“The north?” Imogen spoke for the first time, her tone polite but curious. “How lovely. Which part?”
“Yorkshire,” Lady Ramersby said at the same time Lord Ramersby said, “Derbyshire.”
An awkward silence fell.
“That is,” Lady Ramersby amended, her smile strained, “she’s traveling between both. Visiting various relatives.”
Morgan didn’t believe a word of it, but filed it away.
As the group dispersed, Morgan turned to Ambrose and Imogen.
“That was odd,” Imogen murmured.
“Very,” Morgan agreed. “Do you know the Ramersbys well?”
“Only in passing,” Ambrose said. “Ramersby’s deep in debt, from what I’ve heard. Gambling, mostly. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Morgan filed the information away as he often did. It likely had nothing to do with him, but something about the entire exchange had left him uneasy.
Later in the evening, Morgan found himself near the refreshment table, attempting to escape yet another determined widow, when a snippet of conversation caught his ear.
“…disappeared completely, I tell you.”
“Lady Eliza Newmont?”
“The very same. One moment she was at the ball, the next she’d vanished. No one’s seen her since.”
Morgan slowed, pretending to examine the selection of pastries while he listened.
“I heard she eloped with a stable hand,” one woman whispered.
“Nonsense. I heard she was ruined and then sent away in disgrace.”
“My cousin swears she’s been committed to an asylum. Apparently, she had broken into hysterics after Lady Whitfield’s death.”
“Poor Lady Whitfield. Such a tragedy.”
“Do you think Lady Eliza had something to do with it?”
“Don’t be absurd. They were the closest of friends.”
The voices faded as the women moved away.
The ton was always full of gossip, most of it wildly exaggerated or entirely fabricated. The disappearance of one young woman, likely explained by something perfectly mundane, was hardly cause for concern.
He pushed the thought aside once more and returned to the drawing room, where the musicale had mercifully concluded. Guests were mingling now, the hum of conversation filling the space.
“Your Grace.”
Morgan turned to find a tall, silver-haired gentleman approaching. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, impeccably dressed, with pale blue eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“Your Grace,” the man said with a bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. David Booth, Viscount Whitfield.”
“Ah. Good evening, Lord Whitfield,” Morgan replied, with a curt bow. “Morgan Sedgewick, Duke of Kirkhammer. A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine. I’ve heard a lot about you, Your Grace. Your work in Parliament is quite impressive.”
