A short time later, the Horsemen were presentable. Thatcher had their hats, gloves and canes arrayed on the foyer pier table and handed each his accoutrements.
“Thatcher, your master appears out of sorts,” Percy said.
“I hadn’t noticed, m’lord. But I’m sure it’s naught to worry on.”
“You wouldn’t allow anything untoward, would you, Thatcher.” Clun said.
“No, m’lord,” the butler replied.
“Good man.” Seelye added, “Nor shall we.”
Once outside, the men agreed things were worse than they’d suspected.
“If he marries the Succubus, it’s only because he feels he must,” Seelye declared.
“Grasping virago!” Clun fumed.
Once greeted and seated at a table in the Pump Room, the lords scarcely noticed the ladies strolling by in their summer finery. They interrupted their conversation only to return perfunctory greetings.
Under other circumstances, this mouthwatering display of delicate femininity would have pleased them to distraction but only Lord Percy took notice of the dainties parading past. They vowed to free Ainsworth before he could be leg shackled and argued how best to pry loose the Succubus who’d sunk her fangs in their hapless friend.
The next morning, Ainsworth picked at his breakfast and muttered about ring re-sizing and the urgent need for a younger, less senile jeweler in Bath. He soon disappeared to ‘see to some things’ and left Percy, Seelye and Clun to make their own mischief.
They bickered for hours while strolling along Milsom Street, through Lansdown Grove and continued in the same vein after they returned to Morford Street to lounge on the diminutive furnishings in the front parlor. They argued over everything, most particularly about how best to wrest their friend from the slavering jaws of a marriage-minded Succubus. Seelye suggested threatening her with social ostracism; Percy argued for offering a quiet settlement short of marriage. Clun muttered darkly about terrorizing the chit till she fled for her life. All of them, however, marveled at Ainsworth’s apathy.
“He seems resigned to his fate,” Percy said finally. “There’s no helping Jem if he’s…”
“He’s what?” Ainsworth asked as he entered the room and flopped into a chair.
Percy looked at Seelye who lamely supplied, “Here.”
“That makes no sense, Seelye. One would think you could manage a ride from London without scrambling your brains en route.”
“Just so,” Percy concurred. “Scrambled. Speaking of which, are you feeding us tea here or would you rather visit the Pump Room?”
“To take the waters?” Clun shuddered, “Not again.”
“Clun drank the water,” Seelye sniggered and stood.
“We’ll go for the view. It’s lovely,” Percy smiled and got to his feet. “Come on, Ainsworth. Join us.”
Seelye, Percy and the duke soon set out but only two of them intended to ogle young women at the Pump Room. The third man in their party had only one woman on his mind and she occupied his thoughts completely.
The day, though hot, was clear and the streets were filled with pedestrians enjoying the fine weather. Walking south, they neared the bridge. Approaching them from the opposite direction came a lively, slight brunette with a brilliant smile on the arm of a naval officer in dress uniform.
“See? So many lovely distractions, there’s no need to wear that cursed grimace all day long. Enjoy the scenery, will you!” Percy encouraged.
But the duke’s grimace remained firmly fixed in place. The couple approached until the woman turned from her companion and spotted Ainsworth. Her smile dimmed and her steps faltered. The two parties drew abreast of one another.
“Good afternoon, Miss Haversham,” Ainsworth said and bowed slightly. “Would you introduce me?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied with a slight dip of the knees. “May I present Captain Dorset? Captain Dorset, the Duke of Ainsworth.”
“Pleasure,” the duke lied and inclined his head, “sir.”
“Your servant,” the captain bowed crisply. He was well made, if a bit stunted, Ainsworth thought. Wore the uniform well. Too tanned. Made his blue eyes look ridiculously bright, like some goggle-eyed china doll.
He turned his gaze to his intended. “Miss Haversham, Captain Dorset, may I present Lords Seelye and Percy?”
The lords executed elegant bows to her and acknowledged the captain politely. Prudence wore a grim expression every bit as forbidding as Ainsworth’s.
