? I’ve killed three wives, and not a single person has been able to prove anything. What makes you think?—”
“Lord Whitfield!”
Several heads turned at the sharp exclamation from a nearby group, whose voice it was, Eliza was unsure. Luckily, they’d noticed Whitfield’s aggressive posture, his grip on Eliza’s arm, the fury in his expression. Instantly, Whitfield’s pleasant mask snapped back into place. He released Eliza’s arm and stepped back, his smile returning as though nothing had happened.
“My apologies,” he said loudly, his voice jovial as if it were Christmas Day. “I was simply trying to convince Her Grace to save me a dance, but I fear I was too enthusiastic in my request.”
But the damage was done. People had seen. They’d witnessed the crack in his facade, the glimpse of the monster beneath.
“Is everything all right, Eliza?”
Morgan appeared at her side, his eyes moving from Eliza to Whitfield and back again. His expression was calm, but Eliza could see the tension in his jaw, the protective fury simmering beneath the surface.
“Perfectly fine,” Eliza said, though her arm throbbed where Whitfield had gripped it. “Lord Whitfield was just leaving.”
“Indeed,” Whitfield said smoothly. “I’ve monopolized enough of Her Grace’s time. Your Grace.” He bowed to Morgan, then to Eliza, but his eyes held a dark promise.
As he walked away, Morgan gently took Eliza’s arm, examining where Whitfield had grabbed her. Even through her glove, she could feel the tenderness of his touch.
My husband’s touch…
“He hurt you,” Morgan rasped.
“I’m fine.”
“Eliza…”
“Heknows, Morgan. He knows we’re investigating him. And he threatened me. Not subtly, either. He listed the ways his wives died as though, as though he was giving me ideas for my own demise.”
Morgan’s eyes darkened with fury. “That’s it. We’re leaving. Now.”
“But, what will others think if we just run off?”
“Now, Eliza. I won’t have you in the same room as that monster a moment longer.” He guided her toward the exit, his hand protective at the small of her back. “And tomorrow, I’m hiring guards. Full-time protection, no arguments.”
Eliza wanted to protest, to insist she could handle herself. But the echo of Whitfield’s threats, the memory of his hand on her arm, the cold certainty in his eyes when he’d talked about his wives’ deaths, and Abigail…
She nodded. “All right. Whatever you think is best.”
“Let us be off.”
They left the party with a curt wave to Imogen and Ambrose and before Eliza could blink, their carriage pulled away from the Hartwell residence. She looked back, just for a moment, to see Whitfield standing in the window. Just watching them leave. His smile was visible even from a distance.
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.”
