The Duke’s Tattoo
A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge,
Though Not in That Order
Book One in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series
By
Miranda Davis
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s fevered imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Aspen Street Press, RJP, LLC
P.O. Box 1321
Espanola, NM 87532
Copyright ©2012 M. D. Hansen
Cover image: Copyright ©2012 M. D. Hansen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission, except in the case of brief quotations properly referenced and used within the context of critical articles and reviews.
Revised Kindle Edition July 2012
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
In which our mortified hero has no one but himself to blame. Yet.
Chapter 2
In which our heroine learns revenge is a dish best served cold. And to the right party.
Chapter 3
In which our hero has repeated cause to curse the perpetrators of his tattoo.
Chapter 4
In which our heroine cannot let sleeping dogs lie.
Chapter 5
In which our heroine begins the New Year with tea and apathy.
Chapter 6
In which our hero anticipates laughing last and best.
Chapter 7
In which our heroine suffers envy, then an apoplexy, on Piccadilly Street.
Chapter 8
In which three out of ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ meet at White’s.
Chapter 9
In which Sir Oswald sells our heroine out of house and home and apothecary shop.
Chapter 10
In which our hero sallies forth while our heroine beats a hasty retreat.
Chapter 11
In which adversaries skirmish over scones and clotted cream.
Chapter 12
In which our hero seeks a cure for his vexation from its source.
Chapter 13
In which our heroine is not the only one on needles and pins.
Chapter 14
In which our hero confronts his abuser.
Chapter 15
In which our hero and heroine have second thoughts.
Chapter 16
In which our hero cannot leave well enough, or Miss Haversham, alone.
Chapter 17
In which Lady Jane Babcock lays claim to the Mayfair Stallion.
Chapter 18
In which our hero cannot help himself.
Chapter 19
In which our heroine reproaches our hero for his good behavior.
Chapter 20
In which our hero and heroine waltz across the Rubicon.
Chapter 21
In which there is an unfortunate case of ‘he said, she heard.’
Chapter 22
In which our hero seeks Sir Oswald’s blessing but ends up damned angry.
Chapter 23
In which wags ponder whether Lady J. will break the Mayfair Stallion to the saddle.
Chapter 24
In which a stallion’s goose is cooked.
Chapter 25
In which Sir Oswald and wife dash off to confront his incorrigible sister.
Chapter 26
In which three Horsemen of the Apocalypse race to battle the Succubus of Bath.
Chapter 27
In which our hero succeeds in putting his worst foot forward then into his mouth.
Chapter 28
In which the Succubus of Bath perplexes all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Chapter 29
In which Lord Clun confronts the Succubus of Bath.
Chapter 30
In which our hero tries again.
Chapter 31
In which our twice-bitten hero is still no shyer.
Chapter 32
In which our heroine comes to the rescue.
Chapter 33
In which our hero attempts to catch a nymph.
Chapter 34
In which just deserts are served.
Epilogue
In which one thing inevitably led to another.
Misc. Historical Notes
About the Author
Excerpt from The Baron’s Betrothal
Endnotes
Chapter 1
In which our mortified hero has no one but himself to blame. Yet.
London, August 1815
The Morning After
“Bollocks, sir!” Smeeth exclaimed. “Beg pardon, Y’ Grace.”
It was not at all like the duke’s valet to stare at a man’s apparatus with such squinty-eyed concentration. This made His Grace all the more uncomfortable, if that were possible.
His head pounded like a cannonade. Odd bits of recollections collided in his skull causing an unpleasant, dizzying rumpus. Waking nightmares, really. Voices. The metallic scent of blood. The incendiary taste of brandy. Flames. Hands. Fiends. Low chants of ‘mizzach-mizzach.’ And pain. Burning, piercing pain over and over again. Probably new pain, though he was unenthusiastic about examining the issue in detail. Pain of any kind was by now his boon companion and at times the only thing reminding him he remained among the living.
Months after Napoleon’s final defeat at Waterloo, the duke still suffered from ill-mending wounds, in particular his shredded left shoulder.
And now this.
Jeremy Michael Augustus Maubrey, former Major Maubrey late of the Household Cavalry, tenth Duke of Ainsworth, Marquis of Bevelstoke along with honorifics he couldn’t easily recall, wanted only to soak all morning in a tepid bath to recuperate from his hellish evening. At least, he believed it was hellish. He had scant luck recalling particulars.
Earlier this morning, a scullery maid found him draped over a wrought iron bench in the garden of his Grosvenor Square residence. Footmen helped him inside. His butler Thatcher eased him out of his linen outer coat downstairs. Once he stood teetering in the vast ducal bedchamber upstairs, Smeeth carefully removed his cutaway coat of superfine and his embroidered waistcoat. All of which hurt like blazes.
Too many bloody coats.
