Chapter 16 A Rude Awakening
A Rude Awakening
Eleanor sat behind her mahogany desk in her private study, examining the week’s schedule with careful attention. The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the neat stack of correspondence and account books arranged before her.
Her fingers traced absently over the day’s entries, but her mind wandered to her husband’s increasingly reticent behavior.
She rarely crossed paths with him now as he slept well past noon, emerged briefly in the afternoon with bloodshot eyes and disheveled appearance, and vanished again after a hasty meal, not returning until the early hours of the morning.
Twice she had encountered him in the foyer near dawn, his cravat loose, his jacket rumpled, and the unmistakable scent of cheap perfume clinging to his clothing.
Was he truly spending every evening searching squalid gaming hells and opium dens for his brother, or was he also seeking other diversions during his long nights away from home?
A hollow ache formed in her chest each time she imagined him in the arms of some faceless woman. The thought of him finding comfort with someone else while treating her with such studied indifference made her stomach clench.
This was mere wounded pride, she told herself firmly. After all, what claim did she have on his fidelity when their arrangement was purely practical? But the rational explanations felt hollow against the sharp stab of something that felt suspiciously like betrayal.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her troubled thoughts.
“Enter,” she called, setting down her pen.
Jack Hawkins stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Even in the fine livery of Eleanor’s household, there was no disguising his seafaring past—broad-shouldered and solid, with a weathered face that spoke of years battling the elements.
He carried himself with quiet dignity despite the slight limp from an old injury sustained at sea.
“You wished to see me, Your Grace?” he asked, standing respectfully before her desk.
“Yes, Jack. Please sit.” She gestured to the chair opposite. “Have you been making inquiries about the duke, as I requested?”
Jack settled into the chair, his keen eyes attentive. “Yes, Your Grace. Discreet ones, as instructed.”
“And what have you learned about His Grace’s nightly activities?”
Eleanor studied him thoughtfully. George had hired Jack on the recommendation of a shipping captain, recognizing both his intelligence and loyalty.
After George’s death, Jack had proven invaluable, using his connections at the docks to help her protect what assets he could from Abram’s grasping hands.
If anyone could provide the information she needed, it would be him.
Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He’s been seen frequently in the dock areas, Your Grace. The establishments there cater to gentlemen seeking… entertainment.”
Eleanor kept her expression composed despite the twist in her stomach. “I see. And he appears to be partaking in such entertainment?”
“From what my contacts observe, yes, Your Grace. He seems comfortable in those surroundings, familiar with the proprietors.” Jack’s tone remained carefully neutral.
“Though I should mention, there was a sighting of Lord Croft near those same areas five nights past. This may explain His Grace’s sudden interest in frequenting such places. ”
Eleanor’s pulse quickened. “So the duke may truly be searching rather than indulging.”
“It’s possible, Your Grace. Though the two activities aren’t mutually exclusive in such places.”
Eleanor felt heat rise to her cheeks at the implication. “Is there… does he favor a particular establishment? A particular woman?”
Jack shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. “Not to my knowledge, Your Grace. He seems to move between several locations, though I cannot say what transpires within.”
“And what of Lady Laura? I understand she was practically engaged to the duke before his departure.”
“Ah yes, Your Grace.” Jack seemed relieved by the change of subject. “Lady Laura remained unwed after His Grace’s departure three years ago. She was secretly sent away from London some months ago due to illness, according to her father’s household.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “How unusual. What sort of illness requires such secrecy?”
“No one seems to know. The family has been remarkably tight-lipped. Some whisper of nervous complaints, others suggest something more… delicate in nature.” Jack’s expression grew troubled. “Though she was seen at Lady Harrington’s ball recently, which surprised many given her supposed poor health.”
“I see. And after the ball?”
“That’s where it becomes concerning, Your Grace. She was observed leaving with Lord Croft that evening and hasn’t been seen since. Her family claims she returned to her retreat for continued recovery, but…” Jack shrugged meaningfully.
“But you doubt that’s the truth.”
“Given Lord Croft’s reputation and the circumstances of her departure from the ball, yes, Your Grace. It seemed less like a social escort and more like… well, one wonders if her absence from London was entirely voluntary.”
Eleanor felt a chill of understanding. “You think she’s been under Croft’s influence this entire time?”
“It would explain the secrecy surrounding her ‘illness’ and her family’s evasiveness about her whereabouts,” Jack replied grimly. “And given His Grace’s recent return to London and his obvious concerns, one suspects there might be a connection.”
Eleanor inwardly shuddered at the thought. The timing of Lady Laura’s disappearance and the duke’s increasingly desperate search efforts seemed more than coincidental. Was he truly searching London’s underworld for his brother—or was he pursuing his former love?
“Continue your observations,” she instructed, keeping her voice even. “I want to know immediately if you learn anything more about Lord Dominic’s whereabouts or Lady Laura’s situation.”
“Of course. I do have information regarding the Westmore ancestral estate, Your Grace.”
Eleanor’s attention sharpened. “What news?”
“The place is empty of servants, Your Grace. Most of the valuable furnishings were removed before the staff departed, though my sources believe much of it was sold rather than stored.” Jack’s weathered face grew grim.
“Whatever remained, the local villagers have helped themselves to. Windows, doors, anything that could be pried loose and sold.”
“And the condition of the property itself?”
“Poor, Your Grace. There was a fire last year—damaged one wing considerably. Part of the roof in the east section is still open to the elements, and the rain this autumn has caused significant damage to the interior.” Jack paused meaningfully.
“My contacts report that both Westmore brothers visited to assess the situation shortly after the fire, but they lacked the funds for proper restoration. The minimal repairs they attempted have since deteriorated further.”
Eleanor felt a pang of sympathy despite herself. No wonder the duke had needed the marriage arrangement. His family’s legacy was literally crumbling around him. The duke who was so devoted to his family must have found it heartbreaking to witness his ancestral home falling into ruin.
“Thank you for the information, Jack. Most illuminating.” Eleanor dismissed him with a nod, but as the door closed behind him, she found herself staring out the window, her mind churning with uncomfortable possibilities.
Eleanor jolted awake to the sound of urgent knocking at her chamber door.
The mantel clock showed half past two in the morning, its hands barely visible in the dying embers of her fireplace.
She reached for her wrapper, her heart racing as she considered what emergency could warrant such a disturbance.
“Your Grace!” Simmons’s voice carried through the heavy oak, strained with an emotion she’d never heard from her usually composed butler. “Your Grace, you must come at once!”
Eleanor opened the door to find Simmons in his nightshirt and hastily donned jacket, his gray hair disheveled and his face pale with distress. Behind him stood a thin, nervous man she didn’t recognize, clutching a worn cap in grimy hands.
“What’s happened?” she demanded, immediately fearing the worst. “Is someone hurt?”
“Your Grace,” Simmons began, his voice carefully controlled, “this gentleman has brought urgent word regarding His Grace. There’s been an… incident.”
The stranger stepped forward, his eyes darting about nervously. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but I was sent to fetch you. His Grace, he’s… well, he ain’t in a fit state to return home on his own.”
Eleanor’s stomach dropped. “Where is my husband?”
“At Madame Rousseau’s establishment, Your Grace.” The man’s cheeks reddened. “Near Covent Garden. Madame sent me personal-like, said it was most urgent you come collect him before there’s talk.”
The implications gutted Eleanor like nothing ever had.
A brothel. Her husband was in a brothel, in such a state that the proprietress felt compelled to summon his wife rather than simply depositing him in a hackney.
The humiliation burned through her, followed swiftly by a cold intensity hovering between anger and hurt.
“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.”