The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (11 page)

“Good afternoon, Miss Haversham. This is an odd sliver of a building,” the duke said. “Almost whimsical.”

Prudence gaped. Was he attempting to make polite conversation? For what purpose?

“That’s why I love it,” Prudence said. “It’s quite sunny, too.” She winced as she stated the obvious and watched him turn his head this way and that.

“Very bright.” He turned his gaze back to her and smiled deliberately. His eyes crinkled at the corners but there was still frostiness in their blue depths that kept her on guard.

“Indeed.” She stood, hands clasped, eyebrows arched in a question.

“I wish to arrange treatment.” His wish sounded more like a command.

“Are you quite certain you want to pursue this…”

“I most certainly am.” His curt reply brooked no further argument.

She studied Ainsworth briefly but his face remained impassive. “When will be convenient?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very well. And this is?” She asked, looking at Attila. The dog sat quietly at his master’s side, his massive head level with the duke’s hip.

“Miss Haversham, may I present Attila. Attila, Miss Haversham. Are you afraid of dogs?” He sounded almost hopeful.

“Not at all.” She slipped from behind the counter and said, “Attila, come!”

The dog responded immediately to Prudence’s firm command, coming to her outstretched hand and lowering his head. She rubbed behind his ears. To Ainsworth’s undisguised disgust, Attila leaned into her hands, closed his eyes and drooled ecstatically.

“Miss H. loves all manner of beasties,” Mustachio chuckled, “and they love her.” He returned to the desk against the far wall and sat down.

Prudence knelt and spoke low, “What a handsome boy you are, Attila! Your master must love jokes to give you such a dreadful name. Attila, really! You are such a lovely boy.” She looked up at the duke, “Does he go everywhere with you?”

“No, he’s quite useless,” Ainsworth grumbled.

Prudence stroked Attila’s head with her hands and scratched both his ears until the huge creature slowly collapsed onto the floor and rolled to expose his belly. His face never lost its dignity even as he folded his huge paws like a puppy and waited for her to rub his chest.

Ainsworth growled, “A ridiculous display, Attila. Have you no shame?”

“You sound like my older brother.”

“He tries to discipline large, senseless dogs?”

“No,” she laughed, “me.”

“He disapproves of you being an apothecary?”

“Among other things.”

“Isn’t disapproval for parents to measure out?”

“One would think. Unfortunately, Father was never as severe on me as my brother Oswald felt appropriate.”

“Was he right?”

“I’m afraid he wasn’t entirely wrong.” She stopped petting the dog and fixed Ainsworth with a challenging look. “I played with whatever children were about, rode my pony astride and mortified him on any number of occasions coming home covered in mud with an arm full of marsh plants for Papa. Very hoydenish.”

“Oh my.”

“I suffer from a want of refinement. Or so I’m told whenever I see him, which you can imagine is rarely.”

Attila grew restless at her neglect and stood.

“Sit.” Prudence ordered. The dog sat. “You were saying?”

“You’ve lived in Bath all your life?”

“For all but a twelve-month. Soon after Father and Mother passed away, my brother came by a baronetcy from a far-flung branch of the family tree and became Sir Oswald Dabney. I lived briefly on his estate in Oxfordshire.”

“Sir Oswald Dabney, not Haversham?”

“He took the hereditary surname of the baronetcy.”

“Ah.”

Why prattle in his presence?
First at tea and now in her own apothecary shop, her tongue had a mind of its own or so it would seem. While she babbled, Prudence wondered if it was wise to reveal so much about her background. On the other hand, chattering caused her less discomfort than silence. In silence, the enormity of her mistake pressed upon her. She feared the force of her guilt would weigh down on her until she burst out with a confession and begged this implacable man’s forgiveness a second time. Only a fool would do that while he was conscious.

“Did you have a Season?”

“No. I’ve led a very dull life, Your Grace.”

“But not entirely without adventure, I suspect.”

She stammered, “A-almost entirely.”

“Tomorrow, Miss Haversham, shall we say one o’clock? Attila, come.” With a faint nod, Ainsworth left her. His departure felt like a thorn plucked from her finger. There was relief but also a residual sharp throb of discomfort.

“Everything all right, Miss H.?” Murphy asked.

