Chapter 9 His Grace’s Tentacles
His Grace’s Tentacles
The library was Damien’s favorite room thus far in Eleanor’s—now his—London home.
Two stories of books lined with mahogany shelves, rolling ladders to reach the highest volumes, comfortable leather chairs positioned near the windows for optimal reading light.
It was the library of a family that valued knowledge above display.
He sat at the massive oak desk, ledgers spread before him, though his attention was more focused on the legal documents tucked between their pages.
The documents were masterfully crafted as The Widow’s solicitors had done everything possible within the constraints of coverture law.
But Damien’s signature had been a gentleman’s agreement rather than a binding constraint.
As her husband, he retained absolute authority over every asset.
What impressed him more than the legal framework was Eleanor’s financial acumen since their proxy wedding.
The ledgers revealed gradual but systematic recovery from Abram’s depredations—shrewd investments, careful economizing, strategic partnerships that aimed to rebuild what the solicitor had stolen. Her progress was impressive.
Remarkable enough that the restored funds could finance his entailed property’s complete renovation or support a comfortable life abroad for the time being. She’d given him back his choices—estate, exile, or whatever future he might envision.
Just as his heart filled with relief and gratitude, the door opened with a decisive click. Damien looked up to find his duchess standing in the doorway, her expression a careful mask of polite inquiry that didn’t quite hide the concern in her eyes.
“Ah, Eleanor. Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully. “Your musical society is quite unique. I particularly enjoyed the drum solo. Very innovative.”
Eleanor seemed momentarily thrown by his pleasant tone. “I’m glad you found it entertaining. Simmons mentioned you were reviewing the estate ledgers?”
Damien leaned back in the chair, deliberately casual. “Just familiarizing myself with our holdings. A duke should understand his responsibilities, don’t you agree?”
She advanced into the room, her gaze fixed on the open books. “Those are my private financial matters.”
“Technically, as your husband, they’re my financial matters.” He smiled to soften the words. “But as we agreed last night, they remain under your management. I’m merely educating myself.”
Eleanor reached the desk and glanced down at the open pages. “You’re reviewing the trust documents for the hospital.”
“Indeed. Fascinating structure. The Widow’s solicitors created a nearly impenetrable arrangement.” He tapped a paragraph with his finger. “Though I’ve noticed a potential vulnerability.”
That caught her attention. “Meaning?”
“The hospital’s protection depends entirely on the legitimacy of our proxy marriage documentation.” Damien pointed to a specific clause. “Our enemies could challenge certain technical aspects of how the paperwork was executed.”
Eleanor frowned. “What sort of technical aspects?”
“Witness qualifications, filing procedures, jurisdictional questions.” He turned a page in the documents.
“For instance, I notice that one of the witnesses to the proxy ceremony appears to have signed with a mark rather than a full signature. A clever solicitor might question whether that person was qualified to serve as a legal witness.”
“Surely such minor details wouldn’t invalidate a marriage,” Eleanor protested. “Especially one involving a duke.”
“You’re right. My title would make such challenges extremely difficult.
Another reason for me to stay,” Damien said.
“But even a temporary legal question about the marriage’s validity could create complications for your hospital during the investigation.
Delays in funding, questions about property ownership… ”
Her expression grew troubled. “I hadn’t considered that angle.”
“Which brings me to a suggestion,” Damien said, closing the ledger. “We should attend Lady Harrington’s ball this Season.”
The sudden change of subject seemed to disorient her. “Lady Harrington’s… Is that absolutely necessary? Could we not be seen at Hyde Park?”
“To establish the legitimacy of our marriage,” he said reasonably, “a public appearance of import would make it considerably more difficult for anyone to claim our union is merely a legal fiction.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You cannot be merely concerned with protecting my interests.”
“Our interests align more than you’re willing to acknowledge,” he countered. “Besides, I’ve developed a particular dislike for your Mr. Abram based on what I’ve observed in these ledgers.”
“He’s not my Mr. Abram,” she corrected somewhat vehemently. “And I avoid the Season’s entertainments when possible. Nothing invites gossip quite like a widow whose circumstances have become reduced.”
“All the more reason our appearance would be noted,” Damien pointed out. “Tongues will wag about the duke returned from abroad and his reclusive duchess. Better that than whispers about a contractual marriage.”
Eleanor was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing her options. Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Lady Harrington’s ball.”
“Excellent. I look forward to escorting my wife in public for the first time.” He stood, gathering the ledgers. “I trust you received word about our luncheon arrangements?”
“You mean how you countermanded my orders to my own staff?”
“Not at all. I merely resolved a scheduling confusion.” His expression was all innocence. “Besides, dining in your study seemed the perfect compromise—neither the hot conservatory nor the formal dining room. Intimate, comfortable, and convenient for your correspondence.”
