by Maya Rodale
“I actually employ an exceptional collection of writers. But I’m not in the business of handholding or warm tender feelings—not even for the women. My writers are expected to write, and write well. And, frankly, cause a scandal whenever possible. It does remarkable things for sales. Without fail.”
“And what of those chits you have writing for you? They must have had tongues wagging all over town. And from what I hear, the allure of scribbling females hasn’t worn off.”
“Scribbling females,” Knightly said with a laugh. “You best not let them hear you say that, although I daresay they’ve heard it all.”
“It’s a pretty remarkable thing, hiring females to write in this day and age.”
“Exactly. Anything that has the ton in an uproar is bound to be good for sales. My Writing Girls do not disappoint. Neither do your tattoos.”
“Is that all you care about—sales?” Wycliff asked.
“Yes,” Knightly said, sipping his drink. Wycliff did the same and found it was a fine French brandy.
“I understand. So long as my scandalous self sells your newspapers, I can count on your writers to devote their attentions to drivel about myself. You will make a fortune off of me. But what is it you do with all the money?”
“I have it,” the editor said with a shrug. Wycliff understood the security of having money in the bank.
“Tell me, Mr. Knightly, how did you come to employ the chits?” It was an easy, obvious question to get the man talking about his writers.
“If you knew them, the question would be how could I not? A bolder, more brash, more meddlesome collection of females I don’t know. Well, most of them, anyway,” he said, and Wycliff was immediately intrigued by the quiet ones, whoever they might be.
“And your other writers? Pardon me for asking what may seem to be inane questions, but even given all my travels, I have yet to explore this dark, underbelly of London’s publishing world. Duke’s usually do not, after all.”
Knightly’s jaw clenched tightly. Wycliff knew he had hit a nerve. So the upstart news rag proprietor was sensitive about class, was he? Well, he rebounded quickly.
“You do a lot of things dukes do not usually do. Yet I have managed to profit from your exploits, while you do not.”
Wycliff said nothing, only finished his drink. The mark was well placed. Knightly knew it.
“Money, or a title? Is one any good without the other?” the duke mused. Honestly. The man across from him was probably flush with cash, yet there it was again—the tightening of the jaw. Even a flash of irritation in his eyes.
“ ‘Deep Thoughts from the Duke of Wycliff.’ Won’t that make a splendid new column for The Weekly,” Knightly retorted.
“And which writer would I be replacing? One of the chits or some bloke?”
“Nice attempt, Your Grace. I shall not reveal that, not so you can attempt to intimidate the author into writing something more to your liking. Though I doubt you could. After all, I wouldn’t send a coward to the den of lion.”
Wycliff took that to mean the author was a man. When phrased like that, no decent man with any pretense to calling himself a gentleman could possible send a female into the most salacious and dangerous household in London.
“ Well, I can’t be bothered to author it, though. Not as a duke,” he said, allowing condescension to infuse his tone. And then with a laugh he added, “You could send one of those chits around to take notes as I dictate.”
“Yes, I bloody well could,” Knightly murmured as he downed the last of his drink.
Chapter 16
In Which the Seeds Are Sown
Conservatory of Wycliff House
Eliza heard the ringing from the drawing room, and because she had not yet learned the distinct tone and pitch of each bell and its corresponding room, she had to dash madly to the butler’s pantry to see which one was ringing. And then she had to dash madly to the conservatory, since that’s where His Grace was awaiting a maid.
She arrived breathless, which she seemed to do a lot lately. Running here or there, arriving late and worried about being caught and discovered wherever she was. For a spot on the second page of The Weekly, though, she wouldn’t complain.
Golly, if that didn’t make her heart nearly burst with pride.
And then, when summoned by the duke, it mattered naught if she arrived breathless for it would only be a few moments before a look or a caress had all sorts of deliciously unsettling effects upon her.
Just setting her sights upon him did it. She caught a glance of him through the tangled, heady forest of plants. The conservatory was hot, heated by a large stove. It was stuffed with large, luscious plants and trees, obscuring a clear view. As she wandered through, she caught glimpses of Wycliff as he worked, who was as yet unaware that he wasn’t alone.
His hair was pulled back from his face, tied roughly with twine. She caught the glint of sunlight on his small gold hoop earring. And his lips were parted slightly as he worked, his gaze utterly focused on what he was doing.
Eliza walked around a potted orange and some other large green plants she didn’t recognize until the duke was in full view. He stood at a high table with an assortment of pottery and his hands in the dirt.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing the snaking black lines of his tattoos, which seemed to move as he flexed his muscles. She was transfixed. In fact, she stood there watching and ogling his forearms, like a ninny, until the duke took note of her presence.
“You rang?” she asked, reminding them both what she was doing there.
“I require assistance,” he said, stepping aside to make room for her at the table. She had a feeling this was not a typical task of London housemaids. But she wasn’t one to stand on ceremony when it could yield material for her column.
Get the story. Get the story. Knightly’s voice was forever in the back of her mind, urging her on.
She saw dozens of pots and small paper packets with what must have been the duke’s scrawl. She could make out Latin names and descriptions.