“I believe so, Murphy. We’re not found out. The duke came for treatment of his shoulder as you heard. Lady Abingdon suggested it yesterday. But I won’t be easy until he returns to London. We must deal with him decisively so he will go away.”

“If that injury still troubles him…” Murphy began.

“We must speed the healing. Perhaps that will discourage him from seeking further treatment.”

“He’s a soldier and survived worse, that we know. And the tattoo had to hurt something awful,” Murphy chuckled, “put where it was and all.”

“Yes,” she grimaced. “But after what you must do tomorrow, I expect he will stay away.”

• • •

Sir Oswald Dabney, the duke repeated the name to himself as he sauntered down Milsom Street with Attila. Why was the name familiar? Dabney. Sir Oswald Dabney. Finally he dredged the name up. This was the very gentleman from whom he purchased the Trim Street building and the other property. Sir Oswald was Miss Haversham’s own brother. That was fortunate. Surely, he would provide Miss Haversham with a home after she left Bath.

Knowing this eased his conscience.

Now that he’d observed the chit more closely, Ainsworth didn’t dislike her nearly enough to turn her life inside out as he once intended. He wanted to teach the minx a lesson she wouldn’t forget, not leave her utterly destitute. He had a few other misgivings about his plans, just niggles really, nothing more. There was plenty of time to overcome them.

“R
eady to do your worst, Miss Haversham?” The duke asked, stepping into the Trim Street Apothecary the next day at the appointed time.

She looked up at him. His every innuendo whipped up a tempest in her eyes. She blushed easily, too. He so enjoyed toying with her. It was only fair that he occasionally unsettled her, given how she permanently disturbed his peace.

Composing herself, she asked, “Where is Attila?”

“I left the brute home. Just terrifies convalescents and causes incidents on the pavement.”

“Poor dears, if only they knew him,” she murmured. “Murphy, please show His Grace to the treatment room and begin.”

Murphy led the duke past the counter, down a short hall to a tidy room. Once inside, he helped Ainsworth out of his coat and waistcoat. He settled a linen sheet over an odd piece of furniture resembling table with padding. The duke leaned against this table, flinching as he slowly flexed his shoulder.

“May I have a word with Miss Haversham?”

“If you insist, Your Grace,” Mustachio said, making no secret of his hesitation.

“I do.”

“If you’ll excuse me.”

Ainsworth strained to eavesdrop on the hushed voices beyond the closed door. The rapid back and forth indicated heated debate. He made out ‘not for a lady,’ and ‘naught but a shirt.’

“Murphy, enough!” Miss Haversham concluded. Clipped footsteps approached, the doorknob turned with a crisp click. She stepped into the room.

• • •

“Your Grace?” Prudence asked, disguising her uneasiness with a dispassionate professional manner.

“Won’t you treat me yourself?” Ainsworth asked as he leaned against the table’s edge with arms crossed, head angled and boots crossed at the ankles.

Prudence noticed how his shirt emphasized the size of his arms and the breadth of his well-upholstered shoulders and chest. His muscles were substantial but sleek, honed by practical use. She knew all too well how solid they felt. She clasped her hands firmly before her and said, “That would be inappropriate, Your Grace. Murphy performs hands-on treatment for men. I oversee his work and mix the poultices and rubs.”

“Nothing untoward will happen, Miss Haversham,” Ainsworth murmured.

“I don’t doubt your word, Your Grace, but I cannot.”

“Well,” he purred. “If I’m too much for a female apothecary to manage, I understand.”

“That is not what I said,” she retorted and crossed her own arms over her chest to mimic his stance. “I am surprisingly strong.”

“With those tiny hands?” Ainsworth flicked his own large hand dismissively in the direction of hers resting on her slim arms, which infuriated her. “Those are meant for delicate tasks, not pummeling someone like me.”

They stared at one another. His gaze all insolent male condescension, hers female outrage. Neither took a breath. Each gambler waited for the other to fold.

“Right, on the table,” she directed as she slapped at the long, linen apron over her dress.

“I don’t mean to browbeat you,” the smug duke said as he seated himself on the table.

“You’re not browbeating me. You’re goading me. And idiot that I am, I’ll take the bait despite my better judgment.” To herself, she muttered, “If the duke wants treatment, treatment he shall have.”