Eleanor tried not to display her defeat even though he’d arranged for them to share a meal in her private sanctuary, with her own staff’s eager cooperation. “That was… presumptuous,” she managed.
“I am nothing if not considerate, Duchess.” His smile was infuriatingly charming. “Shall we?”
Eleanor stared at her bedchamber ceiling that night, mentally cataloging the day’s failures.
The musical society had been ineffective.
The schedule had barely fazed him. The specially prepared luncheon—a dish crafted with his own Oriental spices and prepared exactly as he had instructed—had been devoured with obvious pleasure, while she had barely managed a few bites of the searingly spiced creation.
Worse, he’d charmed her household staff entirely.
Mrs. Wright had actually giggled when he’d complimented her on the “creative” table settings.
The footmen seemed to stand taller when he entered a room.
Even Simmons, who had served the Sinclair family with dignified reserve for decades, seemed to have developed an unseemly admiration for the duke.
“Tomorrow must be different,” she murmured to herself.
She slipped from her bed and moved to her writing desk, lighting a single candle.
There was still time to arrange a surprise for His Grace.
A quick note to the head laundress, with a small packet of powdered madder root enclosed and very specific instructions about the duke’s shirts and cravats.
She sealed the note with a satisfied smile, picturing His Most Inconvenient Grace’s face when he discovered his pristine white linens had taken on a distinctive rosy hue.
Just in time for Lady Harrington’s ball.
Eleanor slid the notes into envelopes and placed them on her bedside table for delivery first thing in the morning. She blew out her candle and settled back against her pillows with a satisfied smile.
In the darkness, she refused to acknowledge the small, traitorous part of her mind that had rather enjoyed watching her counterfeit husband’s face across the luncheon table, his eyes alight with humor as he parried her every attempt to discomfort him.
There was something almost exhilarating about matching wits with someone who recognized her strategies and countered with his own.
She could see the definite advantages to having the duke remain in England—a duke in residence would indeed wield considerable influence on her behalf when needed.
Abram would think twice before attempting further theft with a peer of the realm monitoring the accounts.
Her charity donors would be impressed by ducal patronage.
Society’s doors would open more readily to a duchess with her husband by her side.
But consummating their marriage was entirely out of the question.
She had worked too hard to secure her independence to risk it all for a momentary passion.
Physical intimacy would only complicate their arrangement, create emotional entanglements that could cloud her judgment when the time came for him to leave.
And he would leave eventually. Men like Damien Westmore didn’t abandon their grand adventures for domestic tranquility, no matter how temporarily appealing they might find it. And there was the matter of Westmore Hall, his ducal estate, which he couldn’t neglect indefinitely.
No, far better to maintain the boundaries between them, to treat this as the business arrangement it was meant to be. Even if his smile did make her pulse quicken in the most inconvenient ways.
In his chamber, Damien sat writing by lamplight, his quill moving rapidly across several sheets of paper. The correspondence before him was addressed to various contacts throughout London—former naval officers now working the docks, a shopkeeper near Covent Garden, and his solicitor in Gray’s Inn.
He paused over the letter to his solicitor, carefully adding a postscript in a peculiar hand that seemed to emphasize certain letters while minimizing others.
To the untrained eye, it appeared to be nothing more than a casual addition.
To those who understood the code they’d developed during Damien’s time abroad, it contained a request to share information about Lord Croft’s recent activities.
The duke sealed each letter with wax, pressing his signet ring into the hot puddles. As he completed the final seal, Graves entered with a steaming pot of tea.
“More correspondence, Your Grace?” the valet inquired, setting down the tray.
“Information gathering,” Damien replied, shuffling the letters into a neat stack. “After all we went through in Singapura and Macao to exorcise his demon…” Damien’s jaw tightened. “Croft knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing Dominic back into that circle.”
“And Her Grace? Does she suspect anything?”
Damien’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “She’s too busy trying to drive me from London to notice my comings and goings—so determined she’s even suffering through musical massacres.”
He rose and moved to the window, looking out at the darkened garden where Eleanor’s musical society had performed their cacophonous concert. “She’s quite formidable, you know. Intelligent, determined. The hospital ledgers I reviewed show remarkable financial acumen.”
“A pity you cannot confide in her,” Graves remarked as he turned down the bed.
“Too dangerous. For her reputation as much as for my mission. The less she’s publicly connected to Dominic’s situation, the better.” Damien returned to his desk and gathered the letters. “These need to go out with the first messenger tomorrow. And Graves…”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Procure cotton wool for all the household staff before tomorrow’s musical performance. We’ll all need it as we’ll be subjected to an encore.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
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.