The Tattooed Duke

by Maya Rodale

  Eliza took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before continuing to read about the late night ravishment of virtuous Pamela by the nefarious rake, Lord B.

  “ ‘I found his hand in my bosom, and when my fright let me know it, I was ready to die; and I sighed, and screamed, and fainted away. And still he had his arms about my neck. I knew nothing more of the matter, one fit following another, till about three hours after, as it proved to be . . .’ ”

  Good Lord, she thought, pausing to sip her tea. Three hours? Looking up from the pages, she happened to see that Harlan was leaning in the doorway, with a patch over his right eye, one arm in a sling and the other holding a book.

  “Shocking behavior, ladies,” he said. “Whiskey. Tales of debauchery. This is absolutely the place to be.”

  “Have you come with more respectable and morally improving literature?” Eliza asked.

  “If you did, you can do us all a courtesy and not make us suffer through it,” Mrs. Buxby ordered.

  “Fear not. I overheard you reading Pamela and was inspired to bring, instead, Shamela.”

  “What is that?” Jenny asked.

  “It’s the parody of Pamela, written by Henry Fielding. Any relation?”

  “None that I am aware of,” Eliza answered.

  “I thought writing might be a family pursuit,” Harlan said pointedly. Thanking the Lord that she was born to an actress and raised in the theater, Eliza merely sipped her tea and asked, cool as you please, “Whatever leads you to that conclusion?”

  But her heart was pounding.

  “Wycliff enlightened me about your family. Your father, I believe, is a playwright.” Harlan’s one eye was trained intensely upon her.

  Her heart was now booming like one of the tribal drums Wycliff had shown her.

  She forced a smile and replied, “He is. A very fine one, too.”

  Harlan shifted his weight and stepped further into the room. The interrogation continued. Or was it polite conversation? It felt like an interrogation.

  “And your mother is an actress. It seems your family has a talent for theatrics.”

  The insinuation was bold and unflattering on so many levels.

  “They do,” Eliza said, adding pertly, “And I have a knack for dusting.”

  “While that is all rather fascinating,” Mrs. Buxby cut in, “I should like to hear from this Shamela book.”

  “I shall oblige you, happily, as thanks for this exceptional tea you provide every afternoon,” Harlan said, with a wink at the housekeeper, who harrumphed in return. Then he began to read.

  “ ‘The young squire hath been here and as sure as a gun he hath taken a fancy to me . . .’ ”

  All eyes shifted to settle upon Eliza. She merely shrugged and focused intently upon her stitching. But inside, her insides were all aflutter. They had noticed! That made it real, somehow. She wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, but with matters of the heart, one could never be sure.

  “ ‘He took me by the hand and I pretended to be shy. Laud, says I, sir, I hope you don’t intend to be rude; no, says he, my dear, and then he kissed me, till he took away my breath—and I pretended to be angry, and to get away, and then he kissed me again and breathed very short and looked very silly, and by ill-luck Mrs. Jervis came in and had like to have spoiled sport. How troublesome is such an interruption.’ ”

  “How clever,” Eliza remarked. “Shamela’s virtue is a sham.”

  “Oh, that’s a handy old trick,” Mrs. Buxby said. “I like this version of the story much better.”

  “I as well,” Jenny added. “Please do keep reading.”

  Eliza carried on with her sewing, burning up inside as she listened to Harlan read about Shamela’s affair with the parson while feigning virtue and decency to claim the hand in marriage of the idiot Lord Booby, as he was called in this version.

  Even with her focus intent upon the fabric, and tight, taut stitches in her hand, she stole glances at Harlan, reading with his one good eye and holding the book in his one good hand.

  “ ‘Young gentlemen are taught that to marry their chambermaids and to indulge in the passion of lust at the expense of reason and common sense is an act of religion, virtue, and honor, and indeed the surest road to happiness,’ ” he read in a gravelly voice, pausing to level a stare at her. “ ‘All chambermaids are strictly enjoined to look out after their masters; they are taught to use little arts to that purpose. And lastly, are countenanced in impertinence to their superiors and in betraying the secrets of families.’ ”

  The revelation struck her suddenly, clearly, undeniably: he knows.

