Page 12 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“Yes,” Damon murmured. “Far too soon for my liking.”

“Well, here is your chance to replace me. The late duke’s valet requires a position.” Baldwin turned to face him, grinning impishly. The middle-aged man was as thin as a needle, his dark black hair slicked back against his skull. He had heard whispers that Baldwin dyed his hair, but who cares?

“Why would I replace you? To train someone all over again to know my likes, dislikes, and preferences for freshly laundered shirts and pressed silk cravats? I cannot be bothered.”

“But of course, Your Grace. Shall I shave you?”

“No. And I don’t give a toss that it is improper to greet guests in such a state. This is a business call, and besides, I am utterly famished. The sooner I’m dressed, the better. An afternoon coat and waistcoat will do.”

Baldwin held up a black suit. “Tradition states that you should wear black, Your Grace.”

Damon grunted. “For six months to a year? I think not. I will wear black to the funeral, but that is all. And no armband.”

Baldwin snapped to it, selecting a gold taupe vest and a brown coat. In assisting in dressing Damon, his finishing touch was a light beige cravat.

“Those fair whiskers are hardly noticeable and even give you a dash of danger. You look good enough to eat, Your Grace. Not to me, obviously.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” Damon strode toward the door, then halted. “I will be meeting with my late father’s steward soon. I want you there. You handle my personal finances, and I want a second opinion on what the steward has to say. And I want your estimation of the man. If I should keep him on or not.”

“I am at your disposal, Your Grace.”

“Also, I am going out as soon as I am finished with my guests. See that the carriage is ready.”

He must see his half-sister, Olivia Durham, now the Duchess of Watford, and his friend Gideon’s new bride, before their father’s death was announced in tomorrow morning’s papers. Not that Olivia ever met the old duke or had wanted to. But it would be a courtesy to inform her personally.

“And the funeral ought to be organized,” Damon continued, his mind eddying in all directions. “We will need to contact my father’s solicitor. Get the name from Kingsley. Set up an appointment right away. In fact, I want you and my solicitor to have an initial meeting to get the lay of the land, as it were. We also need to collect the body from St. Thomas’s when they have concluded their inquiries. See it done.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Baldwin bowed.

Kingsley arrived and escorted Damon to the dining room. Thank Christ he had employees handling these tedious details.

Damon piled his plate high with bacon and fried eggs. Althea and the doctor entered the room. As he turned, Damon’s breath caught in his throat as it often did when in Althea’s presence. It wasn’t so much her looks, though she was attractive with her dark brown locks threaded with gold.

But it was her carriage, the confidence, the frank and open way she gazed at him. And the fact she didn’t bother to hide that she found him attractive. Her innate empathy and, when warranted, her compassion. And her intelligence, the fact she co-owned and operated an investigative agency. Damon was mightily impressed by that, regardless of what he might have said in the past. Or may say in the future, considering his many flaws.

“Miss Galway, and Doctor Buchanan, I presume. If you are feeling peckish, do help yourself. There is an assortment to choose from. I am afraid I slept most of the day away.”

Althea placed her large case and reticle on a nearby chair and strode over to the sideboard. “Thank you, I will. Corbett? Come, fill your plate.”

The doctor moved next to Althea. “Breakfast at a quarter past five in the afternoon. The first time for everything. And not unwelcome,” He smiled as he grabbed a couple of scones, ham, and a small ceramic pot containing shirred eggs.

After gathering the foodstuffs and drinks, they sat at the table.

The doctor looked down at his plate. “This is hardly fit conversation at a meal.”

“No,” Damon stated. “But there it is. How did he die?”

“I was present for the autopsy and assisted with it, Your Grace. Afterward, I spoke to your father’s doctor as you instructed. Doctor Breaks was most forthcoming. Your father suffered from a recently diagnosed heart ailment. He was instructed by Doctor Breaks to curtail his sexual extracurricular activity along with drinking and smoking. Your father gave up none of it. The autopsy showed major damage.”

“What kind of damage?” Damon asked as he cut into his fried egg.

“The heart is encased in a sac-like membrane called the pericardium. Inflammation can cause this sac to tighten and become rigid, and this rigidity impairs the proper blood flow needed to keep the heart beating. It is a rare condition and, ultimately, fatal.”

“I see,” Damon murmured.

“Your father manifested some of the symptoms of heart failure,” Buchanan continued. “Difficulty breathing, swelling in the legs. That is what Doctor Breaks thought it was, the beginnings of heart failure. But constrictive pericarditis is difficult to diagnose, and it is only after an autopsy that a final diagnosis is rendered complete. As it was here.”

Damon digested the information. “Not to sound like the selfish being I am, but is this something I will have to look forward to as I grow older? Heart conditions are passed on in families, are they not?”