The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (22 page)

With Smeeth still in Bath, Ainsworth shaved himself tolerably well, dressed and allowed himself to be driven in one of his crested carriages to call upon Sir Oswald.

When the Dabney butler bowed the duke into the study, hairs at the back of his neck bristled in alarm. The settee stirred recollections. The crown molding, the fireplace mantle, both disturbed his equanimity. The Aubusson carpet underfoot gave the final jog to his memory. His fiancée brought him here for tattooing! Brassy little baggage, he chuckled, he would give her a good spanking for it after they wed.

Sir Oswald soon joined Ainsworth. After an obsequious greeting and fulsome offers of tea, spirits, snuff and cigars, the rotund baronet begged the duke to be seated. The two men sat facing each other before the cold hearth. The duke began the conversation in a mellow, amused mood.

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

“To what do we owe this great honor, Your Grace?” Sir Oswald asked eagerly.

“It’s a matter involving your sister, Miss Haversham.”

“Prudence? What’s she done now?” Sir Oswald peeped then pinched his lips to a flat line. “Whatever it is, please accept my sincerest apology in advance, Your Grace. If you please, my wife should join our conversation.” He rang for the butler, who went to fetch her. She was no further away than the other side of a communicating door in the next room, eavesdropping on the two men.

An expensively dressed woman bustled in, her hands clasped tightly before her. Lady Dabney wore her faded brown hair tucked into a cap suffering from a fatal outbreak of frills. It framed a face that gave every impression of fierceness: beady, lashless pale eyes, broad nose and a mouth with a marked under bite like a freshwater pike. He would’ve described her as hatchet-faced, but her face was not narrow. It more closely resembled a maul, the thicker, heavier, wedge-shaped ax used to split large, hardwood logs.

Sir Oswald presented his wife to the duke with tiresome punctiliousness. She dipped into a deep, knee-cracking curtsey.

“The Duke of Ainsworth has condescended to call about a matter involving Prudence,” Sir Oswald related to his spouse portentously. The baronet’s tone and the pointed look he exchanged with his sour wife soured the duke’s mood immediately.

Coldly, Ainsworth began as he intended, “I am aware Prudence has reached her majority and requires no one’s permission to marry but I wish to observe the proprieties.”

“I beg pardon, Your Grace, but am I to understand you are offering for my sister-in-law, the apothecary?” Lady Dabney asked in undisguised disbelief.

Ainsworth arched a brow at her in just the way his father did when he wished to quell presumption. It silenced Lady Dabney.

At least one bit of this ducal business was useful.

“I wish to conclude the marriage settlement as quickly as possible,” His Grace stated. “Have you any objections to my suit?”

“Perish the thought, no! Naturally we’re honored and humbled, er, we’re humbly honored, Your Grace,” Sir Oswald responded.

“Such a distinguished connection…” the maul-faced wife murmured, looking as though something she ate disagreed with her.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” the duke said dryly.

“If I may ask, is this expeditiousness your desire, Your Grace?” Lady Dabney trilled.

“Mmm” was his reply.

“How fortunate for her! It was our understanding Prudence lived mostly out of Society in Bath. I cannot imagine how she managed to come to your attention but life is funny that way sometimes, isn’t it?” She simpered.

Though thoroughly offended on Prudence’s behalf, Ainsworth chose to ignore Lady Dabney’s contemptible innuendo about ‘managing it.’ He retreated behind aloof dignity.

“My man of affairs will contact you with settlement terms, which you’ll find generous. In the meantime, I would appreciate your discretion.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sir Oswald said. “You have my word. Lips are sealed and so forth.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough.”

Tapping his cane impatiently against his polished boot, he waited for Lady Dabney to take his hint and stand so he could depart. He left them without another word and only the slightest nod of his head. With a curt nod to the footman to open the door, he strode out without a backward glance.

He left the Dabney townhouse in a seething fury. His Prudence had beauty, poise and dignity without pretension. In contrast, Sir Oswald was a spineless, pudgy chucklehead and his wife, a malicious termagant. Her insinuations revealed how little Lady Dabney relished the prospect of her sister-in-law occupying a rank so far superior to her own. His only regret in marrying Prudence was giving any consequence to those two through the connection but it couldn’t be helped. She would be his as soon as he could complete his arrangements.

