The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (14 page)

“I wonder if Mr. Smithson could help,” Murphy offered.

“Yes, of course!” Miss Haversham cried, “I’m not thinking clearly. I’ll be upstairs.”

She folded the first letter Mrs. Mason delivered with the second and rushed to the back of the building. Up the narrow stairs she climbed to the upper floor office of Mr. George Smithson, Esq.

She knocked repeatedly before she heard footsteps approach the door. Mr. Smithson, a jovial man with a curly tonsure of graying hair, opened it.

The portly lawyer expressed avuncular delight at seeing her, “Why, my dear, I apologize! I didn’t hear your knocking. To what do I owe this welcome surprise?”

“Oh, Mr. Smithson, I must locate an individual who has recently purchased this building but I’ve no idea how to go about it.”

“The sale will be registered in the new owner’s name as part of the public record. It’s a simple matter.”

“What a relief, sir!” Prudence said with a sigh.

“When did the sale conclude?”

“I’m not sure. June sometime. Haven’t you received one of these letters?”

Mr. Smithson took the letters from Prudence and gave them a cursory glance.

“Not as yet. But I shall be glad to help. I’ve no desire to leave either.”

“How soon might we discover this man?”

“Unfortunately, the recording of this sort of transaction takes time.”

“My grace period ends the 31
^st
of August. That’s no time at all!”

“I’ll begin immediately. This J. M. Sterling may have many clients or he may be the man of affairs for one wealthy individual. Don’t fret, Miss Haversham,” he patted her hand, “I doubt very much we shall have to go. There’s time enough to sort this out.”

“You’ll let me know what I owe for your services, of course.”

“Tut, tut, Miss Haversham, it’s not just your ox being gored.”

“But I insist,” she argued.

“No, my dear. It will be my pleasure to help.” Mr. Smithson looked at her over his wire-framed spectacles and said, “Be easy, child. All will be well.”

A
s he strode away from the apothecary shop, Ainsworth pondered the possible causes of Miss Haversham’s distress. His footsteps never faltered as his long legs carried him into the heart of Bath. He suspected he was responsible and this troubled him. How might he discover the bad tidings she received? He had few options.

In a flash, he hit upon the answer and walked westward toward Pulteney Bridge.

Ainsworth recognized his third tormentor the moment the stout, older woman entered the shop and bustled up to Miss Haversham. This female, Mrs. Mason, had to be the Haversham housekeeper. Whatever transpired, Mrs. Mason knew of it. And he must somehow persuade the woman to reveal it to him.

Why Miss Haversham’s suffering now caused him uneasiness he refused to consider. Until very recently, he wanted to make her suffer. Now, he didn’t. No need to examine his change of heart. None whatsoever. The likeliest explanation for his newborn compassion made him more uncomfortable than his tattoo. So, the less said — or thought — the better.

At No. 11 Henrietta Street, he found the housekeeper tending a sprawling garden.

“Mrs. Mason, is it?” He called out to her.

Mrs. Mason froze where she stood and eyed the duke cautiously as he approached.

“It is,” she wiped her hands on her dirt-streaked apron, “and who you might be?”

Oh, we’re feigning ignorance, are we?
He smiled. “I am Ainsworth. We weren’t properly introduced at the apothecary shop earlier today.”

“Wouldn’t be proper to be introduced at all.” She dipped a curtsey and sidled off toward the cottage. “Pardon me, Your Grace. Miss Haversham isn’t about.”

“I know.” He stepped in her path. “A word, if you please, Mrs. Mason.”

“Wouldn’t be proper for Your Grace to be chatting up a servant.”

“I suppose not but I’m feeling naughty,” Ainsworth answered with a conspiratorial wink, “Are you?”

Mrs. Mason chortled, eyes twinkling.

“I’m concerned about Miss Haversham,” he began without preamble.

“Are you?” Her wariness returned.

“You brought her a letter that upset her. I wish to help.”

Mrs. Mason studied him closely, sighed and gestured for him to follow her behind the cottage where no one passing could overhear.

“Miss H. got a letter says we have to leave the cottage in two months time!”

“So soon?” Ainsworth whispered. He didn’t recall directing Sterling to evict Miss Haversham immediately. But then, he’d been in a towering rage at the time. He hardly remembered the details. He delegated the matter to Sterling. Trust the great looby to be efficient. “What will she do?”

