Page 4 of The Not So Perfect Duke

Regardless, Damon stood and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Yes, Mother. We will keep in touch. In fact, I will stay a few days. And I want to meet my half-brother. How old is he?”

His mother smiled. “Soon to be 17 years old. And yes, please stay, Damon. I have a guest room overlooking the water. We have so much to catch up on.”

“Thank you, I will take you up on the kind offer.”

Mateo entered with a tray and sat it before the duchess. She quickly wiped away another tear, then waved the servant away. Damon took his seat.

“Take your coat off, roll up your sleeves, relax in the sun and sip your brandy. This will take some time. I will write down the names I am aware of and note the name of the orphanage. All I know is that it is in the East End.” She peeked up from the papers. “Does your father still employ that muscle-bound thug, Silas Browning?”

Damon nodded and removed his coat as his mother suggested. The oppressive heat was starting to make him feel dizzy.

“Question him, for I believe he was involved in this scheme. Also, question any servants working for your father since our marriage. Although, I imagine there are hardly any left.”

“Perhaps I will. I do not want the duke to know what I am doing. At least, not right away.”

“The people on this list will not thank you for locating them,” his mother murmured as she dipped the pen into the ink bottle.

Damon rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and stretched out his legs. “I want to know that they are well, and I will be cautious in my dealings if any need assistance, monetary or otherwise.”

“You are stirring up a hornet’s nest. Perhaps you should hire an investigative agency,” his mother suggested.

A slow smile crept across his face as he thought of the lovely Miss Althea Galway.

“I have just the investigative agency in mind.”

Chapter 1

London, England

Late July 1898

It was an unexpected death but not a shock, considering the circumstances. So, when Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton, was called to his father’s town house at two in the morning to identify the body, it churned up a temporary maelstrom of emotions. As his mother had noted, Damon was adept at tucking away such bothersome feelings. Ever since he was old enough to form cognitive thoughts and understand what they meant.

Some of the staff huddled together at the bottom of the stairs, whispering furiously. MacClery, his father’s butler, stepped forward to take his hat and cloak. The Scotsman had served his father for as long as Damon could remember, and as far as Damon was concerned, the middle-aged man was one of his father’s inner circle of collaborators.

“The police await you upstairs, Your Grace.”

Damon whipped his head around as if to look for his father. Then it hit him. He was the Duke of Chellenham now.

Damn, and blast it all to hell.

After taking the stairs two at a time, he strode nonchalantly toward his father’s chambers. A woman’s wailing filled his hearing. Of course, his father wasn’t alone when he died. What did the working classes call it? He had heard the saying often enough during his many East End haunts.

“He’s popped his clogs.”

Yes, that was it.

Damon was overcome with a sudden urge to giggle. Entirely inappropriate considering the situation. But the impulse to laugh dissipated as soon as he entered his father’s bedroom. Two uniformed policemen were taking notations. A man in a suit was setting up a camera while another man in an overcoat stood nearby. In the corner of the room, a young woman wrapped in a sheet sat on the floor, shaking, and crying. Then Damon turned toward the bed.

His father was naked and on his knees with a belt around his neck. The other end of the strap was attached to the bedpost, and it kept him in that indelicate position. The duke’s lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Damon’s gaze slid lower. Good God. That he didn’t need to see.

The man wearing the long coat stepped forward. “My lord? I am Detective Mitchell Evercreech, Metropolitan Police, B Division.”

Damon had to bite his lip to stem the inappropriate laughter from escaping. He had to gain control of himself. What kind of name was that for a copper? Evercreech? And—

It had been only five days since he had returned from Spain. The Duchess had given him a list of names of illegitimate children sired by his father. At least the ones that she knew of. Damon had yet to begin to investigate, let alone set up an appointment with The Galway Agency.

Evercreech was one of the names.