To Mr. James Hartley, Bow Street Runner,
I require your services in a matter of utmost discretion and importance. I need you to investigate Lord Edmund Whitfield, particularly regarding the circumstances surrounding the deaths of his three wives: Lady Charlotte Whitfield (died 1819), Lady Margaret Whitfield (died 1822), and Lady Abigail Whitfield (died 1826).
I am particularly interested in any witnesses who might have information about the nature of these deaths, any evidence of foul play that was overlooked or dismissed, and any patterns in Lord Whitfield’s behavior leading up to each death.
Money is no object. I need facts, evidence, and testimony that could be used to bring criminal charges if warranted. Be thorough but discreet. Lord Whitfield is a dangerous man, and I don’t want him to know he’s being investigated.
Report directly to me at Kirkhammer Hall.
The Duke of Kirkhammer
He sealed the letter with wax, pressing his signet ring into it firmly. By this afternoon, Bartlett would have it. And by the end of the month, Morgan hoped, they’d have something, anything, that could be used to bring Whitfield to justice. He owed Eliza that much. He owed Abigail that much, too.
He rose from the desk, the letter heavy in his hand, and stepped out into the quiet corridor. The house was beginning to stir with the soft, ghost-like movements of the domestic staff. He found Mrs. Dawson near the morning room, her keys jingling softly at her waist as she consulted a ledger. She looked up, her expression shifting instantly from professional focus to maternal concern at the sight of his haggard face.
“Your Grace? You’re up early.”
“Mrs. Dawson,” Morgan said, his voice low and raspy from lack of sleep. He held out the letter, the red seal catching the dim light. “This must go out with the first post. It is to be handled with the highest priority, but it is not to sit in the common mail tray. Ensure it is given directly to the rider.”
Mrs. Dawson took the missive, her fingers brushing the crisp parchment. She didn’t ask who it was for. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second as he released the paper.
“Consider it done, Your Grace,” she said softly, tucking the letter into her apron pocket as if shielding it from prying eyes. “I shall see to it personally.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson. Please see breakfast is brought to our quarters this morning, I will break my fast with her Grace.”
“Consider it done, Your Grace,” she said as she walked and continued her work.
Morgan felt a momentary shiver of relief. The wheels were turning. Now, all he could do was wait. And keep Eliza safe until the truth caught up with the man who had destroyed so much.
The bookshop on Baker Street was narrow and dim, smelling of paper and cedar, its shelves so densely packed that the spines overlapped like fish scales. Eliza had passed it a dozen times in the carriage and never once been permitted to stop with her parents.
“You mentioned Defoe at dinner last week. I thought you might want to look,” Morgan held the door open without ceremony.
She didn’t ask what had prompted it, nor could he have known just how much this meant to her. She was learning that asking Morgan why he did things often caused him to undo them, as though generosity, examined too closely, embarrassed him. So she simply walked deeper into the shop, trailing her fingers along the shelves, and let herself be glad. He followed at a distance, browsing without any apparent purpose, occasionally pulling a volume out and replacing it with the dissatisfied air of a man who already owned everything he wanted.
“Did you read much as a boy?” she asked, not looking at him as she examined a tome.
A pause. “When I could. My father considered it idling.”
“And your mother?”
“She was too busy with social engagements to care much for what I did, or didn’t do. She died when I was twenty five.” He said it plainly.
Eliza looked at him then. He was studying the spine of a small green book, not looking back at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And your father?”
“A few years ago now, and don’t be. It’s ancient history as far as I am concerned, much like these books.” He set the book back. “What about you? You read constantly. Someone must have encouraged it.”
“My governess, Miss Leband. She was old as dirt and slightly terrifying and she believed that an unread woman was an unfinished one.” Eliza smiled at the memory. “Thank goodness for a respite from my parents… She gave meThe Odysseywhen I was nine and told me it was about solitude. I thought it was about adventure.”
“Isn’t it both?”
She considered that. “I suppose it is.”
They moved deeper into the shop, into a quieter alcove where the shelves nearly met overhead. The sounds of the street disappeared entirely.
“Do you find it lonely?” Morgan asked. He wasn’t looking at her, still browsing, but his voice had shifted into something more careful. “This life. The marriage. All of it.”
The question surprised her with its honesty, making her cheeks heat. She thought about deflecting, about saying something bright and manageable, the kind of answer she'd been trained to give. Instead she said, “Sometimes. Less than I expected.”
