The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (6 page)

“A gentleman?” Prudence said with trepidation.

“Pish tosh, let me go on, if you please. He has asked about you. Wanted to know all about you. Have a Bath bun, dear, they’re warm from the oven.”

“Me?” Prudence lost her appetite.

“Oh yes, a fine man. Fought in the war.”

“Fought in the war?” Prudence squeaked out through the sudden constriction of her throat.

“Yes, as I said. Not a young man but well made,” Lady Abingdon continued oblivious to Prudence’s unease. “Has a tidy fortune and wishes to become acquainted. A captain in the Navy.”

“A Captain. The Navy,” Miss Haversham repeated in relief.
Not a duke, thank heaven
.

“Don’t parrot what I say. Makes you sound cork-brained. Yes, a Captain. Eligible man. Have you given any more thought to marriage?” Lady Abingdon asked with an encouraging smile.

“I’ve had no time to,” Prudence demurred.
What with abducting the Duke of Ainsworth, tattooing him, dumping him and fleeing the scene of the crime, oh yes and dodging imaginary runners…

“He noticed you last July in the Upper Rooms,”
²
Lady Abingdon continued undaunted by Prudence’s apathy.

Prudence forced her mind to function normally again. “Do you refer to Captain Dorset?”

“The very gentleman. Six or seven and thirty. Needs a wife with sense not some nattering featherbrain. Dowry’s of no concern, plump in the pocket himself. He mentioned a desire to be more formally introduced to you, dear child.”

“I’m honored, of course, but it would be unfair to a marriage-minded gentleman if I’m not myself in a similar frame of mind.”

“Sadly, I must agree,” Lady Abingdon said with genuine disappointment. “But you’ll give it further thought and tell me when you’re of a different mind, won’t you.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Fustian! Doted on you since you were young! My godchild, after all.”

“I am a most fortunate young woman, Lady Abingdon,” she smiled, quoting what the older woman often said to her.

“But are you content, my dear?”

Prudence’s smile faded a shade, “Of course, I am. I’ve no complaints.”

“No, never have.” Lady Abingdon considered what to say next. “I always thought your father did you a disservice treating you as he did. Encouraging your eccentricity.”

“I enjoyed learning about plants and science.”

“Treated you more like a son. Couldn’t help it, I suppose. Oswald inherited none of his cleverness. You inherited your mother’s looks and your father’s keen wit.” Lady Abingdon continued, “Perhaps he assumed you knew how pretty you were but a girl should hear it from her father.”

Miss Haversham remained silent and adjusted the napkin in her lap.

“See? There! You look dismayed, my sweet.” Lady Abingdon patted her hand. “You’re a lovely girl, not that your father or jingle-witted brother ever said so.”

“There’s nothing particularly useful about being pretty.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, a woman finds all her strengths useful.”

“My strengths are in other areas.”

“Hardly! You are the image of your dear mother who was devastating in her day. Men found her eyes entrancing. Wrote any number of rubbishy sonnets to them. And you have her eyes.” The dowager countess lifted her napkin to touch each corner of her delicate rosebud mouth before she continued a little breathless, “I’ve loved you as a daughter — produced nothing but sons myself, much to the delight of Abingdon — so I shall continue to meddle in your life as I see fit and that is that. You, my dear, shall not die on the vine. That will not do.”

Prudence gave her godmother a practiced smile and prayed she would find another outlet for her prodigious matchmaking energy.

Her ladyship began to fan herself briskly in the none-too-warm tearoom.

“Are you well, Lady Abingdon?”

“No need for concern, my dear,” she said with a negligent wave of a hand as she dabbed a handkerchief at her upper lip. “Just a bit breathless now and then. At my age, I am relieved to be breathing at all. The quacks claim it’s my heart but I notice it beats so I cannot imagine what they are on about. They say a murmur’s become a muttering or some such.”

Prudence looked closely at her godmother. Her color under the layer of powder was the same as the pale talc. Her lips had a bluish cast at the edges indicating poor circulation.

“Lady Abingdon, I beg you to heed your doctors.”

“If I did, I’d be abed even now instead of having tea with my favorite godchild. Tea is a great restorative as any well-versed herbalist knows.”

“You must take care of your health.”

“I am fine, my dear. Better than fine. Matter of fact, I’m contemplating a pleasure trip to Italy.”

“You cannot!”

