The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order (5 page)

“He was,” she cooed to one and all, “a magnificent stallion.”

In part, she did this because she was sincerely impressed. In part, she hoped her effusions would reach the duke’s ear and flatter him enough to lure him back for another romp. That was not what came to pass.

In days, wags surreptitiously nicknamed the duke the ‘Mayfair Stallion.’

Ainsworth remained oblivious. He was a new man and a dedicated, conscientious duke. He threw himself into fulfilling his obligations to the duchy. There was precious little time to read scandal sheets or to pay attention to ballroom scuttlebutt on his rare evenings out.

Almost immediately, ducal responsibilities held in abeyance for more than a twelve-month inundated him. Unsigned papers, unanswered correspondence, unacknowledged harvest reports washed over him like a tidal wave. And like a drowning man trying to keep his head above water, he clutched desperately at Sterling, his highly efficient man of affairs.

Fortunately, Sterling possessed a character as honorable as his name implied. What’s more, he had a savant’s memory for numbers and superhuman energy. Though overwhelming to the newly earnest duke, these unresolved matters were a fraction of the total paperwork relating to Maubrey holdings. Sterling had disposed of routine paperwork ever since Phillip’s passing. The issues that remained for the duke nevertheless required him to spend days on end sequestered in his study. Eventually even these resolved into neat piles of accounting ledgers and folded foolscap.

This order came at no small cost to the duke.

By temperament and long habit, Ainsworth was a man of action not contemplation. He liked to stay busy, physically busy. He lived for active verbs: riding, fighting, carousing, walking, drinking, fencing, boxing, whatever kept him in motion or well entertained. While engaged in such verbs, he was a happy fellow. Whereas, engaging in passive verbs made him miserable. The longer the duration of his inertia, the more he suffered. Thus, sitting at a desk, staring at documents till his eyeballs dried out and praying for an end to such drudgery made him peevish and restless. No wonder Phillip had been such a tetchy, dry stick! It was enough to make a man hie off to join a band of gypsies.

Thanks to his solemn vow of diligence, however, poor, petulant Ainsworth could only relieve his boredom by participating in Polite Society. This was nearly as mind numbing as reviewing crop tallies. Standing around to be gawked at while making inane conversation was unadulterated torment. Only the dancing at balls and Almack’s gave him any pleasure but even then the silly ninnies he partnered insisted on conversing. Listening to the latest
on dit
caused him near fatal
ennui
. In ballrooms and assembly rooms, everyone buzzed about some randy halfwit dubbed the ‘Mayfair Stallion.’ One would think the coxcomb knew better than to make such a cake of himself. He paid no further heed to the whispers and giggles.

After Lady Comstock, Ainsworth indulged in a number of brief liaisons. Each of these frolics was disturbed by a certain villainess, who materialized before his eyes at the worst possible moments. It was her he pleasured in the absolute darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber. She who writhed in his arms. And it was into her body he thrust to find his own pleasure. The phantom female stalked his every aroused thought. Her blasted tattoo and her sudden apparitions left him as jumpy as a flea in a hot pan.

The evil tattooist had much to answer for, for she had curtailed enjoyment of his favorite active verb.

Meanwhile, Ainsworth completely misconstrued his growing popularity. Despite his lapses of concentration, each woman had been enthusiastic and appreciative in bed play. And each seemed more eager than the last to join him in it. He assumed they found his title appealing, not his scarred and battered person. It never occurred to him that word of his prowess had spread and these women wanted to ride the Mayfair Stallion astride.

Ainsworth sensed things were seriously amiss before he learned the identity of the Mayfair Stallion. Some ladies had been subtle, others not at all. Though never a prude, even he was shocked how often he was rubbed up against and touched inappropriately at balls and musicales or had his thigh stroked under the table at private dinners. Finally, he saw a satirical illustration of the Maubrey coat of arms: A rampant lion faced the oak tree centered on a quartered shield of blue and white, while a ridiculously well-hung horse reared on the opposite side in place of the rampant stag.

It stunned him.
He
was the thimble-witted Mayfair Stallion? His blood curdled.

