The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (9 page)

I suggest you make use of this time to prepare to relocate. Sir Oswald will do what he can to assist you though he has no ready funds, given the needs of our large family and the pressing need to undertake certain improvements on Treadwater. You understand
. (What? Prudence snorted; do the curtains in the morning room no longer please her? After three tries, one would think she could arrive at an acceptable shade of puce.)

I send you our fond regards
(Prudence snorted again)
and hope you will visit your six nephews and nieces, though not before next autumn when work will be complete, etc.

Regards,

Margot, Lady Dabney
(Not simply Margot, Prudence noted, but then Margot never missed an opportunity to use a surname listed in Debrett’s.)

Prudence strode from the Trim Street Apothecary, stewing over her brother’s duplicity. As she walked, a creeping, prickly sensation crawled up her neck as if eyes were upon her. She stopped to look around. No one out of the ordinary came in view as she scanned the street but still she sensed something malevolent nearby. She resumed her march. The tingling sensation of eyes fixed on her made her skin break out in gooseflesh. She glanced around more quickly. This time, she glimpsed a shadow slide from view into an alleyway behind her. She picked up her pace to conceal herself among the throngs of pedestrians on Milsom Street.

She must stop reading gothic novels of an evening before bed. A guilty conscience made for an unquiet mind. She was apparently still highly suggestible to irrational fears. She walked on, refusing to dwell on the possibility of a lurking menace any longer.

• • •

The Duke of Ainsworth watched Miss Haversham leave No. 3 Trim Street. She was much as he remembered That Night. Her face was a delicate oval, with large and lushly fringed eyes. She had soft, smooth cheeks touched with a rosy glow and her lips curved naturally in a smile. From beneath her bonnet, sable brown strands escaped their confines.

He found himself following her, unable to look away. Twice she stopped abruptly on the pavement to glance behind as if his gaze had touched her. Had he not darted out of sight, she would have certainly seen him, perhaps recognized him. He preferred to stay in shadows for the time being.

He stalked her as she turned from Trim Street around the corner to bustling Milsom Street. Dressed as drably as a sparrow, she did not mince, float or glide as was the prevailing fashion among ladies on the high street. She marched. Indeed, her purposeful gait might have seemed mannish, if not nicely contradicted by the hypnotic sway of her hips. Though no out-and-out beauty, Thatcher had it right. She was fetching in person. His body stirred in recognition of her allure. A slight woman, he could easily span her waist with his hands, which his hands itched to do. That, or throttle her neck.

He kept her in sight as she marched down the shopping street looking neither right nor left. The heels of her boots made crisp taps on the pavement. She walked with spine erect and bonneted head held high. Miss Haversham didn’t glance at the colorful silks or fanciful ribbon trims displayed in the windows of drapers. With a nod and a smile, she acknowledged all who greeted her – from sailors and carters to gentry – and they did so with respect and affection.

How could this unprepossessing, spinsterish female be the culprit of such a flamboyant assault? The duke began to have doubts…but quickly quashed them. Inconspicuous as she was, he recognized his villainess instantly. She was a danger to male society generally and for some unknown reason to him specifically.

Stalking Miss Haversham proved vastly entertaining, though not his usual mode of amusement. Eventually, he let her walk away. He rumbled and chuckled for the rest of his stroll back to Morford Street. Through the front door, up the stairs and into his chambers where Smeeth looked at him askance, the duke chortled to himself.

“What’ve you been up to, Your Grace?” Smeeth asked with undisguised misgivings.

“Nothing untoward, Smeeth. I find Bath full of pleasant surprises and that’s the sum of it.”

“Do you now?” came Smeeth’s skeptical rejoinder.

The duke tried not to look caught out but failed, “I took a stroll and you really must stop interrogating me like a boy back from a romp. It’s not done, Smeeth. I’m no longer that loose fish, Major Maubrey. May not be happy about it but there it is. I have reformed.”

“Just trying to help, Your Grace,” the valet replied in a sulk. “You’ve found yourself in any number of fixes since we come back.”

“So I have,” the duke admitted, “but as a wise man told me, ‘we must adapt.’”

