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

by Miranda Davis

  “I’m not a young lady, I’m an apothecary, Lord Percy,” Prudence said impatiently. “My being here won’t cause comment. I must sometimes call on those I’ve treated.”

  “In that case,” Lord Percy pivoted and gestured with an arm to the doorway from whence he came, “I expect he’ll back within a half hour or so. Would you care to wait?”

  He and Thatcher exchanged some sort of meaningful look that made Prudence uneasy.

  Coming here was a terrible mistake.

  “I won’t trouble you. Perhaps you would let him know,” she continued briskly as she edged back toward the door, “I must clarify certain matters regarding a property he owns in Bathwick.”

  When the footman moved to open the door for her, Lord Percy subtly shook his head. The footman froze, awkwardly reaching for the knob.

  Prudence stood by the closed door and looked first at the hapless footman, then at Thatcher, her eyebrows arched, waiting for someone to turn the knob. Both stood statue-like blocking the door to fulfill Lord Percy’s wish to delay her departure. The footman focused blankly on the middle distance as he straightened up. Thatcher gave her a little shrug. A shrug! Much as she hated to agree with Lady Jane Babcock on anything, the duke did have a rag-mannered household.

  “Clarification on what matter?” Percy asked and advanced a few steps.

  “The duke owns a house I currently occupy, Lord Percy. There are some personal mementos I wish to keep — miniatures of my parents, that sort of thing, nothing of value except to me. I hope to take them when I leave but the contents conveyed with the property.”

  “I’m sure His Grace has no objection to your keeping anything you wish.” Lord Percy said.

  “You’re certain you may speak for the duke, Lord Percy?” She replied coolly.

  “Lord, yes! I know he’ll agree. If you’re not in a hurry, join me for tea.” Lord Percy cautiously offered his arm while she wavered.

  “Thank you but I’ll be on my way.”

  “Thatcher, would you be so kind?” Lord Percy ignored her refusal and gently drew her hand to the crook of his arm. “I’m genuinely concerned about our friend, Miss Haversham. I would discuss him with you.”

  “Tea in two shakes, m’lord.” Thatcher hurried down the hallway with his arm swinging briskly.

  “The duke’s currently suffering a fit of the blue devils. Don’t suppose you’ve a remedy for that,” Percy chuckled and ran a hand through his tawny mane.

  Lord Percy barely touched her, yet he drew her along to the sunny front salon. She stopped just inside, poised to leave with or without the footman’s assistance. As seconds ticked by, her courage ebbed away. Now she dreaded Ainsworth finding her there when he returned.

  “There’s no need for me to wait. I trust you’ll make my request to the duke.”

  “We can enjoy a cup of tea before you go,” Percy reassured her. He seated her in a chair and sat down on the adjacent settee. She knew she should not linger but there was something almost hypnotic in Lord Percy’s gentle manner that made it impossible to rebuff him.

  “You are concerned about your friend, my lord.” Prudence reminded him bluntly. She might as well make clear to his lordship that the duke was safe from her and ever would be. (Although Prudence was heartily sick of having to reassure every person in her acquaintance — including the duke — that she had no ambition to be the duke’s wife.) She prepared herself to disavow any interest in, or feelings for, Ainsworth — in other words, to lie up, down and sideways.

  She wished the circumspect Lord Percy would get on with it! Her eyes tingled in a way that warned of imminent malfunction. She would not give Ainsworth’s ‘concerned’ friend the satisfaction of seeing her dissolve into tears. She bit the inside of her lip to remain composed.

  “Has he made a complete hash of things?” Lord Percy finally asked quietly.

  This gambit took her by surprise. What a question! Ainsworth’s recent behavior defied comprehension.

  Rather than answer his lordship’s question, she demurred, “The duke does as he pleases. His actions are none of my business, much less subject to my censure.”

  “Hardly, Miss Haversham. Make no mistake, your duke is...”

  “He is not my duke, Lord Percy,” she cut in abruptly.

  “Like it or not, Miss Haversham, he is. It’s making him a complete chucklehead,” Lord Percy said jovially. “Never seen him act this way. Tried to draw Clun’s cork! Almost worth a black eye just to tease him, I admit.”

