“I find it curious,” Eleanor said, “that our friends in thetoncontinue to trust his respectability despite the rumors from the docklands.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head. “What sort of rumors have they heard?”
“Rumors of enterprises that profit from other’s desperation. Moneylending at ruinous rates. Establishments that cater to gentlemen’s… weaknesses. The sort of businesses that thrive on destroying lives rather than building them.”
The older woman laughed unexpectedly. “Your Grace, you describe my business ventures exactly. Except I deal with the nobility and the affluent, while Lord Croft deals with the poor.”
“That makes him a predator and you a savior.”
The Widow laughed heartily, then sobered gradually. “Perhaps. But more importantly, it makes him a man who holds grudges and has the resources to act upon them. Be very careful,Your Grace. A rejected suitor with Lord Croft’s particular talents can be extraordinarily dangerous.”
Eleanor frowned. “No doubt he’d collect information on me using his charm.” She hesitated, then asked, “Will you alert me if you hear anything about Lord Dominic?”
The Widow’s expression was neutral while she watched her carefully. “I don’t know. I have not yet decided,” the older woman said, finally. “What I do know is that a distant duke provides legal protection, but a present one offers far more tangible deterrence against Abram’s machinations.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting I accept his presence? After everything I paid to ensure his absence?”
The Widow’s smile was enigmatic. “I’m suggesting you recognize when circumstances have provided an unforeseen advantage. Your husband’s return may prove more beneficial than his absence, particularly if you can align your interests with his.”
“Our interests could not be more opposed.”
“Truly?” The Widow raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Perhaps you simply lack sufficient information to identify where they might converge.”
Eleanor sat back, considering this perspective. “You know something about his return that you’re not telling me.”
“I know many things, Your Grace. It’s how I’ve survived in a world designed for men’s success.” The Widow rose, signaling their meeting was concluding. “My advice remains the same as when you first came to me—find leverage where others see only obstacles.”
Eleanor stood, recognizing she would get no clearer answer. “And if his purpose threatens everything I’ve built?”
“Then you’ll need a new strategy.” The Widow’s eyes gleamed with interest. “One I’m more than happy to assist with.”
As Eleanor departed the Lyon’s Den, her mind churned with more questions than answers.
The suggestion that she investigate through her network of investments made practical sense, yet Eleanor hesitated. Involving her business associates in her personal issues risked exposure she couldn’t afford. The gossip alone could jeopardize funding from some of its benefactors.
No, she needed another approach—one that would uncover the duke’s secrets while protecting her own.
As her carriage carried her back toward Mayfair, Eleanor made a decision. She would accept her unwelcome husband’s presence for the time being, but that would not stop her efforts to drive him away.
The memory of their conversation about the marital relations heated her skin despite the chill air. He may come to her bedchamber any night now, but she must not give in to his charms. Unless he was the most atrocious lover, it would require formidable self-control for her not to enjoy what he had to offer.
The Pinkened Duke
Damien woke witha start, jerked from a troubled sleep by what sounded like cats being slowly strangled outside his window. The musical society had returned with a vengeance, somehow managing to produce even more discordant sounds than the previous day. He grimaced as the violinist, presumably the same elderly gentleman as before, attempted a series of notes that would make even the most innovative composer wince in pain.
Rising from his bed, he moved to the window and peered down at the garden. Eleanor stood among her assembled musicians, looking fresh and composed in a pale yellow morning dress, seemingly immune to the auditory assault she had orchestrated. Their eyes met briefly as she glanced up, and he could have sworn he saw a triumphant smile cross her face before she returned her attention to the massacre of Mozart occurring before her.
Damien turned away from the window, his momentary amusement fading as his thoughts returned to the true purpose of his presence in London. Dominic. His brother hadn’t been observed by any of his contacts since his arrival, which could mean Dominic had relapsed into his old habits and lay unconscious in London’s most wretched districts. The cyclewas depressingly familiar: first the gambling halls, then the drinking, and finally the opium dens where Croft’s associates would ensure Dominic received enough of the drug to keep him compliant and desperate.
He needed to search the seedier areas of London today. The opium den near the docks had been his first lead, but after yesterday’s raid, Dominic would have been moved to another location. There were establishments in Seven Dials that catered to the aristocracy with private rooms and discretion for the right price. Damien made a mental note to visit them after dark, when activity would be at its peak.
He was suddenly distracted by a string of muffled curses coming from the dressing room, followed by what sounded like Graves dropping something.
“Graves?” Damien called. “Is everything all right?”
More cursing, this time not at all muffled. “No, Your Grace, everything is most certainly not all right. I—” The valet’s voice was replaced by what sounded like a prayer muttered through clenched teeth.
Damien frowned. It was unlike his valet to show such distress.