“I don’t know. It come out of the blue. Her dratted brother went and sold everything, though he promised it to her when he sent her here. Haversham family’s always lived here. It’s her home. She and Oswald grew up here. Murphy and me started here in service before we married.”

“You and Murphy were both servants for the Havershams?”

“We fell in love. Old Mrs. Haversham didn’t object to us marrying. Wanted us to. Matter of fact, she married Mr. H. for love — but she passed away before we could tie the knot. She never threatened to turn me out without a character if we married, like Lay-Dee Dabney did.”

“Lady Dabney isn’t alone in objecting to servants marrying.”

“Do you?” She asked him outright.

“Only had a batman till last year,” Ainsworth answered slowly. “I’ve never given it a thought, Mrs. Mason, but no, I don’t object.”

“I know it’s not ‘done’ but Mrs. Haversham was happy for us, not like Lady Dabney. She’d have none of it. Nasty piece of work, her. Made Oswald change his name to Dabney all because Her Nibs wanted to play the nob with a fancier name! If not for Miss H., we’d have pined away for sure. She brought us back with her and saw us married like her mother wanted.”

“Why did Sir Oswald send her away?”

“Some kafuffle at their first country party. Lady Dabney raised the roof and out she went. Lady Dabney never liked Miss H.”

“Why?”

“Jealous, plain and simple. Old Mrs. Haversham was an earl’s daughter, a lady by birth. Miss H. is every bit her mother’s daughter. Quality. They always say, blood will tell.”

“How old was she?”

“Not yet 17, poor thing. Never said a word. Just soldiered on game as a pebble. Helped the apothecary her father sponsored here in Bath. Took over when he retired.”

What a life! Exiled to a spinster’s existence even before she’d come out, living in a town full of ailing, gouty old men and war casualties, socializing with dowagers, yet she remained a blithe spirit brimming with mirth and kindness. Ainsworth felt like the vilest cad to cause her pain yet he resented her condemnation of his brother almost as much as his tattoo. Back and forth he ricocheted among unaccustomed emotions: concern, regret and righteous indignation.

The duke’s ambivalence persisted all evening at the Upper Rooms, where he found himself at the Dowager Countess of Abingdon’s invitation.

Miss Haversham did not attend so the evening started flat and stayed that way.

The duke stood up with several perfectly insipid young ladies at Lady Abingdon’s insistence. He escorted her ladyship to the Tea Room for a light repast afterward. She tired early, pooh-poohing Ainsworth’s concern saying she never remained till the bitter end. She asked for her carriage at half ten; Ainsworth saw her out and walked as a free man into the night.

He returned to Morford Street, where he dismissed Thatcher for the evening. Smeeth helped him out of his close-fitting coat and his striped waistcoat after which the duke dismissed him for the evening, too. He changed from his black knee breeches, silk hose and shoes into his vine-climbing clothes and sipped a brandy while he waited for the household to settle for the night.

Ainsworth reached Pulteney Bridge before midnight. It glowed in the moonlight. He hesitated there, debating whether he ought to cross it ever again. As he dawdled, he admired the structure’s architecture. The bridge was built of cream stone quarried nearby and, like Ponte Vecchio in Florence, it had narrow buildings lining its causeway.

He looked across the bridge to the far side. Without being able to articulate it, he knew this was a point of no return. If he remained on this side of the Avon, he could shrug off Miss Haversham’s accusations and dismiss her dislocation as just deserts. Wash his hands. Perhaps he could even return to London and resume his life as if he’d never met her. A dreary prospect.

On the other hand, if he strolled over the shadowy stone bridge, he walked into an uncertain future fraught with unruly emotions: vulnerability, inchoate desire, frustration and helpless laughter. A daunting prospect as well.

He started forward without further thought. His heart already made its decision without consulting his good sense or other rational faculties. He would cross the bridge. He would walk through Bathwick village to the little cottage. He would see her because…he must. He had to be near her, even tightly swaddled and safe from his hunger. He walked slowly, like a condemned man, past the doorways of the little shops to the pastoral bank of the Avon. His life would never be the same, this much he knew.

