Chapter 11
The Pinkened Duke
Damien woke with a 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 cycle was 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.
The valet emerged from the closet, his normally impassive face showing distinct signs of misery.
In his hands, he clutched one of Damien’s pristine white shirts—except it was no longer pristine nor precisely white.
Instead, it had taken on a distinct rosy hue that no gentleman of quality would ever consider wearing.
“I regret to inform you, Your Grace,” Graves announced with the gravity of one delivering news of a death, “that there appears to have been an… incident with your linens. Every single white garment has been compromised.”
Damien stared at the pink shirt for a moment before a burst of laughter escaped him. “I see Her Grace has been busy in the night.”
“This is no laughing matter, Your Grace,” Graves protested, looking genuinely offended. “Every single shirt, cravat, and collar has been subjected to this… this desecration.” He brandished the garment as evidence. “Your reputation. Your dignity. Both compromised by this… pinkness.”
Damien’s shoulders shook with barely suppressed mirth. “Come now, Graves. You must admire the execution, the thoroughness.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not admire any aspect of this sabotage.” Graves began pacing, still clutching the offending shirt.
“We must remedy this situation immediately. Weston’s establishment would be able to provide suitable replacements, though they won’t officially open until ten.
However, I am acquainted with Mr. Weston’s assistant, Mr. Thurley, who could perhaps be persuaded to open early for a duke. ”
The valet continued without pausing for breath. “Or perhaps Lord Hartington’s man, Jenkins. We served together in the Archdale household before I entered your employ. He might intercede with the proprietor of Savile’s. Their quality isn’t quite what you’re accustomed to, but in an emergency—”
“Graves,” Damien interrupted the escalating emergency measures, “stop.”
The valet halted his pacing, looking at Damien with an expression that suggested his master might have taken leave of his senses.
“I have no intention of replacing anything,” Damien announced.
“But Your Grace—”
“In fact,” Damien continued, signaling the valet to follow him to the water closet, “I want you to dress me in the pinkest of the pink shirts. And find me the most hideous jacket to clash with it. Perhaps the moss green superfine? And those ghastly yellow breeches my aunt sent from Paris that we agreed should never see the light of day.”
Graves actually staggered backward. “Your Grace cannot be serious. The combination would be visible from Brighton.”
“Precisely.” Damien’s grin widened. “If my duchess wishes for a duke resembling a pink rose, then I shall give her an entire rose garden. I intend to wear her sabotage like a badge of honor.”
“Your Grace,” Graves’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper, “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to appear in public in such a manner. My professional reputation—”
“Will remain intact, as anyone who knows you would understand this could only be done under extreme duress.” Damien clapped his valet on the shoulder. “Come now, Graves. Enter into the spirit of the thing.”
The valet’s expression suggested he would rather enter into an early grave. “The pink with the moss green would create an optical assault. And the yellow breeches—” He broke off, seemingly unable to complete the thought.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Damien seated himself in a chair, still chuckling. “Oh, and Graves? See if you can find that paisley waistcoat my brother purchased for me in India. The one with the peacock embroidery.”
Graves closed his eyes briefly, no doubt saying a silent prayer for strength. “The peacock waistcoat. With the pink shirt. And the moss green jacket. And the yellow breeches.” Each item was enumerated with increasing despair.
“Don’t forget a pink cravat,” Damien added cheerfully. “Tied in the most elaborate knot you can manage.”
“The Mathematical,” Graves murmured, a man accepting his fate. “It will require starch to hold such a complex arrangement in that compromised fabric, but the effect will be…” He trailed off, unable to find an appropriate word.
“Memorable,” Damien supplied. “Which is precisely the point.”
As Graves retreated to the wardrobe with the resigned dignity of a martyr approaching the stake, Damien couldn’t help but chuckle at Eleanor’s tactics.
His indignant and haughty duchess possessed a sense of humor, though she ought to have anticipated his willingness to lean into the absurdity.
He wondered what her expression would be when he appeared at breakfast dressed like a particularly flamboyant tropical bird.
The thought warmed him more than it probably should.
Let the duchess believe she’d scored a victory. He would transform her sabotage into a statement, and in doing so, perhaps teach her that this particular duke would not be so easily routed.
Eleanor sat at the breakfast table, peacefully sipping her tea while inwardly savoring her triumph.
The musical society had performed admirably for the second morning in a row, and Mrs. Peters in the laundry had executed Eleanor’s instructions regarding the duke’s linens with precision.
By now, His Grace would be discovering that his pristine white shirts and cravats had taken on a most impractical shade of pink.
The thought of his expression made her smile into her cup.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway alerted her to the insufferable man’s approach. She arranged her features into a mask of polite indifference, determined not to reveal her anticipation.
When he appeared in the doorway, Eleanor nearly choked on her tea.
The Duke of Westmore stood before her in a pink shirt so vibrant it might have been dyed with crushed roses.
Rather than attempting to minimize the damage, he had paired it with a moss green jacket that clashed spectacularly, a peacock-embroidered waistcoat that defied description, and—most shocking of all—a pair of canary yellow breeches.
His cravat, also pink, had been tied in an elaborate knot that drew even more attention to the compromised fabric.
He looked like a garden in full, chaotic bloom.
“Good morning, my dear duchess,” the pink duke greeted her cheerfully, as though his appearance were entirely ordinary. “I trust you slept well?”
Eleanor swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice. “Your Grace,” she managed finally. “How colorful you look this morning.”
“Do you like it?” He turned in a slow circle, displaying the full horror of his ensemble. “I felt inspired to embrace a more vibrant palette today. One might say I’ve been… tickled pink.”
His knowing grin made it clear he was fully aware of her involvement in his wardrobe transformation. Eleanor fought to maintain her composure.
“The pink becomes you remarkably well,” she said with a sweetness that would rot teeth. “It brings out the uniqueness of your complexion.”
The pink duke laughed, seemingly delighted rather than offended. “How kind of you to notice. I’ve always believed gentlemen should be more adventurous in their attire.”
He settled into the chair opposite her, reaching for the teapot that had been specially prepared. Eleanor watched with carefully concealed anticipation as he poured himself a cup, added a generous spoonful of sugar, and raised it to his lips.
The moment he took a sip, his eyes widened. A fraction of a second later, he sprayed the liquid across the table, a significant portion dribbling down the front of his outrageous jacket and onto his pink shirt.