“Simmons,” she said, her voice deadly calm, “you shall accompany me. And wake Jack immediately. Tell him to ready the enclosed carriage—the one without the Westmore crest. We leave in ten minutes.”
“Your Grace,” Simmons protested, “surely this is not something you should—”
“Ten minutes,” Eleanor repeated, her tone brooking no argument. She turned to the messenger. “You’ll guide us there. Wait outside until we’re ready to depart.”
Within a quarter hour, Eleanor found herself in the darkened carriage across from Simmons and Jack, both of whom sat rigidly upright, their weathered faces set in grim lines. Neither spoke as they navigated London’s narrow streets, but Eleanor could feel Simmons’s disapproval radiating like heat from a kiln.
The establishment proved to be a surprisingly well-maintained building in a respectable part of Covent Garden, its discreet brass nameplate the only indication of its true purpose. Eleanor steeled herself as Simmons helped her from the carriage, every instinct screaming that this was precisely the sort of scandal that could destroy everything she’d worked to build.
The door opened before they could knock, revealing a woman of perhaps forty years with elaborately dressed hair and a gown that, while expensive, left little to the imagination. Her painted smile faltered slightly at the sight of Eleanor’s imperious bearing.
“Your Grace,” the woman said with a curtsy. “I am Madame Rousseau. I do apologize most profusely for the circumstances requiring your presence here.”
“Where is my husband?” Eleanor’s voice, composed and cold, surprised even herself, as what she truly wished to do was scream.
“This way, Your Grace. I must warn you, he is not himself at present.”
Eleanor followed the madame through tastefully appointed corridors lined with red silk wallpaper and gilt-framed paintings of dubious artistic merit. The scent of expensive perfume and something medicinal and cloying hung heavy in the air.
Madame Rousseau stopped before a door at the end of the corridor. Jack stepped forward and leaned toward Eleanor, his voice lowered so only she could hear. “Your Grace, perhaps I should enter first to assess the situation?”
“Not necessary. Open the door,” Eleanor commanded.
“Your Grace, perhaps you shouldn’t—”
Eleanor hated the pity in Jack’s voice. “I’ve seen things before, Jack. Hospital rooms, at Madam Tansley’s… Now, open the door,” she hissed.
Nothing had prepared her for the sight that greeted her. The duke lay sprawled across a large four-poster bed, completely naked, his powerful frame entangled with two equally unclothed women who appeared to be unconscious. All three were utterly insensible, their breathing deep and rhythmic in a way that suggested more than mere intoxication.
Eleanor’s training in running a business and managing crises served her well. She felt her emotions recede behind a wall of practical necessity, even as her heart cracked at the tableau before her.
“Jack, Simmons,” she said without turning around, “please dress His Grace and prepare him for transport.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Simmons replied quietly.
“Madame Rousseau, a word in private, if you please.” Eleanor’s voice remained steady despite the turmoil within.
The older woman led Eleanor to a small sitting room across the hall, decorated in the same opulent style but mercifully free of unconscious bodies. Eleanor remained standing, her hands clasped before her. She stood tall, willing herself to appear every inch the imperious duchess despite the urge to crumble.
“Madame Rousseau,” she began, “I confess myself puzzled by your decision to summon me here tonight.”
The woman’s practiced composure slipped slightly. “Your Grace, I had little choice. His Grace was in such a state that my girls couldn’t rouse him, and we haven’t the men employed here who could carry the duke to a carriage. The scandal if word spread—”
“Indeed,” Eleanor interrupted smoothly. “The scandal would be considerable. Which makes your choice to involve me all themore curious.” She fixed the madame with a penetrating stare. “No proprietress with any sense would summon a duchess—a duchess—to a brothel, regardless of the circumstances. The risk to your establishment’s discretion would be enormous.”
Madame Rousseau’s face went pale beneath her rouge. “Your Grace, I assure you—”
“Unless,” Eleanor continued relentlessly, “someone instructed you to create precisely this situation. Someone who wanted me to witness my husband in such a compromising position. Someone who perhaps offered you compensation for ensuring I saw exactly what you wanted me to see.”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the sounds of her servants’ efforts in the adjoining room and the distant laughter from the establishment’s common areas.
“Who was it?” Eleanor asked, her voice deceptively gentle. “Who paid you to orchestrate this little tableau?”
Madame Rousseau’s expression shuttered immediately. “Your Grace, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re suggesting. His Grace arrived in a most unfortunate condition, and I simply—”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Eleanor interrupted smoothly. “No proprietress with any sense would summon a duchess to witness her husband’s debauchery unless someone made it worth her while. The risk to your establishment’s reputation would be enormous.”
The woman’s face went pale beneath her rouge, but she maintained her facade. “Your Grace, I assure you, I was merely concerned for His Grace’s welfare—”