Dirt
Damien stepped into Abram’s opulent Chancery Lane office and surveyed the expensive mahogany furniture, Persian carpets, and crystal decanters that spoke of the solicitor’s affluent clients.
Abram looked up from his leather-topped desk, his pale eyes widening with alarm. Despite his expensive clothing, the man’s face bore the haggard look of someone who hadn’t slept well in months.
“Your Grace,” Abram stammered, rising unsteadily. “What an unexpected honor.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Damien settled into the chair opposite without invitation, noting the man’s fidgeting. “I would have thought you’d be expecting me, given your activities related to my duchess’s inheritance.”
Abram’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, Your Grace.”
“Then perhaps we should discuss the matter of my wife’s missing funds.” Damien withdrew Eleanor’s financial records, placing them on the desk with deliberate care. “Eight thousand pounds in eighteen months, by my calculations. A considerable sum to simply disappear.”
Abram’s face went ashen as he recognized the documents. “Your Grace, I can explain—”
“I’m certain you can.” Damien’s tone remained conversational despite the ice in his eyes. “Property sales credited for half their actual value, maintenance costs for repairs never completed, mysterious administrative fees that seem to have found their way into someone’s pocket…”
“There must be some mistake,” Abram protested weakly, though his eyes couldn’t meet Damien’s gaze.
“The only mistake was trusting you with Lady Sinclair’s welfare.” Damien leaned forward. “The question now becomes whether you return every stolen penny willingly, or whether I make your thievery a matter of public record.”
Abram’s hands shook as he reached for a handkerchief. “Your Grace, please… you don’t understand. I was an honest man before this began. Twenty years of honorable practice—”
“Before what began, Abram?”
“Before Lord Croft…” Abram’s voice cracked.
He buried his face in his hands before looking up with haunted eyes.
“He approached me shortly after Mr. Sinclair’s death.
He knew things… irregularities in how I’d handled other estates.
Minor errors, nothing criminal, but enough to destroy my reputation if revealed. ”
Damien’s interest sharpened. “Continue.”
“He said if I cooperated with his plans for Lady Sinclair, he’d ensure my past mistakes remained buried.
If I refused, he would see me ruined and expelled from the profession.
” Abram wiped his sweating brow. “I had no choice, Your Grace. My practice, my reputation, my family’s future—all of it hung in the balance. ”
“What plans for Lady Sinclair?”
Abram’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “To strip away her inheritance piece by piece until she had no choice but to seek a husband’s protection. When she became desperate enough, he would appear as her savior.”
“The blackguard,” Damien gritted out, pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity.
Abram’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lord Croft has been obsessed with Lady Sinclair since her come-out. When she refused his advances yet again after her husband’s death, he devised this scheme to force her hand.”
Damien felt cold fury settle in his chest. Croft hadn’t simply been targeting Eleanor’s business interests—he’d been orchestrating her complete destruction, planning to swoop in as her rescuer when she had nowhere else to turn.
“You systematically destroyed a grieving woman’s security for that predator’s convenience,” Damien said, his voice deadly quiet.
“I had no choice!” Abram gestured wildly with his hands. “And most of the money went to him anyway—payment for his silence about my past errors and funding for his own schemes. I kept barely enough to maintain appearances.”
“You have one month to return every stolen penny with interest,” Damien said finally, rising from his chair. “Every. Last. Penny.”
“Your Grace, that’s impossible!”
Damien laid a chilling stare on the man. “I will give you two months if you agree to report to me everything Croft demands of you.”
“Your Grace, please—two months is insufficient! Eight thousand pounds?” Abram’s voice cracked.
“I don’t have that kind of money. My practice is not lucrative enough, and what little I took was immediately passed to Croft as payment for his silence.
I’d need to sell everything I own and still couldn’t raise half that sum. ”
“Then you’ll work for me until it’s repaid,” Damien said coldly. “Every fee, every commission—it all goes toward your debt.”
“But Your Grace, that could take years! My family will starve!”
Damien studied the man’s genuine terror for a long moment. “Very well. Four thousand pounds—half the stolen amount—to be repaid over eight months. The remainder will be forgiven if you provide useful intelligence about Croft’s operations.”
Abram sagged with relief. “Yes, Your Grace. Anything you require.”
