This. This is what family feels like.
Not her parents’ cold manipulation, but this, warmth and laughter and genuine affection.
She’d found it. Against all odds, she’d found it.
Helen stayed after the others left, and she and Eliza retreated to Eliza’s sitting room. It was a smaller, more intimate space that Morgan had insisted be furnished entirely to her taste in delicate pinks and soft white fabrics.
“Your home is most beautiful,” Helen said, settling into one of the plush chairs. “Though I admit, it’s strange seeing you as mistress of it rather than…”
“Rather than a maid?” Eliza finished. “I know. It’s strange for me too sometimes.”
They were quiet for a moment, sipping tea.
“I want to apologize again,” Eliza said finally. “For lying to you. For letting you believe I was someone I wasn’t. You gave me friendship, and I gave you lies. It was wrong and it was?—”
“Eliza, you don’t need to?—”
“I do. You were nothing but kind to me, and I deceived you. I know you said you understood, but I need you to know how sorry I am.”
Helen set down her teacup, her expression serious. “Can I tell you something? In confidence?”
“Of course.”
“My situation isn’t so different from yours. Not exactly, but… I understand what it’s like to need to escape.” Helen’s hands twisted in her lap. “My father lost everything, the same old story. Gambling, bad investments. When I was eighteen, he tried to marry me off to a man three times my age to settle his debts. So, I ran.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Oh my! Oh Helen…”
“I changed my name, sought employment as a governess, and I’ve been running ever since. So, you see, I have no room to judge you for doing what you had to do to survive. If anything, I admire your courage.”
“Does anyone know?”
“The Duke of Welton. He figured it out, he’s annoyingly perceptive. But he’s kept my secret, just as his Grace kept yours.” Helen smiled slightly. “We’re both fortunate in our employers, it seems.”
Eliza reached across and squeezed Helen’s hand. “Then we understand each other.”
“We do. And I hope we can be true friends now. No more secrets between us.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Three days later, the man who entered Morgan’s study was unremarkable in every way. He was of medium height, medium build, dressed in plain but respectable clothing. Nothing about him suggested he was one of London’s most respected Bow Street Runners, which was his advantage.
“Mr. Hartley,” Morgan said, standing to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” James Hartley bowed to both Morgan and Eliza. “I’m pleased to report some progress on the matter you engaged me for.”
Eliza’s hands tightened in her lap. Morgan moved to stand beside her chair, his hand resting supportively on her shoulder.
“Please, sit,” Morgan said. “Tell us what you’ve found.”
Bartlett settled into the chair across from them, pulling out a small notebook. “I’ve been investigating Lord Whitfield’s history, particularly regarding the deaths of his three wives. As you noted, the first two deaths occurred years ago, 1819 and 1822, which makes gathering evidence more challenging. Many witnesses have moved away or passed on themselves.”
“But you found something?” Eliza asked, unable to keep the hope from her voice. “Please… tell me you found something…”
“Possibly.” Bartlett flipped through his notes. “Lady Charlotte Whitfield, the first wife, died in childbirth. The physician who attended her is deceased, but I was able to locate the midwife. She’s elderly now, but her memory is clear as crystal. She told me something interesting. Lady Charlotte was doing well throughout the labor, no complications. But then Lord Whitfield insisted on being present in the room, which was highly unusual. The midwife was sent out to fetch something, and when she returned… Lady Charlotte was dying.”
Eliza’s breath caught. “He killed her during childbirth?”
“The midwife couldn’t prove anything, but she found it suspicious. She also mentioned that Lady Charlotte seemed terrified of her husband. Would flinch whenever he entered a room.”
