The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (24 page)

Joining the infantry was probably the most dramatic example of his slapdash approach to making his way in life. That is, it had been until he scaled an ivy-covered cottage wall to intimidate a bewitching prankster and ended up falling hopelessly in love with her.

It was common for second sons of the nobility to offer themselves up to king and country, and the eighth Duke of Ainsworth was all for doing one’s duty, but Ainsworth’s mother had worked on his father behind closed doors. One did not gainsay the duchess, not even the duke. Thus, his father insisted he join the clergy rather than fight “that diminutive Corsican” on the continent. Instead, Jem Maubrey hied off to enlist in the infantry, where he soon learned his speech and manners guaranteed him hard usage by all. Fortunately, he had a knack for getting along with others of all stripes. More important, he was endowed with an intimidating physique and fearlessness that quickly earned him the respect of his officers and fellow soldiers.

Though he went off to war a black sheep, he didn’t remain one for long.

Acknowledging the unavoidable, the eighth Duke made certain his impetuous younger son was plucked from the ranks of cannon fodder and given a commission in the Household Cavalry. In the Royal Horse Guards Blue, Lord Maubrey met Lords Percy, Seelye and Clun. A man couldn’t wish for braver, more stalwart friends. Together they were imperfect in their own highly entertaining, casually courageous way.

They so entertained Lord Uxbridge, he often referred to the foursome as the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” This reached the ears of a Fleet Street newsman covering the Peninsular War. The sobriquet took on a life of its own as a brilliant bit of war propaganda. Tales of their gallantry sold London newspapers week after week. The broadsheets competed with each other to be the first to celebrate their latest derring-do against Napoleon’s forces. Their reputation for relentlessness — and their survival against all odds — reassured readers that English character and nobility would prevail over Bonaparte.

Major Maubrey had also become a man his father admired — though father never mentioned it to second son. The first and last time Jem heard of it was in one of Phillip’s letters to Portugal. In handsome, well-formed script, Phillip reported their father’s death and mentioned the eighth Duke’s pride in his son, the cavalry officer.

No, Ainsworth never aspired to perfection but he was determined to find the perfect setting, the perfect moment and the perfect way to place his heart in Prudence Haversham’s small, competent hands.

So
,
the duke dawdled in London awaiting divine inspiration.

At minimum, he had the perfect ring for her. It was a family heirloom dating from the Tudor era. Its sapphire was a large, high-dome cabochon of deep indigo blue set in a gold bezel on a heavy band. Unlike the rose-cut diamonds around it that sparked, the sapphire had depth that seemed to absorb light and shift in color (like her bewitching eyes).

In this way the duke woolgathered the entire time he danced with Lady Jane Babcock.

The smile plastered on his face and her forceful indiscretions turned out to be more than enough grist for rumor mills. The Blakeley Ball proved such a crush, whispers of an impending betrothal between the two circulated to most of the
ton
by the end of the following day. Only a few days later, a farcical illustration appeared in the windows of booksellers all over London immortalizing the widespread speculation. It sold so well, the printer shipped copies of it to cities throughout England, including Bath.

A week after the Blakeley ball, Ainsworth decided it was time to return to Bath and await inspiration for his perfect, formal proposal where he could keep an eye on Prudence.

His Grace intended to travel light and fast on this all-important journey but the trip required all four of his large, London-built carriages to convey him, Thatcher, Attila, proper attire for full dress, half dress, undress and late night ivy-climbing as well as a secret trousseau’s worth of fine bed linens and scanty nightclothes made for Prudence to his exacting specifications.

Oh, how the duke’s friends mocked him about this excessively fine, crested caravan with smirking comparisons to Eastern pashas and potentates, which did not amuse His Grace. They also annoyed him by repeatedly referring to it as The Great Ainsworth Carriage Cavalcade.

“Apparently,” Seelye murmured to Clun, “even a duke caught in a parson’s mousetrap is loath to be seen as a scrimping, cheeseparing mope.”

Ainsworth’s Bath-bound host made good time on the main post road but alas he was already too late.

