“Perfect,” Hartley said, making notes. “I can position men in the garden, disguised as guests or servants. If Her Grace can lure Whitfield to the conservatory…”
“How do I lure him?” Eliza asked. “I can’t exactly send him an invitation.”
“You don’t need to,” Morgan said grimly. “He’ll come to you. He always does. We just need to make sure you’re alone long enough for him to approach, but not so alone that you’re actually in danger.”
They spent the next hour planning. Hartley would plant three of his best men as additional footmen at Pemberton House—Morgan would arrange it through Lord Pemberton himself, claiming he wanted extra security after recent threats. Three more would pose as guests in the garden, watching through the conservatory’s glass walls.
Eliza would wear a specific-colored gown, another deep crimson number, so the Runners could easily identify her. She’d position herself near the conservatory entrance, make herself visible but not obviously available. When Whitfield approached, she’d leadhim into the conservatory under the pretense of needing fresh air or privacy. And then she’d push. Hard.
“He threatened you at the Hartwell event,” Hartley said. “What did he say that made him lose control?”
“I told him I wasn’t afraid of him. That he had no power over me. That soon everyone would know what he was.” Eliza’s voice was steady now, focused. “He hates being challenged. Especially by women. All his wives were young, timid, easily controlled. I’m none of those things.”
“Use that,” Hartley advised. “Challenge his masculinity, his control. Suggest that his wives died because he’s weak, not strong. That real men don’t need to murder women to feel powerful.”
Morgan felt sick listening to them strategize. But he forced himself to focus, to think tactically rather than emotionally.
“What if he becomes violent?” he asked, rubbing a hand across his brow.
“I’ll intervene immediately,” Hartley promised. “And Your Grace, you’ll be in the ballroom with visual line to the conservatory. You can reach her in seconds.”
“I want a signal,” Morgan said. “Something Eliza can do or say that means abort, get me out of here right now.”
“A fan,” Eliza suggested. “If I drop my fan, that means I need help immediately.”
They agreed on the signal and several backup plans. By the time Hartley left, Morgan’s head was pounding with anxiety, but it would be done.
“One week,” he said to Eliza once they were alone. “We have a week to prepare. We can do this, Morgan. For justice.”
“Can we?” He pulled her close, resting his chin on top of her head. “Because I’m terrified, Eliza. Absolutely terrified.”
“So am I. But we must…”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Your Grace, the correspondence from Lord Ashford regarding the?—”
“Not now, Jenkins. Just set it on the tray.”
Morgan didn’t look up from the map of Pemberton House spread across his desk. He’d sketched out the conservatory, the ballroom, the gardens, marking sight lines and escape routes with increasingly frantic notations.
Jenkins cleared his throat delicately. “Sir, Lord Ashford is waiting for a response regarding the Parliamentary session next week.”
“I said not now!” Morgan’s voice was sharp enough that Jenkins actually took a step back.
A beat of silence.
Morgan closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, Jenkins. That was uncalled for. Please… tell Lord Ashford I’ll respond by end of day tomorrow.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Jenkins hesitated. “Sir, if I may… perhaps some rest would?—”
“Thank you, Jenkins. That will be all.”
After the butler retreated, Morgan returned to his map. His hands trembled slightly as he traced the path Eliza would take from the ballroom to the conservatory. He followed it again with a magnifying glass.
Forty-three steps.Forty-three steps where she’ll be vulnerable.
He drew an alternate escape route, then crossed it out.
