“Don’t I? Abigail was my best friend. She told me everything. How you terrorized her. How you threatened her. How you beat her for failing to give you an heir.”
“She was useless!” The words burst from Whitfield before he could stop them. “Just like the others. Weak, pathetic, useless women who couldn’t even perform the one duty required of them!”
“So, you killed them.”
“They killed themselves with their inadequacy!” Whitfield’s grip tightened painfully. “Charlotte died in childbirth, a weak constitution. Margaret was clumsy, always stumbling about. And Abigail, Abigail was the worst of them all. Months of marriage and not even a hint of pregnancy. She was defective. Broken.”
“She was a human being.”
“She was an investment that failed to produce returns!” Whitfield’s voice rose, his control slipping. “Do you know how much I paid for her? How much I invested in that wedding, in establishing her in society? And for what? So, she could weep and cower and fail at the one thing women are meant to do?”
Eliza’s stomach turned, but she pushed harder. “So, you pushed her off that balcony.”
“I freed myself from a worthless burden!” Whitfield snarled. “Just as I freed myself from the others. Charlotte was too weak to survive childbirth. I simply ensured the physician was too slow to save her. And Margaret’s fall down the stairs? She was planning to leave me. To embarrass me. I couldn’t allow that. And Abigail…”
His eyes grew distant.
“Abigail begged,” he said softly. “When I backed her against that railing. She actually begged me not to do it. Promised she’d be better. Promised she’d try harder.” His smile was terrible. “I pushed her anyway.”
The door burst open.
“Lord Edmund Whitfield,” Hartley announced, flanked by two Runners. “You are under arrest for the murders of Lady Charlotte Whitfield, Lady Margaret Whitfield, and Lady Abigail Whitfield.”
For a moment, Whitfield simply stood frozen, his face cycling through shock, rage, and calculation. Then he moved. His hand shot out, grabbing the silver letter opener from the writing desk. Before anyone could react, he’d seized Eliza, spinning her around and pressing the blade against her throat.
“Back!” he roared. “All of you, back, or I swear to God I’ll slit her throat right here!”
Eliza felt the cold metal against her skin, felt Whitfield’s arm like an iron band across her chest. Her heart hammered, but she forced herself to remain still.
“You don’t want to do this,” Hartley said, his voice calm despite the tension radiating from him. “This only makes things worse.”
“Worse? You think anything could be worse than hanging?!” Whitfield laughed, the sound unhinged. “Let me leave. Let me walk out of here, and I’ll release her once I’m clear.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen,” Morgan’s voice came from the doorway.
Eliza’s eyes found him. He stood perfectly still, but she could see the violence coiled in every line of his muscled body, the rage barely contained beneath his calm exterior. His tall frame cast a shadow as all the light drained from his face.
“Stop this. Now.” Morgan said, hit teeth grit tight.
“One more step and she dies,” Whitfield warned, pressing the blade harder against her throat. “Your choice.”
“If you hurt her,” Morgan said, his voice deadly quiet, “there is nowhere on earth you’ll be able to hide from me.”
“Then don’t make me hurt her. Clear a path. Let me?—”
He never finished the sentence.
Morgan moved faster than Eliza had ever seen anyone move before, like a samurai in the stories she had read of old Japan. He crossed the room in three strides and tackled Whitfield with the full force of his body, his hand shooting up to grip Whitfield’s wrist. He forced the blade away from Eliza’s throat. But not quite fast enough.
Eliza felt a sharp, burning line across her neck as the blade nicked her soft white skin. She looked down to see crimson, the color of her gown, prickle her body. Then she was stumbling forward, free, as Morgan slammed Whitfield against the wall with a sickening thud.
“Don’t you ever—” Morgan’s fist connected with Whitfield’s jaw. “Touch—” Another blow. “-my wife!”
“Your Grace!” Hartley pulled Morgan back as his two men descended on Whitfield, wrenching his arms behind his back and securing them with iron shackles.
“No! No!” Whitfield thrashed against their grip, all pretense of civility gone. His face was twisted with rage and fear. “You can’t do this! I’m a lord! I have rights! I’ll have your positions for this! I’ll?—”
“Hang,” Hartley said flatly. “We have six witnesses who heard you confess to three murders. You’re done, Whitfield. Finished.”