I
n the window of Genet & Sons Booksellers on Church Street, Bath, a farcical illustration caught Prudence’s eye. In it, a pouting Lady Jane Babcock, in a military inspired shako hat and riding habit resplendent with gold braid frogging, stood within a show ring, one hand on hip, the other cracking a whip while a wild-eyed Mayfair Stallion reared on his hind legs like a circus pony. A bubble over her head read: ‘Gracious me!’ Its title was a statement: ‘A stallion however Grace-ful will be broke to her saddle.’

Prudence wasn’t terribly surprised. The news stung but she’d expected it. Apparently, the duke returned to London and with the benefit of time, distance and perspective concluded it was not ‘meant to be,’ just as she had. It did shock her how quickly he attached Lady Jane Babcock (or vice versa). But who was she to quibble? Nor would she think less of him for his pragmatism.

She would be abroad in September so there need never be an awkward, unexpected meeting when their engagement was announced.

She mulled the news over all the way to No. 3 Trim Street where she bumped into Mr. Smithson.

“Miss Haversham, my dear, just the person I seek!”

“Have you discovered the new owner of our building?”

“Indeed I have! Come upstairs for tea?”

At last a bit of good news! Mr. Smithson held open the door that led upstairs to his cluttered office. Once there, the lawyer shuffled through a loose sheaf of papers on a wide desk till he produced the page he sought.

“Here it is. The new owner of No. 3 Trim Street, Bath and No. 11 Henrietta Street, Bathwick is…let’s see…ah, here it is: Jeremy Maubrey. Transacted June 16, 1816, registered June 17, 1816, Lincoln’s Inn Court, London, et cetera.”

“Maubrey. I’m not familiar with the name, Mr. Smithson. Does he live in Bath?”

“No. The family seat is Grayfriars Abbey in Hempstead, I believe. I’ve seen the duke here recently. Must be why.”

“Maubrey is a duke?”

“Indeed. Very wealthy. His properties are primarily agricultural. Perhaps he wishes to diversify. I expect he’ll look favorably on leasing. This Sterling fellow probably handles his correspondence but here at last,” Mr. Smithson said, flourishing a scrap of foolscap, “is the Duke of Ainsworth’s direction.”

“What?” Prudence’s ears rang. “Oh, thank you.” She took the paper in numb fingers, folded it several times and tucked it into her palm. She would never use the information.

“Join me for tea, child?”

“No, Mr. Smithson, thank you. There’s too much to do and too little time. I’ll be on my way!” She rushed from the office and stumbled down the stairs. She hurried down Trim Street to Barton and thence to the Royal Crescent where she stood looking out over Barton Field, a broad, verdant half-moon shaped pasture dotted with sheep. She tried to prevent tears and, by sheer force of will, succeeded.

Why did Jem do this? If she had time to spare, she’d ponder it but she didn’t. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

Her tranquil life in Bath was over, that much was clear. She, Mrs. Mason and Murphy must move the shop to a new location and hire rooms for the couple by the 1
^st
of September. If they prepared as much essential oil as possible before she departed, Murphy could sell it in London to tide the couple over if business slowed for a time in her absence.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, she calmed herself. She straightened her spine and drew back her shoulders. Time to soldier on.

She called on Lady Abingdon immediately.

L
ady Dabney swept past Mrs. Mason and confronted Prudence unannounced in the cottage sitting room.

“Hello Margot.” Prudence stood up from her chair next to a sunlit window and greeted her unexpected guest informally.

Lady Dabney sniffed. Though not in the peerage, they were landed gentry and she expected punctilious observation of the respect due her from her sister-in-law, who was a common miss. Prudence’s failure to address her accordingly irked her senseless.

Before it was offered, she flounced over to the room’s only settee, sat and settled her skirts with lips pursed into a sphincter-like button. Sir Oswald followed his wife, greeting Mrs. Mason before parting his coattails and sitting with his wife on the settee.

Lady Dabney looked about the simply furnished room, her disapproval undisguised, “I must say I’m glad you found a use for that unfortunate basket.” She pointed to a woven willow basket on a shelf. “Last Christmas, I purchased an embroidered shawl for you…”

Sir Oswald tried unsuccessfully to distract his wife from finishing this particular story.