“I haven’t much experience with planting, being a born and raised London girl,” she said. “All I know of nature is Hyde Park. And this conservatory.”
“It’s not difficult. I’ll show you.” Of course he had to say this with the kind of smile that made a girl go hot all over. The kind of smile he’d given her the other night. That couldn’t happen again, much as she might hunger for it.
Eliza pushed up her sleeves like his, and it didn’t escape her notice the way his gaze lingered on the bare skin of her hands and arms for just a beat longer than necessary or proper. But he quickly looked away.
Did he desire her? Why did that give her such pleasure?
“It’s as simple as making a small hole in the soil and placing just a few seeds before covering them up.” The soil was cool and soft on her hands; a welcome change from hot, soapy water or a thin coating of dust.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, not because she was a writer on a secret mission to uncover his secrets, but because she was genuinely curious about him. How many dukes puttered around their conservatories? Probably not many, she’d wager.
“The gardeners at our country estates. My governesses often neglected me and my studies, as they were engaged in other pursuits,” Wycliff explained. And the hot, mischievous glance he flashed her told Eliza exactly what kind of pursuits he spoke of. “Like any boy, I wandered outside and did my best to get dirty. I often succeed admirably.”
“I daresay most dukes wouldn’t have been able to run wild like that.” She thought of Brandon, Sophie’s double-duke husband, who was the very epitome of a straitlaced, dutiful duke who never, ever neglected anything. Or mucked around in the mud.
“We all know that I am not most dukes,” Wycliff replied, which was the understatement of the century, in her opinion. Not that she knew many dukes. She just knew that there was no one like him.
“You’ve enjoyed more freedom than most,�
� she said.
“Or I’ve been sadly lacking in discipline, as are most Wycliff men. But it depends upon whom you are asking,” he added, and then asked casually: “Would you hand me the Gardenia taitensis?”
Eliza hesitated. In order to keep up her ruse as an innocent, simpering, unthreatening housemaid, she shouldn’t reveal that she could read—and in Latin, too.
No, she had to act stupid. Just this once. It pained her to do so, because she was a proud woman, particularly when it came to her talents with the written word, and she wanted to impress him.
Why did she care to impress him? she wondered. There could only be one reason . . .
His gaze rested on her face, watching her intently.
And that’s what suffused her cheeks with a pink blush, like the desert rose blooming nearby. She felt something . . . she cared about what this duke thought of her, which could only mean . . .
While she stumbled and tripped over these feelings, he reached past her for the Gardenia taitensis. He brushed against her as he did so. She felt it everywhere.
“What is all this for, anyway?” she asked.
“While I could walk into the Royal Society and impress them with my haughty, ducal demeanor in a plea for funds, I’d rather show them what they could gain by funding my next expedition. I have accumulated an extensive collection of seeds, among other things, that could be tremendously useful to England.”
“When you were not ravishing all the women in a sultan’s harem, that is,” she teased.
“It’s important to explore and engage with the local flora, fauna, and females,” he added. And there it was again—a mischievous flash in his eyes, a quick grin. She could live off flirtatious looks like that.
“All in the noble name of research,” she remarked, returning to planting seeds as he’d shown her. He hadn’t just been wandering or idling away the days. He’d been doing something important. She should put that in her column.
“Precisely,” he agreed. “I’m glad to see you’re a woman of sense. Like some rare blossom.”
“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult,” she responded, but her heart was beating hard with pleasure, because he didn’t think her some idiot female after all.
“Take it as a compliment. You’ll find life much easier if you do.”
“Is that how you take newspaper columns about you?” The words were out of her mouth before she paused to consider if she ought to give voice to them. This was treading on dangerous conversational territory. But she had been starting to feel little pangs of something. Was it guilt? Was it pangs of decency?
“Are you reading those?” He treated her to a questioning, sidelong glance. He was probably an excellent interrogator. She ought not have mentioned this at all. Must keep wits about self. She cautioned herself even as she could see the outline of his well-muscled chest through his white shirt, and the vee of tattoos at his neck. Even as she thought about another kiss—a glorious, melting, exquisite kiss that tempted her far too much.
“Your Grace, all of London is reading them—or being read to—including your staff. You’ll find life much easier if you accept gossip as inevitable.” She tried to laugh it off, but he didn’t join her.
“I am unconventional, and that is remarkable. That makes me threatening. I understand this. I’m not too bothered by it. However, were it to start affecting my work, or my chances to secure funding for the Timbuktu expedition . . .”
Was that a warning? Her heart beat hard. He couldn’t possibly suspect her, his illiterate housemaid with her hands in the dirt.
“I understand. Idle gossip is one thing, until it begins to wreak havoc upon one’s life,” she said. Could she walk that line?
“What is it about you that makes me talk so much?” Wycliff questioned. She didn’t know, but she was tremendously grateful for it. His confidence in her made her bold. As if she weren’t just a housemaid, or the lowly, unknown Writing Girl with the articles in the back of the paper, next to the cure-alls for revolting maladies.
She was now a star writer, falling for her subject.
“Are you trying to impress me, Your Grace?” She dared to flirt with him. But how could she not? It was a warm, lovely day in the conservatory, and this intrepid, worldly explorer was spending the hours with her.
