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.
Chapter 24
In which a stallion’s goose is cooked.
In 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 1st 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.
Chapter 25
In which Sir Oswald and wife dash off to confront his incorrigible sister.
Lady 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 t
he 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.
If retribution was his object, his revenge on her was complete indeed! He exacted his price for the tattoo in every possible currency. He owned her home, herbal gardens and business premises. He seduced her, and like a gullible fool, she handed him her heart as well as her virtue. (Trust the great potent looby to get her with child on the first few tries, too.) Then he cleverly manipulated her disapproving relatives to deliver his coup de grâce for him. He must be laughing up and down Mayfair.
But why did he write her a letter?
What she once took for endearing brevity now appeared darker. There was ‘no escaping’ him, he wrote. Well. It certainly had a menacing tone…
Stop!
Ruminating endlessly served no practical purpose, Prudence decided. One could only conclude the nobility — especially the long-established peerage — had been disastrously inbred for generations and was therefore subject to distempered freaks and violent mood swings.
Let him gloat about his revenge at his leisure with his new wife! Prudence would leave Bath before exhibiting any evidence of her ruin; she’d only be obviously enceinte many months from now. When she returned, Lady Dabney would doubtless be unpleasant in private but she would never risk poisoning general opinion of her in Bath for fear that a splash of scandal might besmirch the baronet’s reputation, too.
All in all, Prudence consoled herself, things could be far worse. It wasn’t as though the duke was in Bath to amuse himself while her life fell apart.
Chapter 26
In which three Horsemen of the Apocalypse race to battle the Succubus of Bath.
Being men, Baron Clun, Lord Percy and Lord Seelye could not resist making their rescue mission an entertainment for themselves as well.
They hit upon undertaking a race on horseback to Bath and timed it so they might arrive there a day or two after The Great Ainsworth Carriage Cavalcade. The three lords duly noted their wagers in the book at White’s and prepared for the contest. Each sent valet, wardrobe and fresh mount to a hostel in Newbury midway down the Bath Road.
Outside White’s on the morning of the race, the former cavalrymen spurred their horses to the cheers of club members hanging out the first floor bow window and galloped away as they rode into battle, charging headlong with little regard for life or limb. Out of sight of White’s, they slowed to a brisk trot to spare their horses while dodging carriage traffic. Beyond London, they set a fast but judicious pace. With periodic stops for rest, pints of ale and sustenance, the seasoned campaigners covered the first 60-odd miles.
The post road was lined with gracious estates and villas. Clun, Seelye and Percy paid them no mind. It was a broad enough thoroughfare in places to allow horsemen riding neck or nothing to pass between carriages going in opposite directions, not that any sane rider would attempt it. But whenever two coaches were about to pass by each other and there was room, the Horsemen flew between them without hesitation. Just for fun.
As they neared Newbury, each sought to use strategy and distracting insults to jockey into position and, in a final galloping sprint, arrive first at the White Horse Inn.
The first to arrive timed the arrivals of second and third and earned that time as a head start the following day. Lord Percy won the day with Seelye hard on his heels and Clun close behind. In the inn’s tavern parlor, they ate and drank with gusto, recounting with shouts of laughter the vapors they caused among mail coach passengers as they flew by one-two-three just outside Newbury.
The second day was much the same until they reached the outskirts of Bath.
From there, they rollicked into town at a clattering gallop. They raced past the Morford Street intersection and barreled down George, up Gay, around The Circus twice to get their bearings before they finally headed back to Lansdown on to Morford and thence into the courtyard of the duke’s hired residence.
Seelye won by several lengths, giving rise to a lively argument about the need to handicap the riders properly on the return trip up to London. To this Seelye agreed, pointing out that Lord Clun was already sadly handicapped by the lame oxen he rode and that something must be done to compensate for Lord Percy’s tragic shortcomings as an equestrian and so forth.
In high spirits and invigorated by their contest, the three Horsemen continued to needle one another good-naturedly.
“Seelye nearly rode down an old lady in a Bath chair. It was infamous. Wish you’d seen it, Ainsworth!” Clun called out.
“Didn’t come close to her!”
“She petted your nag as you passed, you idiot,” Clun retorted. “If she hadn’t been well into her dotage…”
“And insensible to danger,” Percy interjected.
“She’d have collapsed in spasms,” Clun concluded with a bark of laughter. They handed off their horses to the footmen and sprang up the stairs to the front door to crowd Ainsworth, who stood on the top step, drawn outdoors by their noisome finish.
The duke greeted them but remained unusually subdued. He escorted them to his study where they collapsed into chairs and the sofa, smelling strongly of sweat, human and equine.
“We’ll clean up and then we’re off to the Pump Room to sign the registry and take the waters. Join us Ainsworth?” Seelye asked.
“I think not,” was his vague response.
The three men left Ainsworth sitting bemused in the study. His abstraction only made his friends more determined to save him.
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 19
