Chapter 17 The Reckoning
The Reckoning
Damien’s consciousness returned in waves of agony, each pulse of his heart sending hammers through his skull.
The taste in his mouth was vile—metallic and bitter, as though he’d been chewing on copper coins soaked in laudanum.
He groaned and attempted to sit up, immediately regretting the movement as the room spun violently around him.
Fragments of memory flickered through his mind like candle flames in a windstorm. He remembered entering a gaming hell near the docks, following a lead about Croft. There had been wine—too much wine—and then… nothing. Complete darkness.
His mouth felt as dry as parchment, his tongue thick and unresponsive. Water. He needed water desperately. Damien reached toward the bell pull beside his bed, his hand trembling with the effort. The simple movement exhausted him, and he collapsed back against the pillows, breathing heavily.
The door opened almost immediately, which surprised him—servants were rarely so prompt at this hour. But instead of Graves or one of the footmen, Eleanor stepped into the room, carrying a crystal glass filled with blessed, clear water.
The sight of her made his parched throat constrict further, though not from thirst. She wore a day dress of deep green fabric, her caramel brown hair arranged meticulously, every inch the composed duchess.
But her blue eyes… Christ, her eyes held a coldness that made him wish he could sink back into unconsciousness.
“Eleanor,” he croaked, his voice barely recognizable. “Thank God. Water, please—”
She remained by the door, the glass tantalizingly out of reach. Her posture was rigid, her expression carefully controlled in a way that spoke of barely leashed fury.
“Before I provide you with anything,” she said, her voice so coolly polite it might have been addressing an unwelcome caller, “I require some information.”
Damien’s head pounded mercilessly, and the room seemed to tilt at odd angles. “Eleanor, please. I can barely think—”
“What happened last night?” she interrupted, moving no closer with the water. “And I don’t merely want to know which establishment you went to. I mean why were you there, what you were doing.”
The careful neutrality of her tone was more terrifying than if she’d been screaming. Damien tried to focus through the fog of whatever drug was still coursing through his system. Something was very wrong—more wrong than a simple night of excess would warrant.
“I was… gambling,” he managed, attempting a weak smile that felt more like a grimace. “Terrible luck at cards lately. Probably lost half your fortune by now.” His voice cracked on the words, the jest falling flat even to his own ears.
Eleanor’s expression didn’t change. “Is that your final answer?”
“Eleanor, what’s happened? You look as though—”
“At half past two this morning,” she said, her voice cutting through his fumbling words like a blade, “I was summoned from my bed by a messenger. From Madame Rousseau’s establishment.”
Damien’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “What?”
“I was instructed to collect my husband, who was found unconscious and naked, entangled with two equally naked women.” Each word was delivered with a sharp edge. “Thoroughly drugged and completely insensible.”
The room spun more violently, though Damien suspected this time it had nothing to do with laudanum. “Eleanor, I swear to you—”
“You were discovered in such a compromising state that the brothel keeper felt compelled to summon me rather than simply deposit you in a hackney.” Her knuckles were white where she gripped the water glass. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me to walk into that room? To see you…”
For the first time, her composure cracked slightly, revealing a flash of raw hurt before she regained control.
Damien felt sick. “I don’t remember. Eleanor. I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t remember anything after entering a gaming house near Whitechapel.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s the truth!” His voice came out stronger than he’d thought possible, fueled by desperation. “I was following a lead about—” He stopped abruptly. Damien closed his eyes, his head pounding so fiercely he could barely think.
“Croft had been spotted around Whitechapel. I was following leads, checking opium dens, questioning anyone who might have seen him with Dominic,” he said, opening his eyes to meet her gaze.
Eleanor’s expression remained stoic.
“You must know I’ve been scouring the worst parts of London, trying to find Dominic before Croft’s associates finish what they started.” The words tumbled out, his desperate need for water forgotten in the face of her disbelief.
“And you expect me to believe that in all these establishments—these dens and brothels—you never once availed yourself of the services offered?” Her voice held a note of bitter skepticism. “A man surrounded by willing women?”
Damien felt heat rise in his neck despite his physical weakness. “I’ve had no interest in other women.”
“How remarkably restrained of you.” Eleanor stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she moved forward and placed the water glass on his bedside table.
“Drink,” she said quietly. “And then rest. We’ll discuss this further when you’re more yourself.”
Damien reached for the glass with shaking hands, draining it in desperate gulps. The cool water soothed his parched throat but did nothing for the fear in his chest as he watched Eleanor move toward the door.
“Eleanor,” he called after her. “I know how this looks. I know what you must think of me. But I swear to you, on everything I hold sacred, I have not touched another woman since I met you.”
She paused at the threshold, her hand on the door handle. “This is precisely the reason I opposed your direct involvement. Lord Croft orchestrated this incident,” she said without turning around. “The madame confessed everything. You were drugged for my discovery.”
Relief flooded through Damien so powerfully it left him dizzy. “Then you believe me?”
Eleanor finally turned to face him, and the complexity of emotions in her expression made his heart clench. “I believe you were drugged, yes. Whether I believe the rest…” She shook her head. “That remains to be seen.”
She left him alone with his pounding head and the devastating realization that Lord Croft had succeeded in poisoning the one relationship that had come to matter more than Damien had ever imagined possible.
As he lay back against the pillows, one thought echoed through his mind with crystalline clarity: he could not allow Croft to get away with this. Not what he’d done to Dominic, not what he had tried to do to Eleanor.
And to them.