“Only what Society already knows,” The Widow replied, returning to her chair and gesturing for him to take the seat opposite. “And that I haven’t seen him, which is the truth.”
“Nothing of Dominic’s current difficulties, then?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I wouldn’t know of his current difficulties, would I? If you’re suggesting I had something to do with Dominic’s return, you’re quite mistaken.”
Damien swirled the amber liquid in his glass, considering how much to reveal. “Dominic left me a note saying he was leaving for England. Against my explicit instructions.” He gulped the liquid and slammed the glass down on the wooden table, harder than intended. “He’d been free of the influence of opium these eight months past when he departed from my care. But I fear he has once again fallen prey to that vile substance.” Damien’s voice hardened.
Concern shadowed her eyes. Strangely enough, the madam had developed a maternal affection for his little brother over the year she rescued him from countless opium dens.
“He hasn’t been seen. I spent three days searching for him before reclaiming my rightful place in the Sinclair household. I realized this search would last much longer than before.”
“Have you searched Croft’s establishments?”
Damien’s jaws clenched as his features displayed disgust. “I have, through my contacts. I fear my brother may be dead in a ditch somewhere.”
The Widow’s carefully composed mask slipped for just a moment, genuine concern flickering across her features. She set down her glass with deliberate care, her voice softening. “Dead? Surely not. Croft is too calculating for such crude methods—a duke’s brother found murdered would bring scrutiny he cannot afford.”
“Unless it appeared to be misadventure,” Damien countered grimly. “An overdose in some squalid den. The tragic end of a young man’s battle with addiction. Who would question such a familiar story?”
The Widow’s expression grew troubled as she absorbed the implications. “You truly believe Croft would go so far?” The Widow asked as she refilled his glass and handed it back to him.
“He needs to be stopped,” Damien said, his voice low and intense, “before he can target more young men for his schemes, extracting information he uses for blackmail and manipulation. Before he destroys my brother entirely.”
“If Dominic is still alive,” The Widow said carefully, “could he provide evidence of these activities?”
Damien set his glass down carefully when, in fact, he wanted to smash it against the wall. “My brother began keeping a journal once he recovered enough to understand what had been done to him. It took more than two years of traveling from continent to continent, through countless relapses and recoveries, before he achieved the eight months of true sobriety that gave him clarity. During those final months of recovery, he documented conversations, names, dates—enough to build a case against Croft that would stand up to scrutiny.”
“And this journal is now with Dominic, who has vanished back into Croft’s circle,” The Widow supplied, connecting the pieces. “Which means if your fears are founded…” She didn’t finish the thought, but the implication hung heavy between them. If Dominic was dead, the evidence died with him.
“I need to find him, Bessie.” Damien leaned forward, intensity radiating from his frame. “Before Croft realizes what Dominic possesses.”
The Widow studied him for a long moment. “You’ve always been remarkably devoted to your brother,” she observed. “Even when his actions brought scandal to your door. Even when it cost you your position in Society.”
“He’s the only family I have left,” Damien said simply.
“Croft is the most patient and calculating of vultures,” The Widow murmured. “He has quite the talent for identifying vulnerable targets.”
“Unfortunately, my brother met the criteria perfectly. A young man of means without sufficient guidance or protection,” Damien said, his hand tightening around the arm of the chair.
“And your marriage? How does that factor into your crusade?”
Damien’s expression turned guarded. “It doesn’t. The arrangement with the duchess was and is purely financial. I cannot live in exile any longer, however. Not if he can influence Dominic all the way in the Orient.” He looked up, staring past The Widow with a stern expression. “It’s Croft or me. I shall destroy him or die trying.”
“May I suggest, Your Grace, now that you find yourself with a surprisingly beautiful and intelligent wife,” The Widow remarked with a knowing smile, “that you do strive to thrive?”
Heat rose unexpectedly in Damien’s neck as he recalled Eleanor’s smile, her smooth skin, the soft slopes of her… He cleared his throat. “Have you forgotten your matchmaking is finished? No need to go the extra mile.”
“I disagree, Your Grace. My matchmaking is never done.” The Widow’s smile deepened. “Your expression tells me this arrangement has developed complications.”
He glanced at the madam resentfully, then rubbed his smooth chin. “She’s not what I expected.”
“Did I not mention that she was young and beautiful?” she asked innocently.
“Of course not. You would have wanted to keep me away from here, not entice me to return to claim my rightful place with my stunning and intelligent wife with her own ambitions and resources. A woman who challenges every word I utter.”
“You wound me, Duke. I would never prevent a couple from falling in love.”
“And yet, here we are. I return to discover I’m helpless in my wife’s presence, saying things against my will purely because… she’s infuriating,” Damien said, shaking his head even while a smile tugged at his lips. “Stubborn, sharp-tongued, fiercely independent—”