Chapter 8 The Musical Society
The Musical Society
Damien woke to the sound of catastrophe.
At least, that’s what it seemed—a cacophony of discordant notes that might generously be called music by someone who had never actually heard music before. He bolted upright, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar blue walls of the bedchamber before remembering where he was.
The noise became louder, a violin’s tortured wail competing with what might have been a human voice stretched beyond its natural capabilities. Below it all pulsed an irregular thumping that took him a moment to identify as a kettledrum being enthusiastically pummeled.
He groaned, falling back against the pillows and pulling one over his face. The pillow, unfortunately, proved an inadequate barrier against whatever musical massacre was occurring below his window.
A knock at the door preceded Graves’s entrance, the valet’s usual stoic expression betraying only the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?”
Damien lowered the pillow enough to fix his valet with a baleful glare. “What in God’s name is happening? Has a menagerie escaped into the garden?”
“I believe Her Grace referred to it as ‘the morning musical society,’” Graves replied, setting down a tray with coffee. “Apparently it’s a regular occurrence.”
“Regular?” Damien sat up fully, reaching gratefully for the steaming cup. “Surely not.”
“Indeed, sir. According to Simmons, whom I encountered at breakfast this morning, Her Grace has generously opened her home to struggling musicians every morning from nine o’clock.” Graves’s expression remained carefully neutral.
“How… philanthropic of her.” Damien took a long sip, wincing as the supposed soprano attempted a note that seemed physically impossible for a human to produce. “And did Simmons happen to mention how long this charitable endeavor has been underway?”
“Simmons mentioned that Her Grace announced this new schedule to the household staff only yesterday evening, with instructions that it would begin precisely at nine this morning, sir. You’ve been sleeping through the first hour of the performance.”
“Of course.” Damien’s lips curved into a reluctant smile. “Well played, Duchess. Well played.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, determined not to let Eleanor’s opening salvo in what promised to be an entertaining campaign deter him from his plans for the day.
“My bath, Graves. And I believe I’ll breakfast downstairs today.
Best not to hide away and give Her Grace the satisfaction. ”
“Very good, sir. Though I feel it my duty to inform you that breakfast was served at seven this morning. The household apparently rose quite early today.”
“Seven?” Damien looked at the clock on the mantel, which now showed half past nine. “That’s barbaric.”
“The kitchen staff mentioned that tomorrow, breakfast will be served at ten, as that is ‘the proper hour for civilized dining,’” Graves said, then touched the side of his nose meaningfully.
Damien laughed outright. “I see Her Grace intends to keep me off balance with an ever-changing schedule.” He drained his coffee cup. “No matter. I’ve subsisted on far less predictable meals during my travels.”
As Graves laid out his clothing, Damien moved to the window to observe the source of the continuing musical assault.
In the garden below, three figures were arranged in a semicircle: an elderly gentleman with spectacles perched on the end of his nose struggled with a violin, his arm moving with enthusiasm entirely disproportionate to his skill; a stout woman in a purple turban clutched a sheaf of music, her mouth open in what was presumably song; and a young boy of perhaps twelve years attacked a kettledrum with the joyful abandon of youth.
Seated on a garden bench observing this spectacle was Eleanor, looking fresh and lovely in a morning dress of pale blue. Even from this distance, Damien could see the satisfied smile playing about her lips as she nodded encouragement to her musical protégés.
“Remind me, Graves,” Damien said, turning from the window, “did we pack any cotton wool? I believe I may need it for my ears.”
Graves moved to a small chest and produced a box of cotton wool. “I took the liberty of procuring these from Mrs. Wright after my conversation with Simmons. I suspected you might find them useful.”
“Excellent man. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” Damien inserted the cotton into his ears, the blessed muffling of the cacophony bringing immediate relief.
After his ablutions, Damien made his way to the kitchen, cotton wool still firmly in place. The musical torture had ended, but he could still hear the phantom echoes of the vocal assault.
The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, with Cook directing preparations for the midday meal while two scullery maids worked at the great sink. All conversation ceased when Damien appeared in the doorway, the staff immediately straightening into respectful attention.
“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 at her 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.”
As the maid departed, Eleanor sank into her chair, her earlier amusement completely extinguished.
She’d been treating their conflict like a game of wits, but Damien had been playing an entirely different game—one with real stakes.
His investigation into her business interests wasn’t casual curiosity; it was strategic intelligence gathering.
The man who’d applauded her musical torture with such good humor, who’d shown kindness to Tommy—that same man had been systematically extracting information about her financial vulnerabilities behind her back.
The charming facade was just that: a performance designed to lower her guard while he mapped her weaknesses.
Eleanor’s hands clenched in her lap. She’d been a fool to find his behavior endearing. A straightforward opponent would have confronted her directly about her business affairs. Instead, Damien had chosen deception, using her own servants’ loyalty against her.
The Duke of Westmore had just shown his true colors, and they were far more dangerous than she’d imagined.