To that end, Ainsworth tasked Sterling with finalizing the marriage contract. “See to it that my duchess wants for nothing, absolutely nothing, is that clear? She shall swim in pin money, generous portions to all issue and she’s to have title to the Bath properties, understand? I’d like that last concluded first so I may present her the deeds as a betrothal gift.”

“Your Grace, a moment,” Sterling paused, quill poised over his notes. “To sign over the properties now, you must use your fiancée’s maiden name. Then later have them re-deeded in her married name. It would be concluded faster if I execute the transfer once immediately after your nuptials, if that is acceptable.”

“I see. Very well.”

That evening, Ainsworth greeted the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse in a foul mood, courtesy of Sir Oswald and his pike-jawed, maul-faced spouse. He wore his shirt open at the neck, no cravat, his ivy-climbing breeches and scuffed boots (these out of yet more treacle-y sentimentality). His hair was finger-combed and unruly. Stubble shadowed his jaw.

“Jem, you look execrable!” Seelye exclaimed. “What’s got you so blue-deviled?”

“Not a woman, pray,” Percy added as he circled their unkempt friend.

“A lady,” Ainsworth corrected brusquely.

“Oh bloody hell,” Clun sighed in resignation. “Will we be able to tolerate the chit and she us? Or will we upset your duchess with our rough ways and be banished?”

“May we offer felicitations?” Percy cut in, carefully neutral. “Ainsworth?”

The duke stared out the window at his garden’s shadowy verdure beyond the glass, replaying the damnable insinuations Prudence’s only relations expressed to him without the slightest compunction. It still infuriated him.

“Ainsworth?” Percy repeated.

“What? Oh, it’s not quite settled yet but it’ll have to be soon,” he sighed.

“If this is what love looks like,” Clun muttered to Seelye under his breath, “I insist you shoot me. Simply put me out of my misery should I ever take such a pratfall.”

“Don’t be a gudgeon, Clun,” Seelye said. “Where’s Smeeth? You want a decent shave, Jem.”

“Left him in Bath to keep an eye on things for me. Thatcher doesn’t dare take a razor to my throat with only one hand so I shift for myself.” The duke ran a hand over his jaw and grumbled, “Must I shave a second time to avoid doing violence to your bloody acute sensibilities?”

Clun, Percy and Seelye glanced at each other. Ainsworth was uncharacteristically surly but the lukewarm reference to his betrothal alarmed his friends a great deal more.

“And who will be your duchess, Ainsworth?” Percy inquired.

“Miss Prudence Haversham,” the duke bit out each syllable.

“Haversham?” Seelye considered, “Haven’t heard of the family. You, Clun?”

Clun shrugged.

“Nor I,” said Percy. “Though I haven’t memorized Debrett’s.”

“Or know many in the
ton.
Most scatter before us in terror, et cetera,” Clun said mischievously.

“Not us, Clun. You. Only you. Whether you ride or walk, the wise flee before you!” Seelye mocked.

“Well, Ainsworth, we’re happy for you,” Percy said diplomatically. The other two lords agreed halfheartedly.

His Grace accepted their tepid congratulations absent-mindedly. He neglected to offer brandy and his friends did not press for it.

“When shall we meet Miss Haversham? Will she attend the Blakeley Ball?” Seelye asked.

“No. Lives in Bath.”

“Does she?” said Clun. “How did you meet?”

“It’s complicated,” he replied with a grimace.

“Is it?” Seelye asked, clearly unhappy.

“It always seems to be, eh?” Percy interjected to forestall Seelye’s interrogation. “Nothing involving women is ever straightforward.” Percy patted Ainsworth gently on the back. “Well, with so much on your mind, this isn’t the right time to drink ourselves into a happy stupor over your upcoming nuptials. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave you to it. Congratulations, of course.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s best,” the duke muttered. “Later.”

Ainsworth saw them to the front door. The footman opened it and the Horsemen took their leave.

After Ainsworth’s friends walked a sufficient distance, they stopped to confer.

“What do you think?” Percy asked the others.

“Obvious, isn’t it? Some grasping chit in Bath has caught our bacon-brained friend in a parson’s mousetrap,” Seelye concluded.