  “He punched Lord Clun?”

  “One of his best friends. Gave him a solid facer. How he managed it, I don’t know. Clun’s quite nimble for his size, you’d be surprised how quick. With a punishing right…” he mused mostly to himself. “Well, never mind about that. Fact remains, it’s all because of you,” Lord Percy concluded with a smile and a shrug.

  Thatcher appeared with a footman bearing a silver tray and tea service, bone china cups, saucers and a plate of dainty cakes and pastries. Percy nodded and both retired, with Thatcher leaving the door open wide.

  “It’s all my fault, Lord Percy?” she asked carefully controlling her growing indignation.

  “I’m certain of it.” Lord Percy smiled at her indulgently.

  “I will concede I may be partly to blame but you cannot foist all his irrational, ill-humored behavior on me because of one stupid tattoo!” She fumed in frustration. Her unshed tears boiled into hot steam.

  “Tattoo?”

  “This has been very enlightening but I really must go. Excuse me, Lord Percy.” She left his lordship befuddled and marched out to where the footman stood, froze him with her glare and flung the door open for herself. She hurried away as quickly as she could without calling attention to herself.

  • • •

  Percy buttonholed the duke upon his return, pulling him aside as Clun and Seelye climbed the stairs to change for the evening.

  “Miss Haversham stopped by, Jem.”

  “Did she?” Ainsworth’s face lit up. “What did she want?”

  “Wanted permission to take some family things with her when she left. I told her you’d be happy to oblige,” Percy said. “Didn’t realize she means to leave Bath.”

  “Apparently, she does.” Ainsworth’s face turned grim.

  “I thought I ought to explain a few things to her.”

  “Things, Percy? What ‘things’?”

  “Well, everything. You. Her. The situation, as it were. Thought I’d put her mind at ease if I summed it up.”

  “What did she say to your summary?” Ainsworth growled.

  “Didn’t take it well. Can’t say why exactly. Lost track of the conversation somehow and she left in a passion. Sorry, Jem. Just trying to help.”

  Ainsworth gripped his temples between thumb and fingers, trying to squeeze the source of a great pounding pain.

  Kill friends; torture Percy first.

  “She said something that made no sense,” Percy continued. “Or rather, made even less sense than the rest.”

  “And that was?” Ainsworth snapped.

  “Something about a tattoo.”

  “Never mind.” Ainsworth colored. “That was nothing but a misunderstanding, water under the bridge.” Percy didn’t budge. “None of your bloody business!”

  Percy stood with his mouth slack before he cried, “How swashbuckling! But why would a tattoo send her flying into the boughs?”

  “I was stupid,” Ainsworth mumbled.

  “Never underestimate the power of a permanent romantic gesture.” Percy grinned. “Did some sailor misspell her name over your heart?”

  “No,” he barked.

  “On your arm?”

  “I will not explain.” Ainsworth stormed away to the study and slammed the door behind him. He strode to the brandy decanter, lifted it to pour himself a drink, paused and slung the decanter up to his lips to take a long swig. Taking up a bottle of port, he used it to top off the brandy decanter and made himself the volatile mix called �
��Blood and Thunder.” He flopped into a chair and reflected how a desperate situation had somehow worsened. He took a long pull from the decanter and let the blend burn his throat. He gasped when he came up for air.

  Later, when Clun rapped on the door, the duke remained silent, wishing his friends to Jericho or to the blasted Upper Rooms. His Grace heard the three confer on the other side of the closed door. Their heavy footfalls faded down the hall. He took another long pull from the decanter.

  Much later that night when Thatcher unlocked the study door for Smeeth, the valet found him well beyond squiffy to leglessly knackered, with breath so inflammable he might’ve spontaneously combusted had they started a fire to warm the room. It was August, however, so he was safe from accidental immolation.

  Thatcher gently took the near-empty crystal decanter from his slack grip; Smeeth tucked a lap rug about him and leaned him up on the settee to sleep it off.

  Neither servant liked this new development but only Thatcher knew what to do.

  Chapter 32

  In which our heroine comes to the rescue.

  Mrs. Mason shook her awake, “Miss Haversham, there’s an emergency in town.”

