“You’re too kind.”
Morgan found himself increasingly uncomfortable given all he had heard that night. There was something about Whitfield that set his teeth on edge. The man’s smile was too practiced, his tone too smooth. He reminded Morgan of a predator wearing a gentleman’s skin, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“I understand you’re recently returned from Sussex,” Whitfield said. “How did you find the countryside?”
“Peaceful. Restorative.”
“Quite. I have an estate in Derbyshire myself. Beautiful country. Though I confess, I prefer the liveliness of London.”
Morgan made a noncommittal sound, already looking for an escape.
“Well, I shan’t keep you,” Whitfield said, as though sensing Morgan’s disinterest. “I simply wanted to make your acquaintance. I do hope we’ll have the chance to speak again.”
“Of course.”
Whitfield bowed and moved away, disappearing into the din. Morgan watched him go, frowning.
“Who was that?” Ambrose asked, appearing at his elbow.
“The Viscount Whitfield, apparently.”
“Ah.” Ambrose’s expression darkened slightly. “Charming fellow, isn’t he? Or so I’ve heard.”
“Not the word I’d use.”
“Three dead wives,” Ambrose said quietly.
Morgan’s head snapped toward him. “Three?”
“The first died in childbirth. The second from a carriage accident. The third…” Ambrose hesitated. “Lady Abigail Whitfield. She fell from a balcony at the Fontaines’ ball last month. Another tragic accident, supposedly.”
Morgan’s blood ran cold. “Three dead wives,” he repeated slowly. “And no one finds that suspicious?”
“Oh, people find it plenty suspicious,” Ambrose said. “But suspicion isn’t proof. Whitfield is wealthy, well-connected, and very wise. There’s never been any evidence of foul play.”
“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t any.”
“No,” Ambrose agreed grimly. “It doesn’t.”
Morgan’s gaze drifted across the room, seeking out Whitfield. He found him near the window, laughing with a group of gentlemen, his expression genial and relaxed.
Nothing like a man in mourning.
Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at a monster.
“Three wives,” he murmured again.
“Indeed,” Ambrose said. “One might be tragic. Two might be unfortunate. But three?”
“Three is a pattern.”
“Precisely.”
Morgan made another mental note, this time to learn more about Lord Whitfield. And stay far away from him and his dealings.
By the time Morgan returned home that night, it was well past midnight. The house was dark and quiet, most of the servants already abed. He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his mind still churning with the events of the evening.
As he reached the landing, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure at the far end of the hallway, disappearing around the corner.