Clun growled, “Where’s the chit’s family in all this?”

“Rejoicing,” Seelye declared with distaste. “There’s nothing else for it, my lords. We must rescue Ainsworth from the Succubus of Bath.”

With that, the three flagged a hackney cab and discussed how they might secure their friend’s freedom.

Though the duke heard nothing alarming from Smeeth, he grew more anxious about returning to Bath as each week passed. He’d already made clear to Prudence that they would marry; however, Prudence seemed certain they would not. She was wrong but he refrained from arguing with her, which seemed like the polite thing to do at the time. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Ainsworth also refrained from writing her immediately after returning to London because he detested writing letters. He believed in the maxim ‘
res, non verba
,’ actions not words. He planned to let his actions speak for him. Actions would convince her if she doubted the inevitability of their marriage.

After more than a month slipped away, the duke was still in Town with the family ring to hunt up among other things, so the Man of Action Not Words very reluctantly opted to write Prudence a love letter.

Composing this letter made Ainsworth suffer greatly. Indeed, it couldn’t have pained him more if he’d used his own blood as ink and gouged it from his arm with a rusty fork.

The duke sat at his massive desk in a state of inert agony. Resting his chin on stacked fists, he glared at the blank sheet of crested stationery before him.
Words, where were the blasted words?
He sat. He thought. He questioned his thoughts. The longer he sat, the more his inarticulate misery compounded itself.

That he loved Prudence was obvious; he was going to
marry
her for God’s sake. Therefore, this letter must explain why Prudence ought to — no, not ‘ought,’ ought was too tentative — why Prudence must marry him. Nooo, not ‘must.’ Too arrogant. Presumptuous. Mustn’t order her about. He wanted to persuade her not put her hackles up. He simply sought to leave no doubt in her mind about their future together.

That shouldn’t be so bloody difficult!

It would be easier if he understood her doubts but try as he might, he couldn’t. It wasn’t that she had no affection for him. She did, that much he knew. She was not the sort of female who gave her maidenhead casually. What’s more, she’d enjoyed herself — he’d made damned sure she enjoyed herself
several
times before he enjoyed himself even once. Bloody hell, it was all so obvious: she was his, he was hers and that was that. But he couldn’t write
that
. He’d sound like a simpleton.

The reasons for her to marry him were legion. It was simply hard luck that his legion of reasons milled about in his head in desperate want of an officer to drill them into order.

That’s it. Must get to it.

He picked up a quill he’d stripped and dressed for this purpose. He twirled it in his hand. He ran the feather’s remaining barbs along his jaw to hear the light scritch-scritch over his afternoon stubble. He flicked the sterling cap off the cobalt cut glass inkwell, dipped his quill tip and tap-tap-tapped off the excess. If only the opening line would come to him. He tap-tap-tapped until the ink dried on the nib.

Blast!

He dipped again. Best to get right to the heart of it. “Dear Prudence,” he wrote and grimaced.

Blast and damnation!

Should’ve written ‘Nymph.’ Expresses affection and intimacy. He botched the bloody greeting. That sheet crumpled easily in his big hand and he fetched another from the box in his desk drawer.

He smoothed the sheet on the leather blotter, retrieved his quill, dipped it decisively and hastily scrawled: “Dear Nymph.” Here, his hand faltered.

No. Still not warm enough.

Down went the quill. Crinkle went the sheet. New sheet. “Dearest Nymph,” he wrote fluently.

Much better!

Pleased with his progress, he stood to stretch his legs. He walked around the room then peeked into the hallway. The mongrels looked in need of exercise. He took them for a walk. A few hours later, he returned with a clear head and fresh inspiration.

Rather than blather on, the duke sat down, took up his quill and plumbed the depths of his heart to express his dedication to her. It was sincere and poetical in its way. It took fewer lines than he’d anticipated which was a vast relief, for he did not have a way with words, written or spoken.

Having signed his name, he considered looking it over one last time.
No!
After the salutation debacle, he realized nitpicking served no earthly purpose. He was not a poet but he’d meant every word he wrote. He sanded the page and hastily folded and sealed the letter before he could worry it to death like a terrier with a rat. He dashed off her direction on the outside, franked it with his signature and left it for the morning post.