“Pooh! I can and will. I am done with emetics, paregorics, bloodletting and leeches, I tell you. Finished! I am worse off for the best care available and I’ll have no more of it.”

“But...”

“But nothing. It will be a most excellent adventure. So salubrious to relax under the Tuscan sun half potted on Chianti and fully stuffed with the local proscuitto ham. Bound to see some ruins and cathedrals, I suppose. Plan to stay in Florence. Very civilized place, Medici and all,” Lady Abingdon mused aloud. “Popes and poisoners in that family but then, who doesn’t have a mad uncle or aunt, I say. Makes holidays eventful.”

Prudence laughed uncertainly with her ladyship.

“I had hoped I might persuade you to join me. Be my companion in Italy instead of an ape leader in Bath. I would welcome your company, my dear child.”

“Italy, Lady Abingdon?”

“Lord Abingdon went there on his Grand Tour. Never heard the end of it — until he passed on, of course. Simply adored Tuscany and I have a mind to see what all the fuss was about before I join him in what will undoubtedly be a ham-less eternity.”

“I would love to go with you but the apothecary shop...”

“Will carry on quite nicely without you. It’s only a twelve-month. You’ve trained Mr. Murphy well and deserve to see a bit of the world while you can enjoy it. Perhaps you’ll meet a handsome Italian Count.”

Prudence gave her a look.

“Think on it, Prudence.”

“I am honored you would consider me.”

“Consider you! I thought of no other. Nor am I in a hurry to go. The autumn is lovely there or so I’m told. We’ll have a wonderful time together, I’ll wager. Everything at the apothecary shop will be as you left it when you return.”

Of that, Prudence had no doubt. Italy or no, nothing in her entirely predictable life in Bath would change.

A
utumn’s many mortifications gave way to a somewhat less mortifying winter for Ainsworth at Grayfriars Abbey. By New Year, he returned to Town to look in on the House of Lords as was his duty. From what he saw, this involved a great deal of sitting in hard, high, straight backed wooden benches. Only the occasional foot stamping or “huzzah!” relieved the monotony of speechifying. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps next year he would take his seat. Or the year after.

The duke’s shoulder still ached like a sore tooth. The skin had knit roughly together but the underlying muscle remained in painful turmoil. He couldn’t raise his left arm much less lift any weight with his left hand without triggering pain.

Excepting Smeeth, who fussed over his hair and person like a mother baboon nitpicking her young, the rest of the duke’s staff understood implicitly they should not dwell upon his infirmity. Even the household mongrels sensed he should not be importuned. They sat at a respectful distance whenever a walk in the park seemed in the offing.

Thatcher grew concerned about His Grace’s chronic discomfort. One late January day, he held the duke’s caped greatcoat and dared to raise the subject obliquely when the duke winced as he lifted the coat off the butler’s arm.

“Wounds take time to heal, Your Grace.”

“They do, Thatcher.” Ainsworth looked his butler in the eye, “And how do you get on?”

“Well enough now, Your Grace.” Thatcher said perfunctorily.

“It wasn’t always tolerable?” The duke asked, “The pain.”

“I had tenderness of the stump but,” Thatcher clammed up, fearing he importuned the duke with inappropriate personal details.

“But?” Ainsworth asked.

Thatcher hesitated but the duke silently awaited his reply. After an uncomfortable pause, the butler blurted out in a rush, “The missing arm gave me so much grief I wanted to have it cut off all over again!”

“Did you see a doctor?”

“Even if I could afford one, why pay a man to tell me I was certifiable?” Thatcher replied. The duke said nothing, waiting intently. Thatcher elaborated, “Got to the point, I was beside myself distracted by it. Then another fellow in my condition told me about Miss H.”

“What?” Ainsworth’s head throbbed.
‘Mizzach!’
That Night, he heard those two syllables over and over. Now perhaps he understood. “Miss H., you say?”

“Miss Haversham, Your Grace. Bless me if Miss H. didn’t put me right! Has special salves. Her man at the apothecary shop had ways of working what was left that settled my stump nicely. She told me to try grabbing things with my missing hand…in my head, pretending that is. Thought her daft but I swear it helped. Only charged for the liniments and poultice. She was a godsend, sir.”

“You call her Miss H., this Miss Haversham?” The duke’s hackles rose.

“Everybody does.”

“Where in Town might I find this Miss Haversham?” He asked quietly.

“Not in London, Your Grace, Bath. Her apothecary shop’s on Trim Street, tucked away in the corner. Number three. Can’t miss it. Worth the trip, I’d say.”