“Impress you?” he repeated, laughing a bit. But he placed his hands on either side of her, blocking her in. She couldn’t move if she wanted to.
It went without saying that she did not want to.
“Or perhaps win my favor?” she asked pertly, tempting him to take it further.
“Or just a kiss?” he asked as he gently brushed his lips across hers.
Eliza thought of the reasons they should not kiss as his hot, tempting mouth pressed upon hers, urging her to open to him.
The story. This was not part of the story. To hell with the story.
She entwined her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the soft locks of his hair and shamelessly pressing the length of her body against his. She felt his taut chest against her breasts. The duke groaned and his broad hands caressed her all over, leaving heated skin in their wake.
Eliza tilted her head back as he pressed hot, open kisses upon the sensitive skin of her neck. She clasped the fabric of his shirt in her hands. She felt the leather cord he wore, with the key that surely opened those taunting, locked doors.
Get the story. Get the story.
She ought to slip it off. But more than that, she wanted, needed, ached to feel his hot bare flesh against hers.
But she shouldn’t. She had her reasons, and they had nothing to do with the story and everything to do with that mistake she made years ago in Brighton.
Chapter 17
The Tattooed Duke Strikes Again
“It appears that I’ve joined you in infamy,” Harlan said, tossing a newspaper onto the great oak desk, where they joined an assortment of Arabic texts, journals from Wycliff’s travels, and maps.
It was another issue of The London Weekly.
Wycliff stared at it for a moment, as if Harlan had tossed a dead fish onto his desk. He asked, “Am I going to need a drink?”
“Likely. But then again, doesn’t one always?” Harlan mused.
Sometimes Wycliff wondered if whiskey ran through the man’s veins. He picked up the paper, saw the familiar title, “The Tattooed Duke,” and began to read as Harlan sauntered over to the windows and looked out into the garden, a makeshift home for some of the creatures they’d brought back.
The Duke of Wycliff, of number four, Berkeley Square, is proud to say he is not perfectly normal, thank you very much. While the ton is aghast at his oddities, and readers of this paper avidly devour the details, the duke cares not for their gossip or their opinions.
There is a room in Wycliff House that remains locked at all times. The duke is the only one with the key and he wears it on a leather cord ’round his neck. His desk is covered with unusual texts: the Muslim holy book, maps, handwritten journals in foreign languages. Hardly the stuff of a typical English gentleman.
Also in the duke’s possession are journals describing extraordinarily passionate intimate relations with native women in such vivid detail that any maiden would be ruined to read them. And if she were to glance at the detailed illustrations? There would be a run on smelling salts.
As befitting such an avowed unconventional man, His Grace keeps company that would make a ton matron pale. His faithful companion is a sailor of unknown origins, with only one good eye and one good arm. The stories are wildly inconsistent and devilishly enthralling: wrestling with a shark, a duel with a foreign king, a pagan ritual gone awry, a pirate attack.
One waits with baited breath to see what this tattooed duke will do next. There are rumors that he is planning an expedition to the ever-elusive Timbuktu. So is his rival, mere mister Monroe Burke. This author, intimately acquainted with the facts, would put money on the Wicked Wycliff. To fund Burke Monroe is to
surrender to the French. Perish the thought!
Wycliff set the newspaper down. The stuff about Burke was just splendid. It almost made the rest of it forgivable.
He was now portrayed as a heathen, friend of the devil, author of naughty diary entries, and owner of a locked room that contained God only knew what. Wycliff sighed, oddly curious as to what the gossip would claim the room contained.
Harlan handed him a glass of brandy and asked, “Do you think it’s someone in this house?”
He’d been wondering the same thing. Was it Jenny? No, she didn’t seem to think of much other than Thomas the footman. Mrs. Buxby was too drunk; Saddler not clever enough. There were all the other maids and footmen that he didn’t know.
And then there was Eliza.
It couldn’t be her. She couldn’t read and write. In fact, he’d seen the hot pink flush of her cheeks, like an African sunset, when he’d unthinkingly asked her to. He’d felt like such an ass.
Even if she were acting as an informant, he couldn’t pinpoint anything to her—or any other staff member. The salacious details that made their way into print were all items that many had heard, or overheard, or that could be gleaned merely by snooping around.
He had half a mind to cross the room and test and inspect the lock on the door to his private room.
“I don’t know, Harlan. Any ideas? You fraternize with the household help more than I do.”
“I go where the whiskey flows freely and companionship is to be found. That is most often Mrs. Buxby’s parlor. But no, it’s not me. You’re my ticket out of here.”
“Or Burke. Can you believe his plot to launch a Royal Society funded expedition to Timbuktu? How many hours have we all discussed my intentions to do exactly that? I didn’t think he would blatantly steal my plans.”
“Well, you’re not the first person to consider making the trip. I’m sure he is not planning his travels just to vex or to spite you. Not when there’s ten thousand on the line. He doesn’t have a title to fall back on,” Harlan remarked, oddly supportive of their rival. Wycliff decided not to press the point, but he filed that information away.