“Adapt!” Smeeth snorted as he sorted through Ainsworth’s starched linen cravats and continued to mutter, “Your Grace’s up to something. And here I am, trying to look out for you. That’s all. Made yourself the talk of Town. Come to Bath for a quiet holiday but no, Your Grace needs must kick some hornet’s nest here…”

P
rudence sensed his presence before she saw him enter the Upper Rooms’ ballroom. Her skin prickled instantly into gooseflesh. Though she sat inconspicuously among the dowagers and matrons, she slouched lower in her seat. She knew the Duke of Ainsworth would never notice her but she’d take no chances.

A murmur rippled through the gathered gentlemen and ladies when the master of ceremonies, Mr. King formally announced His Grace, the Duke of Ainsworth. All eyes turned to the tall, broad shouldered man looming in the deeply framed doorway. He paused in all his glory, erect, elegantly dressed and tastefully groomed. There was something so unabashedly male about his appearance and bearing, Prudence felt quite uneasy even though she sat at the far side of the large room. Much to her relief, everyone who was anyone (and their daughters) sidled close hoping to merit his acknowledgement and gain an introduction. Emboldened by his easy manners, they surrounded him.

Lady Abingdon also noticed Ainsworth’s arrival. She leaned toward Prudence and whispered, “The Duke of Ainsworth cuts quite a dash, does he not?”

“I suppose so,” Prudence allowed as she scrutinized the pretty, proper young ladies meeting the duke. Each curtsied demurely, eyes downcast. Each gratefully received the even, white grin he bestowed. Prudence watched in disgust as the man reveled in the company of his fawning claque of females. The crow’s feet she had noticed a year ago were clearly due to squinting into the depths of décolletages. The man was a rake through and through! Handsome but only in a showy, conceited sort of way.

Despite her indignation, Prudence chafed at being tucked out of sight. She envied the girls basking in the duke’s eagle-eyed admiration. She wished for a daring gown of her own, one that drew his eyes from her face down her neck to linger lower. (His eyes certainly danced at the heaping displays of bosom currently on offer to him.)

Drat the man! Before that evening, she never wished to be someone else. Now, she couldn’t help herself. For that, she disliked the duke more.

She quickly reminded herself with a bracing mental shake that Prudence Haversham did not regret who she was. Prudence Haversham persevered. She faced facts. She adjusted. She carried on. Still, Prudence found herself wishing she would not live and die a drab, virginal spinster and a female oddity of an apothecary.

For making her dissatisfied with her life, she would never forgive him.

Forgive
him!
With a nasty start, she remembered the misbegotten, or rather misbegiven, tattoo. She had to leave. Immediately!

“What’s wrong my dear, you’ve turned pale as a ghost. Are you poorly?” Lady Abingdon asked.

Prudence massaged her temples to relieve the pounding that had just begun. “I’m not feeling well, Lady Abingdon. Will you excuse me?”

“This is sudden. Shall I call for my doctor?”

“No need. The headache, nothing more.”

“Take my carriage. I shall have a footman call for it immediately.” Lady Abingdon had no trouble arranging to have it brought around. She gave the young woman’s hand one last squeeze.

“I need fresh air and rest, that’s all. I’m sorry.” Prudence glanced in the duke’s direction. He stood completely hemmed in by his toad-eating admirers, leaving the way clear for her to make good her escape.

“Be well,” Lady Abingdon said. Prudence kissed her powdered cheek and left, keeping well away from the duke and his simpering harem.

• • •

Ainsworth gave no indication he noticed Miss Haversham but he most certainly had. He sensed her the moment he entered the double-height ballroom. Even before he spied her sitting in concealment among the dull, drab and elderly, the hairs at the back of his neck bristled up in hackles.

A few days earlier, he had reconnoitered the Trim Street Apothecary and stalked Miss H. down the street. Yet tonight, the villainess appeared to be more shy wood nymph than deranged tattooist.

From across the room, she aroused his curiosity among other things.

While Miss Haversham sat pale and stiff next to Lady Abingdon, he remained mired in a clutch of gabbling people awaiting introductions, doing his best to remember names. If not for social protocol, he would prowl to the chit’s side and menace her till she fell off her chair in a dead faint.

