“Your Grace,” Cook said, bobbing a curtsy. “How may we serve you?”
“I was hoping for a late breakfast,” Damien replied with his most charming smile. “I’m afraid I slept through the earlier service.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Perhaps some eggs and toast?”
“Perfect.” Damien settled himself on a stool near the great wooden table, deliberately making himself approachable rather than maintaining ducal distance. “I must say, that was quite the musical performance this morning. Does Her Grace often host such… energetic entertainments?”
Cook’s expression grew carefully neutral. “Her Grace is most generous with her charitable works, Your Grace.”
“Indeed she is.” Damien watched as she began cracking eggs into a bowl. “I imagine she keeps you all quite busy with her various enterprises. The hospital work, the business meetings…”
“Oh yes, Your Grace. Always something requiring attention.” Cook warmed to the topic, her natural pride in her mistress overcoming her caution. “Just yesterday she had three different gentlemen calling about investments, and this morning before the music there was that Mr. Walker from the docks.”
“The docks?” Damien kept his tone mildly curious. “How fascinating. I wouldn’t have expected Her Grace to have interests in that quarter.”
“Very discreet, she is, about her business affairs,” one of the scullery maids piped up before Cook could silence her with a sharp look. “Though Mrs. Peterson from the lending library was telling Cook yesterday how grateful she is for Her Grace’s help with her expansion.”
“Mary,” Cook said warningly.
“It’s quite admirable,” Damien said smoothly. “A duchess who takes such personal interest in commerce. Does she handle these matters herself, or does she employ agents?”
“Oh, from what Mrs. Peterson says, she handles everything personal-like,” Mary continued, clearly flattered by the duke’s attention. “Goes to the meetings herself, she does. Mrs. Peterson said Her Grace never sends a representative when it’s important business near the docks.”
Cook set a plate of perfectly prepared eggs before Damien with perhaps more force than necessary. “That’ll be enough chatter, Mary. His Grace doesn’t need to hear kitchen gossip.”
“On the contrary,” Damien said, taking a bite of eggs, “I find it fascinating. Her Grace is clearly a woman of remarkable capability.” He paused thoughtfully. “These merchants must speak very highly of her to share such details with the household.”
“Oh yes,” Cook replied, her guard dropping slightly at his apparent admiration for Eleanor. “Mrs. Peterson and Mr. Authbert both say she’s the most methodical businesswoman they’ve encountered. Mrs. Peterson mentioned Her Grace keeps everything organized proper-like in her study. Says a woman in business must be twice as careful as any man.”
“Wise advice.” Damien finished his eggs and rose. “Thank you for the excellent breakfast, Cook. And please, don’t let me interrupt the household routine. I’m still adjusting to the… lively schedule Her Grace maintains.”
As he departed the kitchen, Damien reflected on the information gathered. Eleanor was personally involved in lending operations near the docks—exactly the sort of network that might prove useful in his search for Dominic. Her records were kept in her study, and she preferred direct involvement over agents.
The pieces were falling into place, though he’d need to approach the subject carefully. Eleanor’s trust wouldn’t be easily won, especially when it came to her carefully guarded business affairs. But if he could convince her that their interests aligned…
Damien checked his pocket watch—nearly eleven-thirty. Time to demonstrate that her latest strategy had failed as spectacularly as the others. With a wicked grin, he strolled out to the garden, applauding enthusiastically as the final notes died away.
Eleanor stood ather study window, watching the last of her musical protégés depart, though her satisfaction had curdled into something far less pleasant. The morning’s performance should have achieved its intended effect—two full hours of musical torture that would have driven any sensible man to distraction.
Instead, her insufferable husband had appeared in the garden at precisely eleven-thirty, applauding enthusiastically as the final discordant notes died away.
“Magnificent!” she’d heard him call out cheerfully to the assembled musicians. “Such passion, such… creativity!”
Another strategy foiled, and worse—he’d somehow managed to turn her musical torture into an opportunity to display his infuriating charm with young Tommy from the kitchens.
“Your Grace?” Sally appeared in the doorway, holding a tea tray.
“Thank you, Sally. Set it by the window, please.” Eleanor turned from the window, her mind already moving to her next approach. “Sally, has His Grace been asking questions about household matters?”
“Oh yes, Your Grace. Very interested in your charitable works, he is. Wanted to know all about the hospital and your business meetings.” Sally’s expression grew animated. “Though when Mary started chattering in the kitchen, Cook had to remind her to be more discreet.”
Eleanor straightened sharply. “What exactly did Mary say?”
“Just repeating what Mrs. Peterson from the lending library told Cook yesterday—how you meet with merchants near the docks yourself, never send a representative when it’s important business.”
Eleanor felt the pieces click into place with cold clarity. So while she’d been orchestrating musical assaults, Damien had been conducting his own campaign—systematically gathering intelligence about her business operations through her own staff. The charming conversations, the interest in everyone’s welfare—it had all been reconnaissance.
“Thank you, Sally. In the future, please remind the staff that His Grace’s questions about my affairs should be directed to me personally.”