He gingerly shucked his linen shirt. His cravat was long gone. Or perhaps one of his hedges was festooned with it.
It was when he stepped from his breeches and small clothes that Smeeth cried out and grew inordinately contemplative.
“What’ve you been up to, er…Y’ Grace?” Smeeth asked, still staring between the duke’s legs. “Tup a lamprey, did you? You’re bare as a babe and bloody well savaged all…all around yourself!”
Ainsworth followed his man’s gaze downward to discover the source of Smeeth’s wonderment. Now he too stared agog.
Where once his nether thatch grew lush, little remained. He was shorn clean but he was not unmarred. The discomfort he had begun to notice as the fog in his head dissipated, an itchy, pulsating, ache-y sort of annoyance down there, was directly related to an angry, blood-stippled swathe of his most intimate skin. It appeared, even upside down from Ainsworth’s point of view, to be an intricate design, the lines of which were filled and shaded in a riot of colors. Dark bruising, however, obscured its exact nature.
He da
bbed at himself with the damp linen cloth Smeeth thoughtfully provided at arm’s length. The decoration did not fade or smear. After a stinging application of soap and slightly more vigorous rubbing, it persisted. His Grace swore fluently in profanity picked up during the war, mostly Portuguese with a smattering French and scrubbed the area. Alas, to no avail.
On the deeply mottled skin of his taut lower abdomen, a tattoo bracketed the duke’s membrum virile as if to glorify his generative organ. Its mocking intention was abundantly clear.
“What were you thinking!” Smeeth blurted out with a snort, behaving more like the former Major Maubrey’s ribald batman than a duke’s decorous valet. Not that the duke noticed.
“I don’t remember thinking much at all last night, Smeeth.”
“Clearly, but if I may say, you were never one to get yourself pissed as a newt. Didn’t ever drink yourself legless. Squiffy on occasion,” Smeeth mused, “a bit concerned, certainly. But never…”
“Just so,” the duke interrupted. “I admit I’m mystified.”
It took a full day for Ainsworth to feel somewhat restored to himself. Actually, he hadn’t felt much like himself since his metamorphosis into the ‘colorful’ Duke of Ainsworth, et cetera. Almost daily he had cause to regret leaving behind his carefree, caterpillar’s life as second son and devil-take-the-hindmost cavalry officer. He sincerely missed the simplicity of his courtesy title, Lord Jeremy Maubrey. It had a nice, plumy ring to it without any burden of dynastic obligations.
And now this! Of all the unwelcome vexations of his new life, this tattoo was by far the worst. His aggravation was understandable. Aside from Julius Caesar’s description of blue-faced Picts in ancient Scotland and records of a few medieval Saxon kings, English noblemen were not on the whole enthusiastic about indelible body art at the moment Ainsworth discovered his.
After two days of recuperation, the duke returned to White’s for a quiet afternoon of reflection. There, he hoped to piece together the origin of his tattoo.
Much of the ton had left London since the Season was all but over. By mid-August, most of the club’s members were off to their country estates eager to decimate local grouse populations. So the duke anticipated fewer fellows hanging about to distract him or, worse yet, slap him on the back in bonhomie. He simply wanted to read a paper, relax and try to recall what happened the night he had a few brandies at the club and sometime later found himself in whichever circle of Hell transgressors were taken to be tattooed for transgressions.
For which transgression, he couldn’t say.
Being brutally honest with himself, Ainsworth acknowledged he was an enthusiastic transgressor. He was guilty of three of seven deadly sins: wrath, laziness and lust. Especially lust. As for the Ten Commandments, God frequently caught him on the wrong side of at least half. He took the Lord’s name in vain, fought — and killed — on Sundays, worshipped pert, bare breasts as if they were divine beings and fornicated whenever the opportunity presented itself, be she widowed or married. He would, however, never steal, bear false witness or debauch virgins (which strictly speaking wasn’t a commandment but ought to have been). So he had at least a few scruples. This redeeming modicum of punctiliousness did not, however, lessen his sins in the eyes of man, Church or God. In other words, the duke wasn’t indignant over his punishment because he was innocent but rather because he had no idea for which specific offense he was being punished or by whom. Or why it had to be a damned tattoo.
To deface a man in such a way required a demented, vicious, vindictive nature and a serious grudge. As far as he knew, he had no enemies in England. Nor had he been back long enough to make any new ones, or so he thought. But make no mistake, whoever did this to him was his enemy and he would show no mercy when the time came to settle the score.
Ainsworth made his way downstairs to the sunlit foyer. The black and white marble floor no longer swam kaleidoscopically for which he was grateful. Thatcher, his soldier-straight butler, quietly materialized behind him and cleared his throat.
“Bloody hell, Thatcher!” Ainsworth nearly jumped out of his gleaming Hessians. “You do spook a man.”
“My apologies, Your Grace,” the butler said, holding the duke’s coat over his only arm.