He requested introduction to yet another young lady politely and bowed over her hand. When next he straightened up and turned his gaze back to his nemesis, he found her seat empty. He scanned the room and spotted his prey slipping through the farthest doorway. She might flee but she could never outrun retribution, he thought with satisfaction.

He let Miss Haversham go. Lady Abingdon knew her and he knew Lady Abingdon. He would learn what he wanted to know about her in due course. The dowager countess was yet another meddlesome friend of his mother, who would be thrilled to enlighten him about any female in whom he expressed interest.

An hour later, having gleaned all he could about Miss Haversham from Lady Abingdon, Ainsworth set off directly from the Upper Rooms to find the house across the river that her ladyship mentioned.

He found the place easily. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. She lived at No. 11 Henrietta Lane, the second property Sir Oswald recently foisted on him. His revenge would be complete indeed when he evicted her from both. He noted one candlelit window on the second storey of the cottage and windows alight in a small building further away. She lived alone; her servants lived in the outbuilding.

Things were turning out better than he’d dared hope.

“P
rudence, dear, I’m glad to see you’ve recovered. I have something most pressing to discuss with you,” Lady Abingdon said by way of greeting Prudence at Sally Lunn’s Teashop the day after the duke turned up unexpectedly in Bath’s Upper Rooms.

“About Italy, Lady Abingdon?”

“No. Don’t you look lovely today! How fortunate.”

“Fortunate in what way?” Prudence asked with caution.

“I asked you here to meet the son of an old friend,” Lady Abingdon said without further ado after Prudence sat down.

“But Lady Abingdon, my thoughts haven’t changed about marriage.”

“Yes, yes, I know. He won’t suit you, I understand. He should be in London marrying some eligible chit and starting a family. Instead, he’s come to Bath for Lord knows what reason and must make a few tolerable acquaintances if he’s to enjoy himself.”

Prudence opened her mouth but Lady Abingdon continued, “Tut, tut. There’s no need to object. You’re an earl’s granddaughter. Given that he’s here among the lame and ancient, he cannot intend to sow wild oats. Besides, I believe he’s finally outgrown that sort of nonsense,” Lady Abingdon eyed Prudence and added, “he’s a fine man and it won’t hurt you to make his acquaintance. I will not allow you to retreat from life entirely. You must enjoy yourself a little!”

“I do enjoy myself. I accompany you to the Upper Rooms frequently. I enjoy the concerts on Wednesdays and the Fancy balls on Thursdays in particular.”

“Piffle! You sit with us old parties to keep me company whilst all the fun is had on the dance floor,” Lady Abingdon chided with a shake of her head. “Won’t do. Simply will not do.”

Before Prudence could argue, the teashop door opened and a very tall, very broad-shouldered, bareheaded gentleman entered. This magnificent specimen was no effete
ton
dandy
,
Prudence noted with approval.

He turned.

Prudence felt faint and overheated. Her heart, having leapt into her throat, choked her while it beat a rapid tattoo.

“Here, Ainsworth!” Lady Abingdon waved him over. Prudence didn’t know where to look. It couldn’t be! But of course, it was. She found herself staring at the Duke of Ainsworth the way one would gape at a large predator. As he neared, the breadth of his shoulders and his height bore down upon her. At first, she believed her reaction was fear, but not just. Having such a man prowl toward her was also a bit thrilling. She had, after all, seen him bare-chested.

She peeped up at him. Was he glaring at her? Perhaps not, his eyes had been unfocused the only other time she’d seen them from a few feet away.

“It’d be my pleasure if you’d kindly introduce me, Lady Abingdon.” The duke tersely growled the obligatory invitation to the dowager countess to make Prudence known to his pompous ducal self. By his tone, he made it odiously clear he considered it neither a kindness nor a pleasure.

Well.

“Your Grace, may I present Miss Prudence Haversham?” Lady Abingdon began.

The duke said nothing further. His cold look became colder, if that were possible.

His frosty silence puzzled her ladyship. “Have you two already met?”