Page 4 of The Devil of Drury Lane
“Hold up, there,” he said as his brothers stumbled past. They’d been celebrating Cort’s engagement to Alexandra Mountbatten at Ye Grapes, and Damien was the only DeWitt moderately steady on his feet—and he was fairly foxed himself.
“Quite right, quite right,” the Duke of Herschel murmured as he peered into the shop. Swaying, he adjusted his sodden beaver hat with a subtle burp. “I agree, a present for the bride is in order. We can’t go back empty-handed on such an auspicious day. Not when our brother has finally corralled his wild filly after years of angst and yearning.” Chortling, Knox elbowed Cort in the ribs, sending them both skipping a step. “The bonnet with the ostrich feather there in the corner would make a fine gift for my future sister-in-law, would it not? Matches her eyes, or close to it.”
“Peacock,” Damien corrected, unable to help himself. He wasn’t sure why he bothered when they were unlikely to hear him over the shouts of the magician performing for a small crowd behind them. “Ostrich feathers are typically one color.”
“Always playing the professor,” Knox growled, “when dukes don’t like to be corrected. Especially by their little brothers. Ones who insist on carrying books everywhere they go.”
“He is a professor, you fool.” Cort snorted, scrubbing raindrops from his cheek. He’d lost his hat at the Coach and Horses, the first pub they’d visited. An establishment where the owner, despite having a titled nob and his siblings in attendance, had asked them to leave after the brawl. Knox had more than compensated the publican for the broken table and glassware. “Alex would never wear any damn bird hat. And her eyes are bloody violet. The most remarkable shade in England.”
“Love, love, bloody love. I’m sick to death hearing about it,” His Grace groaned and dropped his head to his hands.
The scent of roasted nuts and meat pies swept past Damien on a gusty London breath, welcome above the lingering stench of coal smoke. Yanking his lapels against his neck, he wrestled the millinery door wide. Dried flowers and splashes of color lit the place, decidedly feminine, spaces he didn’t often inhabit. Unlike his brothers, he’d never kept a mistress, never kept anyone long enough to need to purchase gifts.
Nevertheless, his aloofness seemed to attract the opposite sex. He wasn’t sure what they’d think about his inexperience, should he admit to it. Perching his hip on the counter, Damien rang the bell to summon the owner, surmising with an academic mental checkmark that his appeal was undoubtedly due to his connection to a duke.
Because he wasn’t charming in the least.
The shopkeeper strolled through the curtained back entrance, her crimson silk skirt swirling around her, an elaborate bonnet in each hand. The men stilled as one cannot help but do when faced with such startling beauty. Damien recorded her traits on a list in his mind. Tall, willowy, blonde. Nothing like the crotchety milliner who’d smelled of peas that his mother had frequented. Damien actually heard Knox swallow as his brother shouldered in beside him, a length of satin dangling in his fingers.
Damien smiled behind his fist. It wasn’t often the Duke of Herschel was left speechless.
The milliner took one look at them—swaying and blinking and laughing—and sighed. Somehow, Damien knew she’d easily comprehended their inebriated state. “I’m Miss Marlowe, the proprietor. How may I help you?”
“This,” Knox rasped and extended the crumpled ribbon across the counter. His expression was that of a man who’d taken a blow to the head.
Placing the hats on the counter, her gorgeous lips kicked up a notch, exposing a dimple Damien feared would send his brother to his knees. “Unfortunately, this was once attached to a poke bonnet.” She tapped the underside of her chin. “It’s purpose was to secure the piece to the owner’s head, you see.”
Damien fished his spectacles from his pocket. “Find the bonnet the ribbon went with, will you, Knox? That’s the one for Alex. Particularly since you’ve damaged it. Besides, I believe the expectant groom’s drifted to sleep on the settee and requires assistance.”
“I’m a duke,” Knox murmured, clearly struggling, “not a servant.”
Miss Marlowe wriggled the satin strip from his grip. “I’m aware.”
“Go,” Damien whispered and gave his brother a shove.
When Knox made a move to retaliate, Miss Marlowe stepped forward. “There will be no scuffling in this shop,” she said in a tone reminiscent of a governess they’d once had. A wrathful governess, as Damien recalled. “I’ve read about the shenanigans of the Troublesome Trio, much like the rest of London. Enough ink to print a thousand newspapers spilled over the three of you, entertainment over one’s morning tea and nothing more. Well, I won’t have it in the Petal and Plume. This was my mother’s establishment and her mother’s before her. Take your silliness to the glove shop next door, if you must. Or the public house down the lane. Not your first this day, I imagine.”
Damien waited until Knox lurched away in search of a bonnet missing a length of crimson ribbon. “He’s harmless,” he offered in explanation. “Quite amiable if you get to know him. We’ve been celebrating my other brother’s engagement, the bloke spilled across your settee, hence the careless circumstance you find us in. I’m the professorial segment of the Trio, the sensible one. You can trust my word, if not theirs.”
Miss Marlowe’s gaze met his, intellect turning her dove-gray eyes a dark pewter. “No one at that lofty a level is harmless, Mr. DeWitt. Against its will, the very seas part for men like him, while the rest of us trail behind, cleaning up the mess. I service the ton’s whims each and every day, so I know of what I speak.”
Damien laughed, utterly agreeing with her. If only Knox could get his head out of his arse long enough to notice this jewel. Removing his soggy hat, he gestured to the window with it, sending raindrops across her counter. “The theatre advertisement. May I see it?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The Drury Lane placard? It’s for their next performance.”
He nodded, having no way to rationally tell her that he’d recognized the illustrator who’d created it.
And when it was in his hands, he knew.
Lady Mercy Ainsworth had drawn this; the style was unmistakable. As sure as she’d drawn the sketch he, to this day, kept tucked like a talisman in his trouser pocket. Damien knuckled his spectacles high, his gaze seeking the artist’s signature. Alas, there was none.
“Do you happen to know who drew this, Miss Marlowe?” he asked, realizing it would be an incredible happenstance if she did. Although he didn’t need the information when he knew very well who’d drawn it.
Miss Marlowe turned from placing her creations on a high shelf. “The placard? Oh…” She brushed aside a lock of hair that had a bolt of gold racing right through it. “I’m friendly with the stage manager, Florizel Holland. My aunt was an actress, and she took me to a number of plays before she retired from the stage. Flory’s a dear, and I try to help promote the productions in any way I can. However, I don’t know who the artist is. A lad who works for the theatre dropped it off last week.”
Cort moved in beside him, munching on a biscuit he’d pilfered from a ceramic dish by the door. “I’ll be damned,” he said and wiped his lips. “The redhead’s still at it. Drawing more than you this time, Dame. Looks professional.” He polished off the rest of his snack in two bites. “Impressive.”
Damien wrestled his brother around until his back faced Miss Marlowe. “Quiet, Cort. If this is Lady Mercy’s work, she’s doing it in secret.” Damien was stunned to imagine how covert an operation this was for the daughter of an earl. If she was employed in any capacity, she was pulling off the heist of the century. Without meaning to, as neighbors might, Damien had kept up with her. Lady Mercy was rumored to be close to engagement to the heir to an earldom. A girl who’d gone from ragamuffin to society belle in the span of a few short years. She’d stayed inside the lines drawn for her without a hint of distress.