  Chapter 26

  The Tattooed Duke Returns

  It was not yet ten o’clock, the duke had only just sat down to his breakfast and Eliza had already broken one glass, one coffee cup, and dropped a plate of bacon. To say she was nervous was the understatement of the nineteenth century.

  The London Weekly lay just to the left of Wycliff’s plate, freshly pressed and ironed by Saddler himself, who muttered biblical verses while tending to “Satan’s own news rag.”

  Within moments the duke would agree.

  She set a plate down before him. He held her gaze for a moment before she looked away. Harlan sauntered in with his eye patch covering his left eye. Basil arrived, presumably uninvited but tolerated.

  Eliza busied herself pouring tea and coffee, and at the ready to fetch brandy.

  “Well let’s do get on with it, shall we?” the duke said grandly as he snapped open the crisp pages of the paper. “This is the show you’ve all come for, right?”

  “How bad could it be?” Harlan mused, sipping tea. The duke glared meanly at him and began to read.

  “ ‘The Tattooed Duke by W.G. Meadows.’ ”

  “Oh, we have a clue,” Basil exclaimed. “A name!”

  Eliza spilled the tea right over the edge of the teacup. But who cared? She had a byline! A column of her own! She had known about it—Knightly’s word was good—but there was nothing like hearing it aloud. And from the duke’s own voice, too. This was a long-awaited, hard-earned moment—for which she was surrounded by the people least likely to share her joy.

  Did the glory matter, then, if there was no one to share it with?

  Suddenly, she felt deflated.

  “The author just made another grave mistake,” Wycliff muttered, and carried on: “ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in want of a fortune must be in search of a wife. The new duke of Wycliff has his eye on the marriage mart, in the quest for a rich spouse. One in particular. His debtors and creditors no doubt are of the same inclination.’ ”

  “Bad,” Harlan said. And to Eliza, he said, “We’ll need Mrs. Buxby’s special blend this morning.”

  “I thought you were not looking for a wife?” Basil inquired, blinking quickly.

  “That was before my ‘friend’ stole my funding from the Royal Society,” Wycliff stated dryly.

  “Well, I suppose I could introduce you around . . .” Basil said. But his offer was not as enthusiastic as it had been a few weeks earlier, before all the gossip sheets spilled oceans of ink detailing the duke’s every shocking secret.

  “Keep reading,” Harlan requested. “I want to know if it gets worse.”

  It does, Eliza wanted to tell him. But she bit her tongue and hoped no one noticed that she hadn’t gone to fetch Mrs. Buxby’s special blend of tea.

  “ ‘His debtors should be so lucky to see a farthing if some wealthy chit comes up to scratch to save His Grace. The adventurous duke has his sights set not on domesticity with his English bride, but the dangerous, heathen wilds of Africa, of claiming that mythical city: Timbuktu. In spite of the Royal Society’s refusal to fund his expedition.’ ”

  “Why would you go to Africa if you marry a wealthy chit? You could get a new curricle, a membership to White’s, a box at Covent Garden,” Basil said, showing how little he understood his cousin.

  “That is one option,” the duke said diplomatically. B
ut Eliza knew it wasn’t an option for him. Then he continued to read.

  “ ‘The Royal Society already has its man for the journey: Monroe Burke is set to depart within a few weeks. But is he really the best man for the task?’ ”

  The duke laughed. Eliza couldn’t enjoy it, not when she knew what came next.

  “Coffee?” she asked the duke in a hollow voice just above a whisper.

  “Brandy,” Wycliff said, holding her gaze for a hot second before she had to turn away. She did not deserve to look at him. Not when the worst was yet to come.

