“Too well, perhaps. He looks ready to explode now.”
“Good. That’s exactly what we need.”
Morgan forced himself to appear calm as they moved through the room, greeting acquaintances, all while keeping Whitfieldin his peripheral vision. Hartley’s men were in position, three disguised as footmen, strategically placed around the ballroom. Three more were in the gardens, watching through the windows.
Everything is ready. Now we just need Whitfield to take the bait.
An hour into the ball, after enough time had passed to make their movements seem natural rather than staged, Eliza leaned close to Morgan.
“I’m going to powder my nose,” she said, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. Then, quieter she whispered, “Are you ready?”
Morgan’s hand tightened on hers. For one wild moment, he wanted to call the whole thing off, to whisk her away from here and damn the consequences. But he saw the determination in her hazel eyes. The courage. The absolute certainty that this was the right thing to do.
“I’ll be watching,” he said. “The moment you need me…”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand once, then released it as she dangled her fan. “I’ll be fine.”
He watched her cross the ballroom, the deep crimson of her gown making her easy to track. She passed the conservatory, too obvious, and instead turned down the corridor toward the ladies’ retiring room.
But she didn’t go in.
Instead, she slipped into the small writing room just past it, a room Morgan had suggested specifically because it had only one entrance, making it easier for the Runners to control access. And because it would feel private enough to make Whitfield comfortable speaking freely. Morgan counted to thirty, then began making his way around the perimeter of the ballroom. One of Hartley’s men, dressed as a footman, stood near the corridor entrance, ostensibly arranging refreshments. Their eyes met and he gave a slight nod.
Whitfield has taken the bait.
Morgan’s heart began to hammer. He forced himself to remain still, to trust the plan, even as every instinct screamed at him to rush down that corridor.
Trust her. Trust the plan.
Eliza stood at the writing desk, her back to the door, when she heard it open behind her. She didn’t turn. Not yet. She had to be smart. Controlled.
“Well, well,” Whitfield’s voice was cold as ice. “How convenient. I was hoping for a chance to speak with you privately, Your Grace.”
Eliza turned slowly, keeping her expression neutral even as her heart raced. “Lord Whitfield. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time?—”
“Oh, I think it’s a perfect time.” He closed the door behind him with a soft click. “I think we’re alone now.”
She noticed that he thankfully did not lock it. That would have been too obvious, even for him. But his threat was clear, that they were alone. Except they weren’t. Eliza knew that just outside, Runners were positioned. That Morgan was watching. That she was safer than Whitfield could have ever believed.
“What do you want, my lord?” she asked.
Whitfield’s pleasant mask was gone now. His eyes were hard, his mouth a thin line. “I want you to fix what you’ve broken.”
“I haven’t broken anything.”
“Don’t play coy with me.” He moved closer, and Eliza had to force herself not to back away at the smell of his acrid breath. “You and your husband have been spreading vicious rumors about me. Hiring investigators. Poisoning society against me. And tonight…those whispers in the ballroom? That wasyourdoing.”
“Was it? Or are people simply drawing their own conclusions about a man who’s buried three wives?”
Whitfield’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with bruising force that made her flinch. “You will repair my reputation. You will tell everyone that these accusations are baseless. That you were mistaken. That you hold no ill will toward me.”
“Or what?” Eliza lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “You’ll kill me like you killed Abigail?”
“Careful, girl. Your father didn’t teach you to watch your tongue, did he?—”
“Like you killed all of them? Charlotte, Margaret, Abigail?” Her voice was steady now, strong. “How did you do it, Whitfield? Did you push Abigail yourself, or did you just ensure she was in a position where a fall would be fatal?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
