By the time she finished, the room looked immaculate. Every trace of flour gone. Every surface polished. The hidden door sealed, invisible once more. Eliza gathered her supplies and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. She made the sign of the cross in silent thanks.
She hurried down the corridor, her face still warm, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of silk and feathers and?—
“Miss Graham.”
Eliza nearly dropped her bucket.
The Duke stood at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his riding clothes, his dark hair windblown, his eyes green as emeralds. He looked at her curiously, his eyebrow raised.
“Your Grace!” Eliza curtsied hastily, unable to meet his eyes. “I-I was just?—”
“Is everything all right? You look flushed. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Your Grace. Just… Well, I have just been working hard.” Her voice came out higher than usual. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She hurried past him and down the stairs, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
Over the following days, Morgan found himself paying more attention to Ellie than he should.
He noticed when she passed through the hallway, her steps quick and efficient. He noticed when she spoke to Mrs. Dawson, her voice respectful but not servile. He noticed the way she smiled at the boys when she thought no one was watching.
“Mrs. Dawson,” he said one afternoon, catching the housekeeper in the corridor when returning from checking on tenant farmers. “How is Miss Graham settling in?”
Mrs. Dawson looked surprised by the question. “Very well, Your Grace. She’s a quick learner. Diligent. The boys have taken quite a liking to her as well.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
Mrs. Dawson studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Is there anything specific you need, Your Grace? Any areas of concern I should note?”
“No. Just curious.” Morgan paused. “She seems… competent.”
“She is, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Carry on, then.”
He walked away before Mrs. Dawson could ask any more questions, aware that he was behaving oddly and unable to stop himself.
Later that week, his solicitor, Mr. Blackwood, arrived for their regular meeting whenever he was at Kirkhammer Hall. They sat in Morgan’s study, reviewing accounts and discussing various tenant issues he had noted in his visits. Morgan listened with half his attention, signing documents and nodding at appropriate intervals.
“There’s also the matter of the Haverford property,” Mr. Blackwood was saying. “The tenant has requested an extension on his lease?—”
“Granted,” Morgan said.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Mr. Blackwood made a note. “Oh, and I heard some news from London. Might interest you.”
“Oh?”
“Lord and Lady Ramersby’s daughter has disappeared. Apparently just before she was to be married to Lord Whitfield.”
Morgan glanced up. “Whitfield? Wasn’t his wife just…”
“Indeed. Died in a fall barely a month ago. Bit unseemly, if you ask me, arranging another marriage so soon.” Mr. Blackwood shook his head. “I heard whispers about the Ramersbys’ daughter running away. If that is the case, then the Ramersbys must be beside themselves. I’ve heard that they owe some money to Whitfield, though I cannot confirm. Either way, it’s quite a bit of embarrassment.”
“Unfortunate,” Morgan said, returning his attention to the papers in front of him; London society drama held little interest for him at the best of times.
“Quite. Now, about the drainage system near the east field…” Mr. Blackwood began, as Morgan willed himself to focus.
Once this is done, I’ll ride into the village,Morgan told himself.Maybe spend some time at the tavern. Clear my head.