Damien turned and headed toward the door.
“Your Grace!” The man’s panicked voice called. “If you give me one year for the first payment, I can offer you something else you must know. Something terrible.”
Damien paused, his hand on the door. “Speak.”
“Lord Croft has filed a petition with the ecclesiastical court. He’s challenging the validity of your proxy marriage to Lady Sinclair.” Abram’s words tumbled out in a rush. “He claims the ceremony was improperly executed, that the documentation is fraudulent.”
The room seemed to tilt around Damien. “What?”
“He’s listed himself as co-petitioner, claiming he has evidence that your marriage is a legal fiction designed to circumvent proper inheritance laws.”
Damien’s hands clenched into fists. “How long do we have?”
“Six to eight months before you’re summoned to testify, perhaps longer if the court calendar is crowded. But Your Grace…” Abram swallowed hard. “He’s been gathering evidence, interviewing witnesses, building a case.”
“Can the petition be withdrawn?”
“Not without his signature as co-petitioner. And he’ll never agree.” Abram’s voice dropped lower. “The only way would be to make the original documents disappear entirely, but that would require tampering with court records. If caught, it would mean transportation to Australia.”
Damien absorbed this devastating news, his mind racing through implications and options. Croft had been playing a longer game than any of them realized—not just targeting Eleanor’s finances but systematically building a legal case to invalidate her protection entirely.
“You will report to Croft that his plans are progressing smoothly,” Damien said with deadly calm. “If you’re tempted to deceive me, remember that a duke’s shield carries considerably more weight than a viscount’s threats—assuming you do nothing further to earn my displeasure.”
As Damien left the office, he felt the pieces of Croft’s scheme crystallizing with chilling clarity. The systematic theft, the legal challenge, the calculated manipulation—all of it pointed to a man who planned years ahead and left nothing to chance.
But Croft had made one crucial miscalculation: he’d underestimated the woman he sought to possess. Eleanor had proven herself far more formidable than any of them had anticipated, and now she had a duke willing to fight just as ruthlessly as her enemy.
The familiar scent of expensive perfume and secrets greeted Damien as he entered the Lyon’s Den. The establishment’s opulent interior felt both welcoming and dangerous—much like its proprietress, who received him in the same crimson salon where they’d met before.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked up from her correspondence as he entered, her silver-streaked hair catching the firelight. She wore black as always, the somber color emphasizing her pale skin and shrewd dark eyes.
“Your Grace,” she said with a slight smile. “Two visits in a fortnight. How delightfully irregular.”
“Croft has filed a petition challenging my marriage,” Damien said without preamble. “He’s claiming the proxy ceremony was fraudulent.”
The Widow’s pen clattered to her desk, her composure cracking for the first time since Damien had known her. “What?” She leaned forward sharply. “When? How?”
“Filed with the ecclesiastical court, apparently weeks ago. Abram just confessed—Croft listed himself as co-petitioner, which means the petition can’t be withdrawn without his consent.
” Damien accepted the brandy she hastily poured.
“Abram was too terrified to tell me until I confronted him about Eleanor’s missing funds. ”
“The missing funds…” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice turned deadly quiet. “That was Croft’s work as well?”
“A two-year campaign to strip away Eleanor’s inheritance piece by piece.
Abram was blackmailed into cooperation—sell properties at losses, create false expenses, make her desperate enough to accept any husband’s protection.
” Damien’s jaw tightened. “When she refused Croft’s advances after Sinclair’s death, he decided to force her hand. ”
The Widow rose and began pacing, her usual elegant composure replaced by sharp calculation. “Bastard. He orchestrates her financial ruin, then swoops in as her savior. When the proxy marriage disrupts his plan, he attacks it legally while positioning himself to benefit from its failure.”
“Precisely. Abram estimates six to eight months before we’re summoned to defend the marriage’s validity.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stopped pacing, her dark eyes glittering with cold fury. “He’s attempting to unravel years of careful planning. My reputation depends on the success of arrangements like yours.”
“Then I assume you’ll help me destroy him?”
“Oh, my dear duke,” The Widow said with dangerous softness, “I’ll help you obliterate him. What do you know of his current operations?”
“That’s why I’m here. I need surveillance on his activities, particularly anything involving my brother.”