  “ ‘Ten years previous, the duke first set sail with funds from the late Lord Shackley. Could Shackley money be the ticket again? After the infamous slap the lady bestowed upon His Grace, one might think not. And yet, she has been corresponding privately with this long-lost tattooed Duke. One wonders: is it for love, or for money? Is she aware of what would become of her fortune and her husband?’ ”

  Eliza’s stomach was in knots; it had been ever since she wrote that paragraph. It was the workings of a jealous would-be lover, an underhanded tactic against an unwitting competitor. She wanted the duke for herself, but she couldn’t offer him anything. Lady Althea could. Unless . . .

  It was selfish. And shameful. And too late to retract it.

  “How can anyone love a madwoman like Lady Althea?” Harlan inquired.

  “She’s turned down numerous proposals since her husband died,” Basil said. “So clearly some people find it possible.”

  “Don’t speak of her like that,” Wycliff growled, to raised eyebrows all around. Eliza swore her breath caught harshly in her throat. Worse, Harlan seemed to notice. With his one eye.

  “You have been known to refer to her as ‘Hades’ Own Harpy,’ ” Harlan said carefully. They all watched as the duke slowly and methodically crumpled the newspaper into a tight ball of paper and ink and rage.

  His features were tense. Just yesterday he had laughed with her and swept her into his arms for a kiss, Eliza recalled. And now he was grimly defending Lady Shackley. Hades’ Own Harpy!

  “And you have also referred to her as your narrow escape from the bloodsucking clutches of Satan,” Harlan added. The duke stood and stalked around the table. His movements were tight, controlled, taut, like he would explode at any second.

  “What happened?” Basil asked. Wycliff sneered in response. Harlan added a sincere “Aye mate” that was ignored.

  The duke looked directly at her, brazenly treating her to a long, heated gaze from the far side of the room. Her heartbeat slowly faded, and the room dimmed and everything seemed to fade but the duke, Sebastian, and whatever was troubling him, and the way he looked at her with an intensity she could not understand. Did he know?

  She couldn’t breathe.

  What happened with Lady Althea yesterday? She longed to ask. But it was the words I’m so sorry that burned like the fires of hell on her lips.

  She dared not say a word.

  “Just don’t speak of her at all,” the duke said flatly. He tossed the paper into the fire.

  Wycliff didn’t notice the way she flinched. But Harlan did, even with just one eye.

  Chapter 27

  Sunset Over London

  Later that evening

  The duke had gone up to the roof after breakfast, and at sunset, when he still had not returned, Eliza prepared a tray of food for him, with a bottle of wine. For a moment she wavered over placing two glasses on the tray, but she couldn’t imagine she’d be welcome. One glass it was, to accompany his meal. And brandy. And a cigar.

  She was very sorry for the things she had written. So sorry that she thought of confessing everything to the duke. But that mad thought drew a bitter laugh.

  Did she want to give up her newfound raging success?

  The paper hit the stands and the breakfast tables just after dawn that day. By noon Knightly sent her a letter that merely read, Excellent, Eliza. Annabelle would probably give her right hand, her writing hand, to gain such favor and attention from him. As far as Eliza knew, no one Writing Girl had received written praise from their single-minded employer.

  By the time afternoon tea had come and gone, Julianna had also dared to send a note that simply read, Talk of the town, darling.

  And this was all in addition to her hopes and dreams: a column of her own. A measure of security in her position. Were the byline and increased wages enough to compensate for the growing ache in her heart? Each column had become more difficult than the last to write, as she tried to please Knightly and the duke.

  This was what she had always wanted. A column of her own—a sensational column of her own. She was no longer the Writing Girl in the shadows. Today, she was likely the most read and talked about writer in London.

  And she could only enjoy it alone, which seemed to mean that she couldn’t enjoy it at all.

  There was no purpose in confessing to him, she thought bitterly. What did she have to gain by telling him? He would cast her out, surely, and she’d lose her livelihood and her heart.

  She paused there, on the servants’ stairs, precariously balancing the tray.

  Her heart. She was falling for him.

  And not because he was her ticket to all of her wishes and dreams.

  Ridiculous. Perhaps she might admit to being intrigued by him. Attracted to him, even. But she wasn’t in love with him. Love made one do utterly mad, reckless, idiotic things. This . . . she shook her head and everything on the tray rattled. Whatever this was, it wasn’t love, and it could not be. It wasn’t allowed.

