Page 9 of The Not So Perfect Duke

Eleanora took on a serious but concerned look. “Reject the case. I could not bear it if you were hurt by this scoundrel in any way. I remember you distinctly said: ‘He’s everything I loathe in a man: his wealthy class, his arrogance, his blasé lifestyle, he’s immoral to his core.’ Then you claimed: ‘I can never be alone with Brookton, for there lays the danger. To my sanity and most especially my heart.’”

“Do you remember everything I say verbatim?” Althea huffed, annoyed at being reminded of her early impressions of Damon.

“Regarding this, yes. My dear sister, the alarm bells are clanging at full peal. Can’t you hear them? You obviously harbor mixed emotions concerning this man. I want you to be absolutely certain you can remain detached and professional regarding Chellenham.”

Althea raised an eyebrow. “Like you did with Christian?” She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t want to argue. It’s my decision to make. I warned you about becoming involved with Christian, but you drew your own conclusions, and I respected them. All I ask is that you esteem my choice. Whatever it may be.”

Eleanora sighed and reached for a ginger biscuit. “I also knew that you spoke common sense, but my heart told me something else. Just be cautious.”

Precisely. Althea’s heart ruled her options here; she might as well admit it. She would hear Chellenham out and go from there. As far as hiding her emotions, that may be more formidable to accomplish.

* * *

Damon arrived at Cleveland Street promptly at eleven. Althea’s housekeeper-cook, Mrs. Bartle, showed him into the office.

“His Grace, The Duke of Chellenham,” Mrs. Bartle announced imperiously. Then she gave Althea a playful wink and closed the door behind her.

The new duke did not breeze into the room with his usual arrogant, confident air. Damon was more subdued, solemn, and closed off. But what did she know of him, as they only conversed a few times? But those exchanges were heated, and not only the conversation. As Eleanora said—electricity. Already, Althea’s emotions were pinging in all directions.

“Please, take a seat, Your Grace.” Mrs. Bartle had brought a tea tray before Damon arrived. “Would you care for tea?” she asked politely.

“Yes. Although, that is all I have been drinking for hours now.”

As Althea poured, she said, “May I offer my condolences on your loss?”

“Right. Condolences. Thank you. As far as being duke, it is not official until I am issued a Writ of Summons from the Queen, where I have to go through some trivial ceremony to take my seat in the House of Lords.” He took the proffered cup and saucer.

“You didn’t already sit in the house, Your Grace?”

“First, let us dispense with the Your Gracing. If you take my case, it will become tedious for us both. Damon or Chellenham. I prefer Damon when we are alone for various reasons, one being that hearing the Chellenham title reminds me of my father. And I would rather not be reminded.” He exhaled. “Brookton was a courtesy title, and I could not sit in the house unless given special dispensation.”

How baffling, but Althea was not aware of all the intricacies of aristos and the titles. “Then why didn’t Whinstone take his seat in the House of Lords?”

Sanford Ellingford, the Duke of Whinstone, was Gideon Broyles, the Duke of Watford’s stepfather and the key villain in the case she had taken this past spring.

“The dukedom was bankrupt, and so was his soul, for that matter,” Damon responded. “Bankrupt peers cannot be seated, and neither can lunatics. Supposedly. It will be a few months before his title is stripped from him. I heard Whinstone is in a reform prison where he is given good meals and a warm bed. Yet, a poor man is sentenced to prison in a drafty old castle, like HM Prison Oxford, where he spends his days walking a treadmill or turning a crank, given gruel to eat and a pallet for a bed. Though I hear that hard labor practice is finally coming to an end.”

Althea smiled, delighted that the new duke knew of such particulars and how it affected the lower classes. “Perhaps that is a deserving subject you can get behind in the House of Lords, further reform for prisons.”

Damon adjusted his cuffs and sniffed. “I would prefer to discuss what I came here for. To hire you and your agency.”

And there was the haughty, imperturbable duke. Why she kept trying to see any good in him was beyond her typical sound reasoning. Disappointed, Althea fussed with her notebook and pencil.

“Then, by all means, let’s keep this professional. What can I help you with?” Althea replied using her business-like voice.

“I want you specifically to handle the case. Wenlock and Watford sing your praises. And Allenby, obviously.” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a small cloth bag. “The first payment. Twenty gold sovereigns.”

“Money, though welcome, is not an inducement for me to take any case. I will need more information first.”

“The money is a bonus for the stipulations that will be part of this investigation. I want to be involved every step of the way, as Allenby was with his situation. This is non-negotiable.”

Althea scowled as she disliked anyone establishing conditions on her inquiries. “Won’t that interfere with your thoroughly debauched lifestyle? How will you cope?” she replied sarcastically. Honestly, this man brought out the worst in her, and Althea did not like it.

“Still interested in my private life? Do you wish to ask me probing questions as you did in Allenby’s case?” Damon replied with mockery in his tone.

Althea shook her head, embarrassed at her statement. His personal life was none of her business.

She was ready to apologize when he said, “I will make a pact here and now. Throughout this case, I will live as a proverbial monk, be at your beck and call, day or night. For the investigation, of course.”