Lord Percy, the habitual peacemaker, tried to ease the awkwardness, “Bath is lovely this summer, is it not? The air is so much clearer than London.”
The captain agreed but did not elaborate. The company fell silent.
“Well, we mustn’t keep you from exploring the beauties of Bath, Your Grace. Good day,” she said and gave him the slightest curtsey.
The Horsemen waited till the couple strolled well away before speaking to their friend about Miss Prudence Haversham.
“She didn’t look particularly happy to see you, Ainsworth,” Percy said tactfully.
“Hadn’t sent word I was here. Wanted to surprise her,” Ainsworth muttered and strode away, looking over his shoulder now and again. Finally, he spun around to watch her turn onto the bridge. He stood with a hand on his hip, his other hand scraped over his face slowly from brow to chin.
“Come to think of it, you didn’t look happy to see her either,” Seelye added.
“Who’s the naval sort?” Percy asked.
“Captain bloody Dorset,” Ainsworth spat out. “Weren’t you listening when she introduced him?”
“Hardly the thing to parade about on another man’s arm in front of your betrothed,” Seelye sniffed.
“Well,” Ainsworth mumbled, “she doesn’t think we’re going to be married.”
“How’s that?” Seelye quizzed.
“She hasn’t agreed to it yet, Seelye. Not explicitly,” the duke barked and scraped down his face again. “Wanted to show her that I’m in earnest. Surprise her. With my actions.”
His friends stared at him in silence for moment.
“Seems not to like your surprises,” Percy pointed out.
“I had the banns read at St. George’s last month.”
“Daresay that will surprise her, too,” Percy replied without inflection.
Chapter 27
In which our hero succeeds in putting his worst foot forward then into his mouth.
Prudence resisted the temptation to peek over her shoulder as Captain Dorset led her away from the duke and his burly friends. At the bridge, she took her leave after thanking the captain for his company. Prudence ran over Pulteney Bridge on shaking legs in full view of people shopping along the bridge. Those who recognized her worried an emergency at the cottage caused her haste. And those who didn’t considered her shockingly hoydenish.
She slowed to a fast walk when the stitch in her side grew more painful than her breaking heart. She gasped for breath and maintained her pace till she hurried out of sight.
Lords Seelye and Percy were two of the famous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. She recognized their names the moment she heard them. They looked like cavalrymen, tall, muscular, dashing, though the duke was bigger than both.
Oh no! She stumbled to a stop. She recalled his family name: Maubrey. Her gut cramped sharply. By all accounts, Lord Maubrey — Major Maubrey then — was the fiercest of the famed Horseman of the Apocalypse.
In one hair-raising newspaper account, the major cut through French infantry ‘like a hot knife through butter’ to kill a Comte in a saber duel on horseback. This Comte had wounded the major’s unarmed batman weeks before in a surprise attack on their encampment. His batman remembered the villain had an ostentatious red and white horsehair helmet plume. So, when Ainsworth spotted him in battle, he charged through the French line, struck him down and hacked his way back to safety with only ‘superficial scratches’ to show for it. (More than scratches, as Prudence had seen, but t
he papers routinely exaggerated the Horsemen’s invincibility.) That exploit established Maubrey’s implacable reputation. ‘Maubrey neither forgot nor forgave the dastardly attack on his man.’
Oh dear.
Her thoughts were hard to sort. How could she reconcile tender, teasing Jem with Major Maubrey the Merciless? Or the man who forgave her mistake, even delighted in teasing her about it, with the Horseman who didn’t forgive or forget. Which was the duke?
Of one thing she was certain: the Duke of Ainsworth befuddled her, either unintentionally or as part of a diabolical plan to stupefy then destroy her. In either case, she was rudderless at the worst possible moment.
Her delicate condition only exacerbated her emotional turmoil. Mere weeks after their tryst, Prudence began to notice unsettling changes. Tender, swollen breasts were the least of it. She became emotional at the slightest provocation. A month later, with her regular-as-clockwork courses undeniably late, she knew.
