“I have two requirements, Sterling. The first is straightforward. I shall need you to hire a place for me in Bath this spring. A few months will suffice but longer is acceptable if need be.”
“To start when, Your Grace?”
“May or June I should think. I shall remain in London or Grayfriars Abbey till then.”
“Very good. And the second?”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. I wish to purchase a property in Bath, No. 3 Trim Street. I believe it currently houses the Trim Street Apothecary on the ground floor. I wish to conclude the transaction quickly and quietly. I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“I’ll make inquiries representing an anonymous purchaser. It’s common practice. Do you have a figure in mind?”
The duke recalled Miss H.’s lithe form, her movements like quicksilver, and her small, elegant hands.
“Your Grace?” Sterling repeated diffidently.
Ainsworth recalled himself to the present, “I’m unfamiliar with the property or property values in Bath so I’ll rely on your recommendation when the time comes.”
However odd Sterling considered his employer’s wish to buy real estate sight unseen, he was far too discreet to mention it. His countenance remained equally impassive while he noted the address in his small, leather bound notebook.
“Much will depend on what I learn about the owner,” Sterling explained, “I shall send inquiries to Bath immediately and have it well underway by week’s end.”
“I’m certain you will. You are a wonder, Sterling. I cannot conceive how I would get on without you. Thank you.” The duke often surprised Sterling with sincere appreciation. Ainsworth had no idea it was assumed by his class that serving an illustrious personage was reward enough (along with customary compensation) to make any explicit gratitude unnecessary. But unlike his peers, Ainsworth acknowledged Sterling’s efforts frequently and graciously. This inspired in Sterling the profoundest desire to surpass the duke’s every expectation.
Their business concluded, Ainsworth saw his man to the foyer where Thatcher awaited with Sterling’s winter coat and beaver hat. After he left, the duke whistled through his teeth to summon his mongrels for a quick victory lap around Hyde Park, chiding nannies be damned.
While the dogs gleefully menaced park wildlife, Ainsworth gloated. Assuming this Miss H. creature lived in rooms above the apothecary shop at No. 3 Trim Street, he could look forward to sweeping into Bath in the spring, confronting his nemesis face to face and having her tossed into the street, lock, stock and barrel.
Since he couldn’t demand satisfaction from a woman, he would end life as she knew it by economic means. This would have to suffice.
In the next moment, Ainsworth’s steps faltered. As a gentleman, setting out to destroy her troubled him a bit. She was only a woman, after all. Weak. Vulnerable. Helpless…Helpless? He snorted and kicked up a spray of pea gravel. Miss H. despoiled a man’s most prized personal possession. Her blasted tattoo made a jest of it and invited the mockery of others. The vicious little harridan deserved eviction and bankruptcy, if not worse. Had she been a man, Ainsworth would’ve challenged her to a duel and shot her through the heart without compunction. By closing her shop and running her off, he let her off easy. She could always hire another storefront in Bath — unless he decided to buy that building out from under her, too. Lord knows, he had the resources to do that until she apprehended the wisdom of relocating elsewhere, say, the West Indies.
His conscience silenced, the duke looked forward to her comeuppance. After all, what was the point of revenge, if not to repay such an infamous insult in full?
Chapter 8
In which three out of ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ meet at White’s.
June 17, 1816.
“I cannot credit it. Our Jem dead,” Lord George Chase Percy, second son of Viscount Rutgers, said. Tawny as a lion, with an unruly mane to match, Lord Percy raised amber eyes heavenward and lifted his glass.
“Nor I,” grumbled William Tyler de Sayre, Baron Clun, staring into the middle distance. Clun was a forbidding man with hooded black eyes, too long, almost black hair and a monumentally muscular build. He took another gulp and glowered at his large, booted feet stuck out before him. “Must send our condolences. We’ve been remiss.”
“To our dear, departed hell-raiser,” said Lord Burton Seelye, the third man in the somber group. “We will miss him.”
Seelye, the Earl of Exmoor’s second son, seemed the odd man out in this threesome. Percy and Clun wore clothing with simple, military precision but still looked hulking. In contrast, Lord Seelye was almost average in size and an unabashed nonpareil. He was among the rarest tulips of the ton. After Brummel, it was said, Seelye. After Seelye, no one. Yet, despite his Byzantine cravat knot, he was as lethal as the others, a rapier among heavy sabers.
“To Jem Maubrey,” they said quietly and drank.
Three solemn men sat around the cold hearth in a private salon at White’s, their broad shoulders wedged into club chairs, their long legs stretched before them, their well-shod feet propped on the brass fireplace fender. One of the attendants offered to light a fire for them when they settled in but no fire could chase the chill they felt on the first anniversary of Waterloo.
They sprawled before the empty fireplace grate. Each held a glass of port. All gazed without seeing, lost in thought.
On the nearby table sat a fourth glass of port still untouched among numerous empty bottles.
“Can’t say ‘rest in peace’ because the man couldn’t sit still for two minutes together,” Clun said with a dry chuckle.
“Bound to give the Devil fits, our Jem,” Seelye said proudly.
“So he will,” Percy agreed. “Poor Beelzebub.”
“Still. Damned careless disregard for our appointment,” growled Clun.