  Oh bother it all, she was falling head over heels for him.

  “Your Grace,” she called out to him. How to open the door with both hands full? Oh blast.

  He didn’t answer, and after several minutes of extreme awkwardness, she managed to fling the door open, trip on the final stair, and fall to her knees onto the roof. With some satisfaction, she noted that she still held the tray aloft. She was improving at this housemaid business.

  The duke snapped to attention at the disruption, and a smile tugged at his lips when he saw her thus.

  When she set eyes on him, she forgot about everything else.

  He sat on the far side of the roof, bare forearms resting on his raised knees. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, and in the sunset light his sun-browned skin seemed warm and aglow. The sun was a fiery orange orb sinking low in the sky and lighting up London in a strange colorful light.

  The duke’s shirt was open, his bare, tattooed chest absorbing the last rays of the sun. Beside him, a full brandy bottle. Really, the man was magnificent.

  “I thought you might want something to eat,” she said, setting the tray beside him.

  The words I’m sorry, I have ruined everything tingled upon her lips. She was sorry, but she was also proud. The duke was not the kind of man who wanted her pity, though. She sighed and pushed the matter out of her mind.

  “You’re a treasure, Eliza.”

  She bit her tongue, and turned to go. There was something immensely troubling on his mind, and she didn’t want to know because then she would have to decide whether to detail it in her column. Or not. She would be forced to choose between her own success or his. Curses.

  “Stay,” he commanded. “Sit.”

  She smiled wryly because it was exactly what she wanted him to say. In her imagination, though, it didn’t sound much like the commands one gave a puppy. She could tell, though, that he was too tightly coiled and troubled to have much of a care. So she told him: “You are improving at this duke business.”

  “Well, a man has to do what a man must do.”

  “You sound so weary.” Because she wanted to, and because he said so, Eliza took a seat beside him and arranged her skirts and apron around her legs.

  The duke pushed his fingers through his hair. A few strands fell around his face, and those were tucked behind his ear. The sun glinted hard on the gold earring. It wasn’t big at all, quite discreet, really, and not worth all the
fuss.

  But she knew it wasn’t the thing itself, but the proud show of a duke’s past as a common sailor that had everyone in an uproar. Because the lot of them cared so much about stations and titles, and he—a duke—did not. It was impossible to reconcile, so they tried to make it go away.

  She understood that her column fed the flames, but it didn’t start the fire.

  Then the duke said, “I feel I can confide in you, Eliza.”

  She imagined that if her beating heart were ripped from her chest while she watched, it would feel similar to what she experienced now.

  “Was it the newspaper column this morning?” she ventured.

  “As damning as it was, that’s the least of my problems now,” he replied cryptically.

  “Oh.” It sounded too much like a sigh of relief. She couldn’t look at him. Instead, her gaze fell on his forearms. He always wore his sleeves rolled up to his elbows; tonight was no exception. He really had marvelous arms—all muscled and strong and sun-kissed, and wickedly tattooed, and she ached to have them hold her again.

  But that was not allowed.

  “I’d still like to find the writer, W. G. Meddling.”

  “W.G. Meadows,” she corrected softly.

  “I would still like to find that malicious, Grub Street hack and string him up by his—”

  Eliza lifted one brow coolly, reminding him that even if she were not a lady, she’d still appreciate the same courtesy.

  “String him up and hack him to bits,” Wycliff said. “I think I’d use my machete, which I won in a wrestling match from a dwarf in Zanzibar.”

  Eliza smiled wanly.

  “But no, as I said, that’s the least of my problems. It certainly complicates everything, though,” he said, easily uncorking the bottle of wine she’d brought. “You didn’t bring two glasses?” he questioned as poured a glass and handed it to her.

  “I am a housemaid, Your Grace, and could never presume to share your wine,” she said, even as she accepted the proffered glass. It was not every day that dukes drank and conversed with their maids, all alone up on the roof with the sun setting and the moon rising. How could she possibly refuse?