Pregnancy overset her in unexpected ways. The miracle of it overwhelmed her as did the anxiety to keep it secret. Her mood gyrated between euphoria, remorse and fear. As her emotions fluctuated wildly, every nerve in her body seemed to require thorough dousing with tears. Not that frequent soakings calmed her the slightest bit.
Prudence stumbled down Henrietta Street, her mind a tangle of contradictions.
When the cottage came in view, angry tears burst forth in torrents. She ran upstairs and sobbed on her bed until she fell asleep exhausted.
Unbeknownst to her, Mrs. Mason came to the cottage an hour later to make the evening meal. Missing her in the kitchen, she climbed the stairs to find Miss H. curled up in her bed fast asleep. Mrs. Mason quietly left her in peace.
When Prudence finally stirred, it was dark and probably quite late. There was a slight chill in the air. It felt wonderful on her skin.
Her brain slowly began to function.
Why had the duke looked surprised — no, displeased — to see her? He may turn her out of her home and store but she had every right to be in Bath. She planned to vacate both buildings before the deadline his man of affairs set. She would leave Bath and disappear on the continent afterward. He and his apocalyptic friends needn’t hover to make sure she didn’t filch the silver in the meantime.
With Murphy’s help, she’d already began to pack up the apothecary shop, the reference works, notebooks, dried herbs, poultice blends, emetics, purgatives and miscellany. She regretted leaving behind the built-in cabinetry. She would miss the orderly, encyclopedic storage of her medicinal plants but there was nothing for it.
The large copper distiller at the cottage was a different matter. She’d raze the dairy shed if necessary to remove her precious distiller.
Moving it, however, would have to wait. There were late-season herbs and roses to distill before Murphy disassembled it and hauled it away on the ox cart she hired for the job. Fortunately, Lady Abingdon agreed to store it until Mrs. Mason could resume production.
There was so much to consider before she left. So much to remember. So much to conceal! Her head throbbed. To distract herself, she fetched quill and ink to compose a list of household things she bought herself and could rightfully take with her. She didn’t bother lighting a candle. Moonlight was sufficient to enumerate items on a scrap of paper.
When she heard the scrape of his boot on the windowsill, she realized too late she had forgotten to close and lock her window.
• • •
Ainsworth climbed in the bedroom window to find Prudence sitting in bed fully dressed with quill in hand and a lap desk balanced on her crossed legs. Even in the pale moonlight, he saw she was no happier to see him than she had been that afternoon. It didn’t bode well but he would not stand by while some bloody sailor pranced off with his damned duchess. His hand patted unconsciously for the antique velvet box in his coat pocket.
The time had come for action and if nothing else he was a man of decisive action. Ainsworth would show his wayward apothecary beyond all doubt that she was his to love, honor, cherish, tease and tup silly. Especially tup silly. He planned to charm her then claim her and thereby consign any doubts she had — and Captain Dorset — to the briny deep where they belonged.
He congratulated himself on his excellent plan.
A moment too late, Ainsworth realized he had to ease into his plan of action with a few well-chosen lines. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say so many times and in so many different ways, he found himself at a standstill.
The duke understood the danger in having an important conversation too often in one’s head before having it with the intended party. Truly eloquent bits got jumbled together with rather awkward bits and occasionally conflated themselves with the think-it-but-heaven-forefend-saying-it bits. Also in one’s imagination, one may stop mid-sentence and change course or start over from scratch.
A wise man knows conversation obsessively played out in one’s mind rarely goes smoothly in reality. In actual discourse, doubling back only leads to confusion, frustration and mischief. The ensuing chaos inevitably obscures one’s heartfelt point and infuriates both parties. Ainsworth understood this but plunged in anyway.
“You said you’d always be glad to see me, Miss Haversham, yet you didn’t look happy today.” The duke teased cautiously.
“I had not expected to see you.”
“Obviously. On Captain Dorset’s arm often these days?” The duke’s reply had a sharp, accusatory tang to it. He still smarted over his friends’ studiously blank faces while meeting his nearly betrothed hanging on the arm of some over-familiar sea salt. “What the devil are you about, Prudence?”