Now, though his loving cup runneth over, Ainsworth would not sip, much less drink deep to slack his thirst. Assignations lost their appeal. He took no one to bed, preferring to protect his privacy and what remained of his tattered dignity. Nor would he take his business to Covent Garden’s
filles de joie
. This was not to say he was a stoical celibate. No, the Mayfair Stallion was a furious, frustrated, fidgety and inappropriately tattooed celibate. To make matters worse, the bruises slowly resolved to reveal the tattoo’s full, unwelcome glory. The duke’s mood soured apace.

His grim thoughts turned to the benefit of finding a cloistered, far-sighted virgin to marry and have done with it. Have done with the last vestige of his feckless bachelor’s existence? It was such a lowering thought.

The Duke of Ainsworth remained out of the public eye as the last of aristocratic London emptied. He, too, eventually retired to Grayfriars Abbey the family seat in Hempstead to stew in exasperated solitude.

Throughout the winter, his shoulder complained, refusing to heal properly. It remained vehemently tender and weak. He could afford England’s best doctors but they all wished to bleed him so he refused their services. He had bled more than sufficient amounts in June and still felt a few pints low.

Ainsworth didn’t know if he would ever recuperate fully. No matter. When, not if, he discovered the little creature who tattooed him — even if only one of his arms functioned — he would strangle her somehow.

S
candal sheets and print shop illustrations depicting the Duke of Ainsworth’s amorous exploits as the Mayfair Stallion found their way to Bath throughout the autumn. In October, satirist George Cruikshank published a cheeky illustration of the handsome duke as a lusty centaur on a bridle path lined with short, buxom women standing on mounting blocks, waiting their turn to ride. In November and December prints appeared showing still other ladies riding him in Hyde Park or in a formal dressage ring.

In the little stone cottage on Henrietta Street across the river from Bath, Prudence Haversham happened to read a particularly lurid account of the duke’s latest, rumored conquest.

“Obviously,” Prudence said tartly, “the Duke of Ainsworth has no reason to complain about our little peccadillo. He’s in fine form, tattoo notwithstanding.”

“Mayhap revealing it’s part of the seduction,” Mrs. Mason joked. “Bound to make an impression.”

“I, for one, cannot imagine why ladies are in such raptures over him,” Prudence huffed. This was patently false, given how her body reacted whenever she recalled the brawny, bare-chested man in firelight.

“Well, I can,” Mrs. Mason said with a chuckle.

Prudence blushed but offered no rejoinder so the two women fell into a companionable silence in the kitchen. Each focused on her own pursuit. After all, Sunday was their day of leisure. Prudence continued to read about the scandalous Mayfair Stallion, snorting and tsking as she turned the page. Mrs. Mason prepared the evening meal.

“Why take his doings to heart, Miss H.? He’s not a rakehell just to irk you.”

“It’s so tawdry. Everyone excuses him with a wink and a laugh because he’s a duke.”

“If I had to guess, the ladies winked first.”

“We don’t know that, do we? Everyone simply assumes that whoever a duke favors with his attention must’ve sought it.”

“Now, Miss H. we don’t know he’s that sort.”

“His brother was.”

“But you don’t know he is, do you?” Mrs. Mason reasoned.

“How different could this duke possibly be? Probably worse! The ninth never turned up depicted as a stallion in the newspaper and we know how he behaved,” she muttered. “At least he was somewhat discreet in his lechery.”

“For one thing,” Mrs. Mason replied. “The tenth became duke only after his brother died. And I’ll tell you this, Miss H., he didn’t act like a hoity-toity nob with his staff or the staff at his club that night we followed him. He seemed a decent sort.”

“And yet…” Prudence stated flatly, waving the crinkled broadsheet in the air.

Prudence had good reason to detest the previous Duke of Ainsworth. He had tried to debauch her during her brother’s first house party as baronet and lied to blame her. And Sir Oswald punished her for it.

As for the present duke, she had no doubt if she ever had occasion to speak with him — if he condescended to do so — she would find him to be yet another pompous, self-satisfied, smug, inbred, over-privileged peer of the realm. Attractive, perhaps. Admirable for his military service, assuredly. But arrogant, over-sexed and insufferable in person.

“You should be glad he’s in fine fettle, Miss H. No harm done, I say,” said Mrs. Mason.