Thatcher, late of the 71st Foot, also suffered injury at Waterloo. Artillery fire shattered his left arm in the opening hours of fighting during the furious assault on Hougoumont. Field doctors didn’t amputate his arm until the next morning but somehow he survived. Tough as boot leather, Thatcher, and quiet as a bloody mouse.
Without thinking, the duke tried to put on his coat unassisted but flinched with pain. He let Thatcher help him.
To disguise his discomfort, Ainsworth asked, “Where is everyone? Attila, George, Fred and who’s the new one?”
“You named him Puck, Your Grace. The brown and black. That is, if he won’t be one too many.”
“Certainly not, the place needs a bit more…”
“Chaos?” the butler suggested. Unlike Smeeth, Thatcher had a naturally repressive dignity well suited to his new profession.
“Life, Thatcher. I was about to say life.”
Sleeve by sleeve, the butler helped the duke into his coat, taking extra care to settle it gently on his injured shoulder.
“Well?” Ainsworth pursued, ignoring the dull ache pulsing from his ruined shoulder down his arm.
“The staff thought the beasts ought to stay in the stable till you were back in the pink, Your Grace.”
“They may as well return now that I am up and about. Is Puck well-behaved?”
“He’s clever, that one. Unlatched a cabinet in Cook’s pantry and…”
“Thatcher,” the duke interrupted in mock rebuke, “You should know I cannot abide tattletales.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Thatcher replied with a crisp bow.
Ainsworth noted how neatly Thatcher had sewn the empty sleeve of his frock coat. No doubt the butler managed it himself single-handed, as he managed everything else. The loss of his arm seemed to give him little trouble. In truth, Thatcher’s capability humbled Ainsworth and reminded him how much easier was his own lot in life. He was duke however badly his limbs functioned. Thatcher was a fine man who was sent into battle to be diced to bits then shamefully turned off without pension or provision as “no longer fit for duty.” If not for Smeeth’s intercession, what trade could the one-armed ex-soldier have hoped to find?
The butler reached up to flick nonexistent lint from the duke’s broad back, “And is Your Grace well, if I may ask?” His expression remained perfectly bland.
“Well enough,” the duke replied. “I’ll be at White’s.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Thatcher stepped aside and the footman opened the door.
Ainsworth counted himself lucky to have his staff. There were footmen and maids enough. Cook had whomever she needed in the kitchen. But he had no wish to fill Ainsworth House with the typical army of servants. His needs were modest, straightforward and surprisingly few for a peer of his rank. For these requirements, the duke relied primarily on Smeeth, Thatcher and his man of affairs.
As former military men themselves, his butler and valet knew not to probe and worry the subject of his shoulder (whereas, his sister in Brussels nagged at him extravagantly in correspondence). Being forced to think about the pain did nothing to alleviate it.
Now that he thought about it, something had definitely changed for the better.
His left shoulder no longer screamed with sharp, shocking pain. This relief came either as a result of distraction, his fresh tattoo being exceedingly tender, or it was due to the mysterious liniment used on him while in captivity. Someone had done more than defoliate and decorate his lower anatomy. The dressing on his shoulder had been freshly applied. The unfamiliar salve on his skin smelled clean, certainly herbal, possibly floral and as soothing as it was unusual. Despite everything else he associated with the scent, he liked the salve. It helped.
For this small thing, Ainsworth w
as thankful. For the tattoo, he most certainly was not. He was livid and potentially homicidal. He vowed to hunt down the perpetrators and wreck their lives until satisfied they had paid for this villainy in full. Given where and what it was, their comeuppance should cost them everything.
Still a touch unsteady, Ainsworth reluctantly took his carriage to White’s. (He generally preferred to walk around Mayfair though it simply wasn’t done.) When he leaned back against the squabs inside, something hard pressed against his hip. With his right hand he felt around behind him on the seat. Nothing. Muttering about the infernal discomfort of carriages, he patted and fumbled his good hand to his left side and into his coat pocket. From it, he extracted a small, squat glass jar. Screwing off its metal lid, he smelled the ineffable scent of the mystery salve. Something leapt to mind:
A meaningless sound: ‘mizzach.’ The mustachioed man and the buxom woman chanted ‘mizzach.’
The jar had no label or rather the paper label had been scraped off its lid. How he had come by it, he couldn’t recall. He first thought to throw it away but reconsidered. It’d be a shame to waste if it could help him heal.
Ainsworth arrived at White’s a short time later. Leaving his carriage at the curb, he took the front steps two at a time though it jarred his shoulder to do so. The club’s majordomo opened the front door promptly with murmured greetings.
“Where’s the footman for this chore, Flicke?”
“Called away momentarily, Your Grace,” Flicke answered with polite efficiency. “How are you?”
“Better than I deserve. And you, Flicke, your wife and family are well?”
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 1