Ignoring him as she often did, Lady Dabney continued, “…and that little basket was meant for our housekeeper. But Oswald switched the gifts so he could give Fitch the shawl. Isn’t that funny?” She tittered.

Jowls quivering, Sir Oswald shifted to peer out the window. Prudence almost pitied her brother. Had Lady Dabney told her about the shawl to embarrass her husband or to alienate brother and sister more? Greater estrangement hardly seemed necessary.

Prudence chose to be gracious. “I have more uses for a basket than a shawl, Margot.”

Sir Oswald brightened, “You see? It was better for her. She needs no fripperies as an apothecary, for God’s sake! Almost mannish what she’s about. Eccentric,” he muttered, “bad as Father.”

“Quite,” Lady Dabney concurred with thin lips gathered again to a tight, little pucker. “But that’s not why we are come down to Bath in such haste. We recently received a most unexpected caller in Town. I’m certain you know to whom I refer for it’s your doing that he felt obliged to call on Sir Oswald in the first place.”

“I have no idea who it might be.” Prudence blushed recalling her night with the Duke of Ainsworth and his ambiguous letter weeks later.

Lady Dabney’s hard eyes noted her blush. She renewed her attack. “If at first you don’t succeed, eh, Prudence? You ever were bold as brass. Now, I find myself thoroughly mortified by you yet again!” She shook her head and murmured, “If only you’d seen how distasteful His Grace found his task. He positively fumed throughout the interview with your brother.”

“Really Prudence, thought you’d learned your lesson the first time. Margot saw through your attempt to snare the last Duke of Ainsworth,” Sir Oswald said in reproach. “And we were able to nip it in the bud.”

“Oswald, you said the duke accused
me
of throwing myself at him,” Prudence exclaimed in disbelief.

“That was your purpose, was it not? I
saw
you clinging to the man, recall! Thankfully, the duke thought it was an innocent lark with a maid. Not that I believe you innocent in the least. But I didn’t want Oswald to embarrass His Grace by
enlightening
him,” Lady Dabney declared with an eloquent sniff. “Circulating in the upper classes, one quickly comprehends a situation like that. Did you really expect us to abet your ambitions and cause a contretemps with the Duke of Ainsworth over you? What a notion!”

“So gracious to join our little party with Mama’s nephew, the earl. We were saddened when we heard he died,” Sir Oswald concluded.

Lady Dabney continued, “I don’t know how you cozened the current duke into offering for you but you will not take advantage of his honorable nature! It would cause an absolute furor among the
ton
.”

“Bound to bring censure down upon us,” Oswald observed solemnly. “Letting you run wild, as it were.”

“Ainsworth made quite clear, though tactfully, he tendered his offer out of gentlemanly obligation,” Lady Dabney concluded in malicious triumph.

“You’re not breeding, are you Prudence?” Sir Oswald asked his fingernail cuticle because he couldn’t look his sister in the eye.

“Of course not!” She lied.

“Fine. Then you’ll refuse him as you ought,” Lady Dabney intoned, “or we wash our hands of you and you’ll never see another pence from us. Nor will your pernicious influence be allowed at Treadwater.”

“I know nothing about this…”

Lady Dabney snorted, puckered her lips and looked away.

Were Sir Oswald and Lady Dabney telling her the truth? After all, they’d misled her once before. And they had no compunction previously about upending her life with their false accusations. But too many circumstances supported their version of events. Most telling, the duke’s visit so overset her brother and sister-in-law, they’d pelted down to Bath in the middle of the Season to remonstrate with her. They didn’t fabricate their alarm.

“Rest easy, brother.” Prudence gathered herself up. “I won’t accept a
pro forma
proposal from the Duke of Ainsworth. Nor have I any reason to expect one.”

According to scandal sheets, his betrothal to Lady Jane Babcock was a foregone conclusion. Soon, the issue would be moot and their fears of social ostracism allayed.

“I’m glad you’ll be sensible,” Lady Dabney sneered in victory.

Soon after, Sir Oswald and his wife left the cottage to stay over with friends in Bath before returning to London. Prudence barely acknowledged their leave-taking.

Why had the duke gone to Sir Oswald of all people? Prudence made clear she had no expectations. She puzzled over it until another possibility occurred to her.