“Shirt on or off?” Ainsworth asked, obviously amused by her grumblings.

“May I rely on your discretion, Your Grace?”

“You have my word, Miss Haversham,” he said with another cold-blooded, crocodile smile. “I’ve no intention to disgrace you publicly over this.”

“Shirt off.”

The apothecary didn’t avert her eyes as he awkwardly stripped the shirt up over his head or settled his hair with a quick shake. Straps of muscle pulsed on his arms. He was large, lean, powerful and still in pain. She knew she shouldn’t stare, but stared anyway. Or rather, she ‘closely examined’ him. She justified her gawking as a means of ‘determining the extent of his infirmities.’ Though nothing looked the least bit infirm. He had healed badly, but he was very solid and firm.

He rolled onto his stomach gingerly, trying not to lean on his left arm.

• • •

Ainsworth grunted as he felt her cool, soft hand probe his ruined shoulder. She pressed firmly, shifting the flat of her palm from place to place, over the entire corrugated surface of scarred flesh that covered it.

By God, she was strong.

“There’s no heat,” she said, “that’s a good sign. But there’s swelling. Does this cause sharp pain? Or dull soreness?” She pressed deeply into the mass of his muscles just below his shoulder blade.

He hissed and gritted out, “Pain, Miss Haversham.”

“My father believed the human body has a genius for self-healing. The swelling and bruising that occur after injury are normal, desirable parts of that process. However, too much or chronic swelling such as this interferes with true healing. I know doctors prefer to bleed a patient. I prefer to address the problem directly. You have fluid trapped in the muscle and tissues of the wound so it has not resumed its natural relationship to the underlying bone.”

She paused, her hand resting on his scarred skin, and murmured, “It’s a ghastly injury, poor man. It must cause you a great deal of pain but we must drain it. It won’t be a comfortable procedure. Do you wish to continue?”

“I do.”

She called out, “Murphy!”

Murphy entered as if poised on the other side of the door. “Miss H.?”

“We’ll drain the swelling,” she instructed. “Fetch warm towels, the smallest scalpel, the pump syringe, two glasses and brandy. Afterward, I shall want a strong plaster with generous additions of oil of clove, camphor, honey and tincture of arnica. Also heated, damp linens and a chamois to wrap his shoulder while he rests.”

Murphy left the room, pointedly leaving the door ajar.

When he returned with a laden tray, Miss Haversham poured the duke a glass of brandy and handed it to him, “Drink this.”

He opened his mouth to refuse but she cut him off, “Drink it or be tied down.”

The duke drank it in a gulp and let the heat course down his throat. He noted that she used the same commanding tone on him that she used with similar success on Attila. She refilled his glass and nodded. He drank more slowly but finished it.

She poured brandy into the other glass and soaked the scalpel and syringe device in it. She spoke calmly in a low, soothing voice, “Father swore by the old army treatment ‘half and half brandy.’ Heard of it? Pour half in the patient and half over the wound. Prevents festering remarkably well. I hypothesize that soaking tools in strong spirits might reduce the risk of putrefaction as well. In any event, it can’t hurt. You may drink this, too, if you wish.” She held out the glass of brandy used for the instruments.

The duke shook his head and watched her every move.

She turned her sleeves up and thoroughly washed her hands in a stoneware basin.

“Your father was an apothecary, Miss Haversham?”

“No, I’m the first apothecary in my family. Father was a gentleman with a scholarly interest in botany, particularly healing plants and herbs. Though he was raised to be a man of leisure, he liked to be useful. This apothecary shop was a hobby, an outlet for his passion. He arranged for a trained apothecary to manage it. I learned from that man. Makes me quite the black sheep.” She gave him a wan smile.

Miss Haversham took up the thin scalpel and felt his shoulder, finding where it was most tender. “As I say, this will be uncomfortable.”

“I’ve suffered worse, Miss Haversham. Have at it.” Her eyes sparked, the color he noticed was most changeable, now grayer than blue. Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“Very well, we begin.” She cut a small incision deep into his flesh. He hissed sharply as his body tensed at the stabbing pain. Inserting the syringe, she drew on its stopper. Again. And again. Slice, probe and draw out. She felt for swelling and drilled it mercilessly. She drained pus and fluid into a small basin Murphy held.