“So many questions, Your Grace.” She set the quill down and placed the lap desk aside. “I have a question for you. What will you do with the cottage now that it’s yours?”
“Pardon?” Her question staggered him. Petty jealousy gave way immediately to squirming guilt. She knew. It was too late. His grand plan of action burned to cinders in her molten glare. “May I light a candle? I would like to see you while we discuss this.”
“If you must.”
He helped himself to the unused taper, which he took over to the coals in the fireplace to light. He handed the flickering candle to her and she placed it back in its holder beside her bed. She stared at him; he retreated to the middle of the floor to pace.
“This and the Trim Street building? What purpose do they serve in the vast Maubrey holdings, I wonder?” She continued conversationally. “Apart from disrupting my ability to make a living.”
“I plan to give them to you,” he said, disconcerted that she deduced his original motive for the purchase.
“You’re giving me the deeds to both now?”
“Not now but I will eventually.”
“Oh. On what will it depend?”
“Are you implying I would try to bribe you to marry me?” He huffed. The thought had crossed his mind but her implying it only stung him into higher ducal dudgeon. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Then you’ll forgive me, Your Grace, if I cannot puzzle out your logic. You are going to give me properties from which I’m about to be evicted?”
“Evicted?”
“According to your Mr. Sterling we must vacate by the end of the month.”
“That was a mistake. You don’t have to go.”
“Ah.” She smoothed her gown’s wrinkles over her legs. “So, you will allow me to remain here in Bath?”
“Not exactly,” he hedged. “Perhaps if we begin again.” He reached out to her but she leaned away. “Prudence,” he admitted. “I acted in haste. I did it before we met. I warned you, I could be hasty at times.”
“And vengeful.” She plucked at the counterpane. “But it doesn’t matter in the least any more.”
Her reassurance did not reassure him. That was not forgiveness he heard but something else entirely. Her wistful tone alarmed him. “Doesn’t matter? Why on earth not?”
She shrugged.
His alarm turn
ed to panic. “Pray, don’t be hasty!”
“Oh, I won’t be. I’ve had weeks and weeks to consider what to do.”
“And you’ve come to your senses?” He suggested hopefully and held his breath.
“Indeed I have.” She frowned. “I’m going on a voyage, to ‘ship out’ as they say.”
“Ship out?” He exclaimed, “The devil you are, Prudence! You’re going to marry me not some bloody naval captain! I’ve made that abundantly clear, haven’t I?”
“Please,” she snapped. “Please, don’t. There’s no need. I don’t regret what we did. Not at all. But if you do this, you’ll make me sorry, don’t you see? Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Bear what?”
His heart hammered in his chest as she stammered, “If you bring up marriage again.”
His Grace stared dumbstruck. His mind raced. He should’ve climbed in the window, seduced her in silence and dragged her to the nearest vicar in the morning, fine points of propriety be damned.
“May I ask why?” He struggled to remain calm enough to listen to her answer.
“I heard all about your dutiful visit to Sir Oswald.”
“How do you know that?” The duke cried. The pudgy baronet gave his bloody word!
“So it’s true!”
“Why would I deny it?” He snapped.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because the baronet,” he said, his voice coldly emphatic, “happens to be the head of your family!” The more defensive he felt, the angrier he became. How had things spiraled so decidedly out of control?
“Why bother? You made it abundantly clear to Sir Oswald and Lady Dabney you offered for me out of some idiotic sense of propriety.”
“Why shouldn’t I, Prudence?”
“Because Sir Oswald and Lady Dabney hurtled down here to accuse me of trying to ‘entangle’ yet another Duke of Ainsworth.” She slapped the bed. “Only this time, they were right. Without meaning to, I have entangled you because you,” she jabbed her finger in his direction, “feel obliged since we...after we…Oh, you know!” She flopped back into the bank of pillows behind her and glared at him. “What a pointless exercise.”
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 20