“No. 3 Trim Street, Bath,” the duke committed the address to memory. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew the empty glass jar. “In the meantime, is it possible for someone to get more of this? I’ve used it up.”

“The housekeeper will see to it tomorrow, Your Grace. What is it Mrs. Clarke should get?”

“I’m not sure what it’s called, Thatcher. All I have is this.”

Ainsworth opened the jar for his one-armed butler, who sniffed it once and said, “Demme if that isn’t one of Miss Haversham’s rubs, Your Grace.”

“There’s no label.” The duke showed his butler the top of the lid.

“Funny,” Thatcher replied, perplexed.

“Hilarious,” the duke said grimly. “You’re certain it’s hers?”

“No doubt about it. Never smelled anything like it before or since.”

“Unforgettable, I agree. And what does this Miss Haversham look like? Is she a heavyset, older woman?”

“Lord, no! Fact, she looks too young to be tending folks. Brown hair. Light eyes. Slim. But not to worry, she knows what she’s about. Been at it for years.”

“Pretty?”

“Not in a loud way,” Thatcher said with fondness. “But she grows on you. She’s a right one, Your Grace. Not high in the instep. Gives as good as she gets from the likes of me but a lady through and through. Daresay you’d like her.”

Not bloody likely.

The duke recalled the slight female examining him, brushing his hair from his forehead gently. Her hands were small, soft and cool. Her voice had a velvet nap. She handled his shoulder carefully and massaged the fresh-smelling salve into his tattered skin. But first, she had her henchmen tattoo him.

“I think we shall go Bath in the spring.”

“To cure what ails you, Your Grace?”

Ainsworth nodded slowly.

“I’ll look up Miss Haversham for you, Your Grace, she’ll change your life.”

“I believe she already has,” Ainsworth muttered to himself.

“Shall I call for your carriage?”

“No, Thatcher. I’ll walk.” At the word ‘walk,’ Attila stood at attention. Fred and George, both fright-haired terrier mixes with half-cocked ears, started toward the open door. And Puck danced in place whining for an explicit invitation.

“Sit,” the duke commanded. They sat and fretted.

“Stay!” He added. The foursome drooped and let him step to the open door. Ainsworth softened the blow with a curt “Find Cook!” And off they ambled to seek solace in meat scraps.

The duke walked briskly nowhere in particular, just to alleviate the pulsing energy now coursing through his body.

Miss H. was it? Who in blazes was this Miss Haversham? What had he ever done to her? He’d never laid eyes on the chit before That Night. Never been to Bath. Her motive for the attack remained a mystery. No matter. By God, he would track this Miss H. down. Even if her touch felt more like a lover’s caress, he’d make her rue the day she raised a hand against him. He would have his revenge.

He considered how best to put her at his mercy, not that he intended to show her any.

Ainsworth strode down Grosvenor Street to Bond, turned right and continued his long-legged lope through Mayfair’s main shopping district. Insensible to the stir he caused being afoot, hatless and easily recognized, the duke continued on his walk. He passed countless Bond Street shops and flirtatious ladies bundled up against the chill, arriving at Piccadilly where he found himself without conscious volition standing before the windows of Hatchard’s Bookshop. He loved Hatchard’s. Reading was one of the few passive verbs he heartily enjoyed. Perhaps, he would browse for a while to calm down.

As he lost himself among the shelves of classic texts in Greek and Latin, his temper cooled considerably. He opened an old friend, Virgil’s
Aeneid
:
Arma virumque cano
…, ‘I sing of arms and of a man…’

Some flicker of movement and a tap on the bookshop window made him flinch involuntarily. He looked up. His instinct for danger rang the alarm. He closed the book with a snap and peered through the window. Seeing nothing more ominous than window shoppers and passers by, his wariness eased and he returned to the
Aeneid
. Thus, he wiled away the afternoon, lost in an ancient tale of capricious gods, endless war, and the thwarted ambitions of man.

Later, in the middle of the night, Ainsworth’s routine nightmares of blood-soaked battlefields featured French cuirassiers, English infantry and now the odd Roman legionnaire. Next, this scene shifted seamlessly, as dreams are wont to, into the dim, fiery room of That Night. He clearly heard Mustachio and the buxom older domestic chanting “Miss H., Miss H.” over and over. She knelt before him, watching him, and reached out. He woke with a violent twitch.