Too exposed.
Drew another.
Too far from where I’ll be positioned.
The day passed in a flurry of plans made and discarded when Eliza found Morgan in his study, at two in the morning.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping, my love” she said softly from the doorway.
He looked up from the stack of old newspapers he’d been reading. They were accounts of Lady Margaret Whitfield’s death and Lady Charlotte’s. He was trying to find some pattern, some detail they’d missed.
“So are you,” he pointed out.
“I couldn’t sleep. I could feel your absence.” She moved into the room, her nightgown a soft white glow in the lamplight. “Morgan, you’re exhausting yourself.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being obsessive.” She sat beside him, looking at the newspapers spread across the table. “You’ve read these a dozen times already.”
“I might have missed something…”
“You haven’t.” Her hand covered his, stilling his restless movements. “Everything that can be planned has been planned. Mr. Hartley has his men ready. We know the layout. We have signals and backup plans and?—”
“And none of it might be enough!” Morgan’s voice broke. He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. “What if he’s faster than we anticipate? What if he has a gun? What if the Runners can’t reach you in time?”
“Then you’ll be there. You’re never more than a room away, remember?”
“A room is too far. The hallway is too far. Anything more than arm’s reach is too far. And even that…” He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. “I should never have agreed to this.”
He felt her arms wrap around him from behind and he ease back into her touch.
“Yes, you should have,” she said quietly. “Because it’s the right thing to do. And because you trust me to be strong enough to do it.”
“I do trust you. It’s Whitfield I don’t trust.”
“I know.” She pressed her cheek against his back. “Come to bed. Please. You need rest.”
He let her lead him upstairs, but sleep didn’t come. He lay awake, listening to her breathing, memorizing the feel of her in his arms as though this might be the last time.
“No, no, no. Move him further east. He needs a clear line of sight to the eastern entrance!”
Hartley adjusted the marker on the floor plan they’d drawn of Pemberton House as they spent yet another day planning before the ball.
“Your Grace, if I move him any further east, he won’t be able to see the western door.”
“Then we need another man.”
“We’ve already committed six men. Any more and we risk drawing attention?—”
“I don’t care about drawing attention! I care about my wife’s safety!” Morgan slammed his hand on the table, making the markers jump.
Hartley exchanged a glance with Eliza, who sat quietly in the corner. She’d been unusually subdued during this planning session, letting Morgan and Hartley argue over details she’d already approved.
“Morgan,” she said gently. “Mr. Hartley’s plan is sound.”
“It’s not sound if there’s a blind spot.”
“There won’t be a blind spot. I’ll be visible from three different positions.”