  “What is it?” She blinked first at Mrs. Mason and then Murphy behind her. He was dressed.

  “Heart trouble, Miss H.”

  “An apoplexy? Who? But a doctor…”

  “Won’t have a doctor. A boy come to fetch you.”

  Prudence’s first thought was that Mr. Brown had taken seriously ill. Her next thought was Lady Abingdon. She prayed not.

  “There’s not much I can do.” Prudence despaired, darting about the room. “Father took willow bark tea for his heart. Perhaps it will relieve some of the symptoms of a heart seizure, if she survives the initial effects.”

  “Do what you can. You have to hurry.” Murphy urged her.

  She dressed quickly. Downstairs, she tossed the neatly packed contents of a wood crate to retrieve the glass jar of dried willow bark. Her long braid swung back and forth as she moved among the wood boxes and crates. She muttered to herself about locating her father’s journal for more guidance.

  The horse cart crunched to the front door.

  “Time to go, Miss H.” Mrs. Mason called out.

  “Where’s the boy?” Prudence cried, thinking to carry him back with them.

  “Long gone, Miss H.” Murphy said as he tossed her into the cart and trotted to the other side to climb in. With a sharp click of his tongue, he set the cart in motion. In no time, they trundled over Pulteney Bridge.

  Her thoughts jumbled as Murphy drove her through Bath’s dark streets. Poor Mr. Brown, poor Mrs. Brown, she grieved for them. There was so little she could do. Murphy continued down Broad Street. Not Mr. Brown. It could only mean they headed for the Royal Crescent.

  Oh, no! Lady Abingdon was ill.

  The bottom fell out of Prudence’s stomach. She berated herself for not insisting the older woman take better care. She had seen the signs: her godmother’s pallor, clammy sweats, shortness of breath after exertion. How could she have allowed her ladyship to dismiss her symptoms as trifling! Prudence should’ve known better. Should’ve done more. Or insisted she do less. Perhaps Lady Abingdon overexerted herself preparing for their travels. The excitement alone might’ve caused her apoplexy. Prudence would never forgive herself if that were so.

  Her next thoughts came unbidden and were wholly selfish. What would she do without Lady Abingdon? Where would she go? How would she weather the scandal of her condition?

  They trundled left on Lansdown. Not right. Not Lady Abingdon, she relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the cart seat.

  If not her ladyship, who? They turned right on Morford. Her heart raced.

  No!No!No!

  The duke was much too young and strong to have a heart ailment. Then again, he suffered terrible, life-threatening injuries little more than a twelve-month ago. Internal injuries so severe sometimes taxed vital organs to the point of failure.

  Not the duke, Prudence prayed in earnest. She could bear him marrying Lady Jane as he ought. She could even tolerate seeing them stroll down Milsom Street (though she hoped to be gone by the time they wed). What Prudence could not endure was the slimmest possibility of losing him to eternity. Her chest constricted as if bound tight in iron straps. Breathing pained her. It felt as if her own heart were seizing in her chest as they neared the entrance to his address.

  When Murphy guided the cart to the duke’s front door and pulled it to halt, her heart shattered to pieces, her worst fears realized. She couldn’t move. Murphy bodily lifted her from the cart and led her up the stairs to the door. He let the brass knocker fall.

  Thatcher answered, looking grave. “This way, please.”

  “Thatcher, what happened?” She cried.

  “Miss H., I didn’t know what else to do,” he said solemnly.

  The butler led her to a door off the main hall. The study was dim. Light coming through the doorway dimly illuminated the duke’s body sprawled over a settee, arms and legs spilling over its edges. His head lay at an unnatural angle.

  “No!” She choked and rushed to his side. He looked pale despite the stubble darkening his jaw. She knelt by him, tore loose his disheveled cravat and felt his neck for a pulse. It was slow and steady. Strong. She pressed her ear to his chest to hear his heart. The steady ‘tha-dum, tha-dum’ sounded in her ear. Stirred by her examination, Ainsworth heaved a sigh. His breath sent her reeling. He was not dying, merely dead drunk.

  She glared over her shoulder at Murphy and Thatcher. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Murphy backed through the door where Thatcher waited. Before she could react, they closed it. The room plunged into darkness. A key grated in the lock on the other side.

