As Graves departed, Damien found himself staring at the closed door of his bedchamber, wondering what new strategies Eleanor might employ to drive him away. The thought brought a smile to his face.
Their battle of wits was only beginning, and despite the gravity of his true purpose in London, he found himself looking forward to the next skirmish with his unwilling duchess.
Eleanor’s Entreaty
The Lyon’s Denmight present itself as merely another exclusive gambling establishment, but those who sought out its proprietress knew its true purpose—to provide solutions for women when the law offered none. A discreet entrance was tucked away on a quiet Mayfair Street, a brass lion’s head knocker gleaming in the afternoon light.
As Eleanor was led toward the blue parlor by a maid, the door swung open before they reached it, revealing two figures she recognized from social events, though she’d never spoken directly with either, engaged in animated conversation—or rather, dispute. A gentleman and lady, both impeccably dressed in the height of fashion, were so absorbed in their disagreement that they didn’t notice her.
“I assure you, Lord Cedric, your methods are far too blunt,” declared the lady, a vision in green silk with red hair artfully arranged in an elegant coiffure. “Lady Long Limbs needs her reputation salvaged, not brutally reconstructed.”
“And I assure you, Lady Adelaide,” countered the gentleman, tall and distinguished with silver threading his brown hair at the temples, “that sometimes the most effective solution is cauterization. And one that worked, as you’ll recall. OperationRockfaces is now peacefully established in Bath, where the waters will no doubt heal their social wounds eventually.”
Lady Adelaide rolled her eyes heavenward. “Bath. You may as well have buried them alive.”
“They’re breathing, are they not? A courtesy their enemies would not have extended had I not intervened.”
Only then did the pair seem to notice Eleanor standing in the doorway. Lady Adelaide recovered first, her eyes quickly assessing Eleanor’s appearance with the swiftness of one accustomed to gathering information at a glance.
“Your Grace,” she said, dropping into a perfect curtsy. “How delightful to encounter you. I’ve heard marvelous things about your work with Madame Tansley’s charity.”
Lord Cedric bowed with elegance and precision that could only be achieved by decades of practice. “Duchess. A pleasant surprise indeed.” His keen eyes betrayed nothing, though Eleanor had the distinct impression he was cataloging every detail of her appearance for future reference.
“Lord Cedric. Lady Adelaide,” Eleanor acknowledged.
“You must excuse us,” Lady Adelaide said, her smile warm. “I see it as my duty to educate Lord Cedric on the necessity of a woman’s gentle touch for some problems rather than a gentleman’s scorched-earth approach.”
Lord Cedric leaned toward Eleanor conspiratorially and murmured, “Society’s wolves often hunt in packs, Your Grace. Best to arrive with a canon blazing than armed with a fan.”
“Good day, Your Grace. I’m certain we shall meet again,” Lady Adelaide said warmly, taking Lord Cedric’s proffered arm.
Eleanor watched the striking pair make their way down the corridor, noting how they moved together with the ease of longtime partners.
“Lady Adelaide and Lord Cedric,” came a melodious voice from behind Eleanor as the pair disappeared around the corner.“London’s most formidable fixers of precarious situations. They specialize in the art of social rehabilitation… or demolition, depending on which of them you ask.”
Eleanor turned to find The Black Widow of Whitehall standing by the open door of the blue parlor, which was richly appointed with sapphire velvet furnishings, ornate silver candelabras, and a magnificent painting of Artemis hunting that dominated one wall.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon was exactly as Eleanor remembered. In her early fifties, she possessed a timeless beauty enhanced rather than diminished by the silver streaking her chocolate brown hair. Her black gown, adorned with jet beading that caught the firelight, emphasized her slender figure, while her shrewd eyes missed nothing as she assessed her visitor.
“Your Grace,” she said with a slight curtsy. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Eleanor replied, accepting the older woman’s gesture to take a seat opposite her. “I see you’ve had interesting visitors today.”
“Indeed.” The Widow’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Anyone except the individuals themselves can see the fondness they have for each other. But I’m sure you have more pressing matters to discuss.”
“I believe you must know this visit is not entirely pleasurable,” Eleanor said.
A smile touched the older woman’s lips. “Direct as always. One of your many admirable qualities.” She signaled to the hovering maid. “Tea, Lily. And ensure we’re not disturbed.”
Once they were alone, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s posture relaxed marginally. “Your husband has returned from the East, I hear. How inconvenient for you.”
“Inconvenient?” Eleanor’s voice rose slightly before she controlled it. “It’s a disaster. You assured me he would remain abroad. The entire arrangement was predicated on his absence.”
“I arranged a proxy marriage to a gentleman with no interest in returning to England,” The Widow corrected, her tone mild. “I never guaranteed his permanent absence.”
“You implied it strongly enough,” Eleanor countered. “And charged accordingly. Wasn’t his brother’s scandal three years ago painful enough? Why has he returned?”
The Widow inclined her head in acknowledgment. “His return is unexpected.”