“The Marchioness of Wilhampton paid me.”
The name hit Eliza like a physical blow. She heard the collective intake of breath from the servants lining the walls, felt the way the room seemed to tilt slightly beneath her feet.
Lady Wilhampton.
Of course.
“Paid you to do what?” Eliza asked. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, as though someone else were speaking.
“To—to put letters among your things.” Martha was sobbing openly now, the words coming between gasping breaths. “She gave me three letters over the past month. Said I was to hide them where they would be found. In your books, in your desk, places where His Grace might come across them.”
Three letters. Not two. Three.
Eliza’s mind raced. They had found two—the one August had discovered in her book, and the second one that had led to their terrible argument. But there had been a third?
“Where is the third letter?”
“I—I do not know, Your Grace. I hid it in your writing desk last week, tucked inside one of the cubbyholes. I thought—I thought His Grace might see it there when he came to your sitting room.”
August rarely entered her sitting room. The letter might still be there, waiting like a viper in the shadows.
“What else?” Mrs. Finch demanded. “What else did the Marchioness ask of you?”
Martha’s hands twisted the apron tighter. “She wanted to know things. About you and His Grace. Whether you took meals together, whether you seemed happy, whether there werearguments. She said—” The girl’s voice broke. “She said she was an old friend of the family and simply wanted to ensure His Grace was well cared for after his father’s death.”
“And you believed her.”
“I did! I swear I did, Your Grace. She was so kind, so concerned. She said she worried that you might not understand the demands of being a duchess, that you might not be giving His Grace the support he needed.” Fresh tears coursed down Martha’s cheeks. “She paid me five pounds—five whole pounds—just for placing the letters and telling her small things about the household. I thought—I thought I was helping.”
Five pounds. A fortune to a girl in service. Eliza could not even muster anger at Martha though she knew she should feel something. The girl had been used, manipulated, turned into an unwitting weapon in Lady Wilhampton’s campaign.
“Did you read the letters?” Eliza asked.
Martha’s face went scarlet. “No, Your Grace! They were sealed. I never—I would never?—”
“But you must have had some idea what they contained.”
The girl would not meet her eyes. “The Marchioness said they were love letters. From—from someone who cared for you. Someone you had known before your marriage. She said His Grace deserved to know the truth about his wife’s affections.”
Love letters suggesting an affair. Letters designed to make August doubt her, to poison whatever fragile trust they had been building. And Martha had placed them exactly where they would cause maximum damage.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant in its cruelty.
Mrs. Finch turned to Martha, and her voice could have frozen water. “Collect your things. You have twenty minutes to pack your belongings and leave these premises. You will not be given references. You will not be given notice pay. You are dismissed, effective immediately.”
“Please!” Martha fell to her knees. “Please, Your Grace, Mrs. Finch, I am so sorry, I did not understand what I was doing?—”
“You took money to spy on your mistress,” Mrs. Finch said. “You placed false evidence in her private chambers. You betrayed the trust of this household for five pounds.”
“I did not know they were false! I thought?—”
“You did not think at all. That is the problem.” Mrs. Finch turned to one of the footmen. “Escort Martha to her quarters. See that she packs her belongings. Once she is ready, have the cart drive her to the village and leave her at the posting inn. She is not to set foot in this house again.”
Martha was still sobbing as the footman took her arm and led her toward the door. The other servants parted to let them pass,their faces a mixture of shock and judgment. The girl’s cries echoed down the hallway, growing fainter as she was led away.
Eliza stood frozen in the center of the room. She could feel every eye on her, could sense the household absorbing what had just been revealed. Tomorrow, this story would spread through the servants’ network like wildfire. By next week, half of London would know that Lady Wilhampton had planted false letters in the Duchess of Wildmoore’s belongings.
“Your Grace.”