  “Thatcher! Murphy! How dare you! It’s pitch black in here. Open the door!”

  No one answered; no one opened the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  The inebriate roused, moaned and grabbed the hand she rested on his chest. He slurred, “Cruel li’l nymph t’ plague m’ dreams.”

  Her braid tumbled off her shoulder as she leaned over him. With his other hand, he captured her soft plait and tickled his lips with the end of it.

  “Even dreamin’ your scent, devil take it,” he murmured to himself. “M’ thorny rose. Prickly, prickly l’il rose.”

  She gripped her braid and tried to pull it from his grasp, “Give it back, please.”

  “Give it back yourself!” In the dark, he glared at her and huffed, “If you’ve no damn use for it, gimme back m’ heart, if you please.” He tried to sit upright but fell back, mumbling, “Spinning. Room’s tilting, God help me.” He let his head fall back on the settee. “Oof!”

  “You’re drunk, Your Grace.”

  “Not drunk ‘nough,” he muttered. “Too li’l port in th’ brandy.” He blinked his eyes owlishly. “Or not ‘nough brandy in th’ port.” He blinked again. “Damn. Still there.”

  “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “C’ bloody well marry me.”

  “Yes, I imagine that would sober you — to wake up after a thorough pickling and find yourself attached to a social misfit,” she murmured. “But I’ll spare you the bracing surprise.”

  “Not nice t’ taunt,” he grumbled. She tried to stand but he held on. “No, nymph.” He stroked her hand on his chest with his much larger one. “Don’ disappear. Don’ go. Stay, won’t you?”

  “I’ll stay, Your Grace, but just for a moment longer.”

  He patted her hand, “Good girl. Never go.” He closed his eyes and his grip loosened. She tried to pull away but again he roused.

  “Nescit cedere,” he slurred with a crooked smile.

  “Pardon?” She asked, though she knew enough Latin to grasp its meaning.

  “You left off th’ motto,” he smiled, “in m’ tattoo.” He pressed her palm to his lips. “Small li’l hands. Tee-ny ti-ny but sooo strong! Love your hands.”

  �
�Try to sleep, Your Grace.”

  “Am sleepin’ silly goose!” He snorted a laugh then confided, “Had a bit t’ drink. Ol’ Blood and Thunder’s no damn good. Y’ haven’t stopped hauntin’ me since tha’ bloody night.” He pointed the tassel of her braid in her face to reproach her. “Mustn’t haunt me, naugh-ty, naugh-ty li’l nymph. I shou’ give y’ bottom a good spank.”

  “You are extremely intoxicated, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, I am!” He agreed with gusto. “Dipped too deep an’ I’m fully fuddled. Blaaaddered,” he belched. “But in vino veritas.”

  He quieted and she thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep.

  “Never good at sayin’ things,” he slurred more to himself than to his beloved. “Gets twisted inside out an’ I lose m’ temper. An’ friends…” he made a rude sound between his lips. “No bloody help t’all. Think it’s hil-ar-ious. Hope i’ happens to them, smug bastards,” he growled before subsiding into barely decipherable mutterings, “So hard t’ say it. Can’t find th’ blasted words.”

  She tugged her braid from his relaxed grip but still he held her hand tight.

  “What would you say if it weren’t so hard?” She asked softly.

  “Obvious things. Get tha’ right off m’ chest.”

  “Such as…?”

  “You know,” he huffed as if she were intentionally obtuse. He drifted to sleep, holding her hand against his chest, where his heart beat slow and steady.

  She bent close to touch his face with her free hand while he slumbered. Her fingers mapped his features. Hesitating only a moment, she pressed her lips lightly to his eyelids one at a time, then to his blood-and-thunder-marinated lips. His eyes snapped open and she felt his other arm clamp her against him.

  She let him kiss her back as he wished. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. The alcohol on his breath nearly intoxicated her. The stubble on his chin rasped her skin as he kissed her harder and deeper. He pulled her body down over him so she lay atop the warm, hard expanse of him. His legs bracketed her own. His arousal pressed against her belly. He growled as he held her squirming body tight against his. She tried to extricate herself from his embrace but he kept her in place.