Prudence relaxed. This was true. At least life could return to normal. The tattoo had caused the Duke of Ainsworth no irreparable harm. There would be no infuriated peer hunting her down, no Bow Street runner snooping around. She must count herself lucky there’d be no calamitous repercussions for assaulting a member of the nobility. Revenge was out of her system and no one was much worse for it. That was a relief.

Her sanguine thoughts were interrupted by an unwelcome sound.

P
rudence and Mrs. Mason heard the sound of a carriage approaching at a crisp pace down Henrietta Street. It came to a halt outside the cottage. Heavy, booted feet trudged up the gravel drive as someone approached the door.

She expected no visitors.

Prudence’s guilty conscience flew instantly back to Bow Street runners and to the worst of all possibilities: imprisonment. She frantically catalogued what she would bring with her to Newgate Prison. She needed a warm shawl, another gown, bed linens…She also needed as much coin as she had at hand. Everything from necessities to amenities such as candles and ink cost money within its walls.

The loud thud of the front door knocker sounded in the pit of Prudence’s stomach and she gasped involuntarily. Mrs. Mason frowned at her as she left the kitchen to answer the door.

Rumors abounded about the dreadful conditions at Newgate for women and children imprisoned there. Those pitiful souls had to cook, clean and keep themselves in tiny, filthy, vermin-infested cells. She wondered if she had the fortitude to cope in durance vile. Her heart pounded in time with Mrs. Mason’s hurried footsteps on the wide plank floors returning to the kitchen.

Prudence would miss this cozy place.

“Lady Abingdon’s footman is here,” Mrs. Mason began. “Says her ladyship’d like you to join her for tea at Sally Lunn’s.”

“Thank God in heaven!”

“I take it, you’ll go then,” Mrs. Mason said dryly.

“I’ll be there directly,” Prudence almost sang, chiding herself yet again for letting her mind fly off in dark maunderings at the slightest provocation.

Months had passed since the unfortunate incident. Surely, the odds of detection and serious consequences diminished with each week. They were safe. Life would go on as it always had. Nothing remarkable would ever happen to her, for better or worse. From now on, however, she would be
grateful
that her quotidian existence continued undisturbed. Never again would she bemoan her life’s lack of excitement, ever.

Recalling herself to the present, Prudence asked, “Would the footman like some mulled cider? Perhaps John Coachman would, too. Ask them will you, Mrs. Mason?”

Prudence skipped upstairs to wrap a shawl about her shoulders and to tuck her hair into a presentable bonnet. There was no need to change. She still wore her best woolen gown from Sunday services. Buoyant with relief, she floated light as a feather to join the footman waiting by the front door.

He handed Mrs. Mason back the empty mug, “I’ll nip out for the other before I help Miss H. to the carriage. That cider was most welcome. Thank you.” Next, he helped Prudence to the carriage, up its steps and settled her inside. She gave him a dazzling smile. All was well in her world.

The Abingdon carriage reached North Parade Passage and pulled up to Sally Lunn’s Teashop, which overlooked the narrow cobblestone street.

The footman leapt down to help her alight, “Watch your step now, Miss H.,” he said with warmth and a wink. Her joy was contagious.

Upon entering the little teashop, Prudence spotted the Dowager Countess of Abingdon, who was a redoubtable woman. She sat in state, as majestic as a frigate under full sail and in similar proportions. She had a thrusting prow, broad beam and ponderous stern aft. Still, she took a young girl’s delight in lively company and conversation. Lady Abingdon particularly enjoyed Prudence’s ready wit for she enjoyed the foibles of others every bit as much as the younger woman.

Age, however, had caught up with Lady Abingdon. Of late, she had taken to masking poor color with powder and dabs of rouge and she often panted for breath when excited. Whenever Prudence brought any of this up, her ladyship dismissed her apprehensions out of hand.

“There you are, my dear! I hope you don’t mind my high-handed manner but I had a sudden notion for tea and hoped you’d join me.”

“I am flattered Lady Abingdon. I enjoyed the carriage ride.”

“You’re most welcome, dear,” Lady Abingdon fixed the young woman with dancing eyes and embarked on the subject that motivated her invitation, “Truth to tell, there is a gentleman…”