A short time later, he reached the stone cottage covered in ivy. Her window glowed, a beacon in the night.

Climbing the vine was easier the second time even with a strained shoulder. He peered through the window and for a moment watched her reading a book, propped up against a bank of bed pillows with her head bent over its pages. The flickering candlelight illuminated her. Before he knew it, he raised the sash, slung a leg over the sill and entered her room talking.

Ainsworth spoke as if they were midstream in conversation, “What I know with certainty, Miss Haversham, is that my brother was an honorable man.”

Miss Haversham looked up, unfazed by his sudden appearance and odd non-greeting, and said, “Good evening, Your Grace. I’d hoped you wouldn’t risk re-injuring your shoulder.”

Ainsworth ignored her reproof. “I simply cannot credit your brother’s account.”

“Your brother was intoxicated. Perhaps he mistook me for a maid. But he told my brother I flung myself at him to entrap him. That was unconscionable.”

“If he thought you were a maid, he wouldn’t have accused you of entrapment. And if he suspected you were a lady, I promise you, he wouldn’t have accosted you. None of it makes sense.”

Ainsworth watched her take in what he said. His logic was inarguable. A maid was in no position to accuse a gentleman of inappropriate behavior, much less to expect marriage to a duke as a result.

“Why would my brother lie about it?” She asked, genuinely confused. “What would Oswald gain from my disgrace?”

“What would my brother gain by lying, Miss Haversham?”

“Everything. Or rather, your brother had everything to lose if he didn’t lie. He groped me in front of my sister-in-law and faced a catastrophic misalliance. That is, if he was the gentleman you claim. I was, I am, a nobody! A gentleman’s daughter and a minor baronet’s sister. In other words, I was no one destined to be a duchess.”

“Phillip would not lie or cast aspersions. Something’s not right,” Ainsworth said with conviction. “Were you present when your brother confronted him?”

“Of course not. I was locked in my room for the duration.”

Ainsworth paced back and forth. “For my brother to interfere with his host’s younger sister in front of a witness and then dismiss it so callously…it’s inconceivable.”

“Then you believe, as my brother did, that I tried to ensnare him?”

“What? No, of course I don’t. You could’ve cornered me last night while I was here. On your bed. With boots off. You, Mrs. Mason and Murphy might’ve had me neatly caught in the parson’s mousetrap. Instead you were extremely, one might even say insultingly, anxious that I leave unseen. Humbling, really. Am I such a bad bargain?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied.

“Have I not behaved honorably toward you?” He felt appropriately sheepish defending his honor while standing as he did in her bedroom a second time, which was twice as indefensible as his first visit.

“Certainly,” she murmured, her words dry as toast. She chose not to state the obvious, which he appreciated.

“I’m confused,” she finally said. “I…I don’t understand. As you say, it doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. She swiped at them impatiently.

Ainsworth sat on the bed’s edge and put a consoling arm around her shoulders. If only he knew how to comfort her! All he had was one sound shoulder to cry on.

She gulped and eventually stammered, “I feel more wretched than ever about what I did to you!”

Not half so wretched as I for what I’ve done.
As sorry as Prudence Haversham might feel about her error, she would never forgive him when she discovered what he’d done. Her mistake was a prank that went awry; his involved buying up the essentials of her life intending to take them away from her.

Now what?

• • •

Ainsworth let her be, Prudence noticed gratefully. He didn’t roll his eyes or tell her to ‘Please for God’s sake, turn off the infernal waterworks,’ or that she was ‘being a hen-witted ninny,’ as her brother would have. The duke’s tolerance made her feel much better and much worse at the same time.

“Shhh,” he whispered near her ear, “don’t cry, nymph. Please.” He rubbed her back in slow, reassuring strokes.

“You’re so kind,” she hiccupped through tears, “even though my stupid tattoo has ruined one of life’s prime pleasures for you.”

“I may’ve exaggerated the inconvenience,” Ainsworth chuckled. “I can still enjoy myself.”

“But only in the dark, which must be dreary.”

“I take comfort in knowing that when I marry, I shall swear my wife to secrecy and leave as many candles lit as I wish.”

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy seeing you,” Prudence sniffled and calmed a bit.

“One can hope,” Ainsworth replied.