“Gave his word, bloody thick lout,” Percy swore roundly.
“Bloody lout,” the others concurred and drank to it.
“Did we not make it clear at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball we would meet here one year to the day?” Lord Seelye asked the others.
“Certainly did,” the raven-haired giant huffed. “Before we mustered out to meet Napoleon.”
Percy added, “Had no notion the war’d end in days, not months. Made sense to allow a year to finish it and get settled back home.”
“And didn’t we seal the pact with blood?” Seelye asked, like a barrister arguing in court.
“Not ours,” Clun said with a smirk, “but yes, we did.”
“And, my lords, is it not the 17th of June?” Seelye concluded.
“It is,” Clun said, “devil take it.”
“Gave his bloody word,” Percy muttered.
As their bravado faltered, the men tipped their glasses back, somber once again. They contemplated the loss of their friend in silence.
“Pass the bottle, Clun, I’m dry,” Percy murmured. Clun complied.
The men refilled, rallied and resumed their rough badinage. These vaunted cavalrymen relied on laughter and mockery to disguise their true feelings on many occasions, especially after a particularly brutal engagement.
“He better be dead or I’ll kill him myself for ruining our enjoyment of this port,” Clun groused.
“To Maubrey, the thickest-skulled, poorest-seated clod to afflict a horse,” Percy hoisted his glass for the umpteenth time.
“Here, here!” The other two responded.
Though they had no wish to return to war, contemplating their friend’s passing made them nostalgic.
“What was it Uxbridge told the duchess about us that night?” Percy mused.
Seelye attempted the nasal inflection of their commanding officer, Henry Paget, Earl of Uxbridge. “Surely you’ve read about them, Duchess. I call these fine fellows the ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ for wherever they ride, they leave nothing but death and destruction in their wake.”
“They wear the Blue. They are cavalry, Lord Uxbridge?” Clun
supplied the duchess’ fluty falsetto. Percy choked on his port upon hearing him.
“Or rather berserkers on horseback,” Seelye continued in character, “for as many Frenchies die of fright as die by their swords.”
They chuckled and drank again. Each recalled the Battle of Waterloo, fought the day following the Duchess of Richmond’s now famous ball in Brussels. It had been chaos that night and into the early morning hours. Many men died, many they saw for the last time at Her Grace’s soirée.
Led by Lord Uxbridge, the Household Cavalry rode to reinforce hard-pressed British infantry as it wavered under withering fire from Comte d’Erlon’s I Corps of the Armée du Nord. The Royal Horse Guards Blue charged into the thick of battle, routing d’Erlon’s left flank but took heavy losses to do so, their friend Maubrey apparently among the casualties.
“Haven’t seen his name listed,” Percy said. The newspapers still periodically published amendments to the list of war dead, even a twelve-month later.
“Tens of thousands died, Percy. Plenty of names yet to be published,” Clun replied.
“Always looking on the bright side, eh, Clun?” The Duke of Ainsworth drawled as he sauntered into the room. “Such a gloomy little gnome!” He took up the waiting glass of port from the table. “I am merely tardy, my lords. Not yet ‘late.’”
The somber mood evaporated. The seated men lurched to their feet to welcome their friend.
“Already the insufferable punning, Jem!” Seelye grinned ear to ear. “You make us sorry you’ve come after all.”
The ‘little gnome’ Clun clasped Ainsworth roughly in a rib-cracking hug. “Glad to see you, Maubrey!”
“Ainsworth now,” the duke corrected quietly.
“Oh? Oh. Of course, forgot, damn it.” Clun consoled now in earnest, “Good man, Phillip.”
“And brother.”
“To the ninth Duke of Ainsworth!” Percy toasted. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse brought their glasses together.
“And to the tenth Duke of Ainsworth!” Seelye toasted and added, “Must get another bottle, Jem. We’ve been drinking to everything we can think of since we got here.”
“Little of it flattering to you,” Clun said. The tipsy three laughed uproariously, their hilarity in proportion to their vast relief.
“Should that surprise me?” Ainsworth retorted. “Always were a useless bunch of jackanapes.”
“Though we mean well,” Clun demurred.
The duke grinned, reassured that their friendship remained the same. Duke or no, Ainsworth could be himself with his three brothers in arms. They sat down together and His Grace recounted in as few words as possible how his sister and mother moved to the British military enclave in Brussels after his elder brother broke his neck tumbling off a hunter. If not for them, no one would have found him, dying among the dead. No one would have hauled him to Brussels in a dogcart, forcibly waylaid an army surgeon or nursed him through the weeks he hovered near death.
“Have your mother and sister returned with you?” Clun asked.
“My sister remains on the continent. Married a captain attached to the diplomatic mission. The duchess died of fever while I was ill,” Ainsworth said. “I wasn’t told at the time, according to her instructions.”
Sincere expressions of condolence from his friends eased Ainsworth’s heartache somewhat.
“How do you get on now, Jem?” Clun asked.
“I’m on the mend,” the duke answered. “By August, it was either return to England crippled or lose my bloody mind. God bless my sister, I owe her my life and I know she meant well, but I much prefer the benign neglect of my staff to her infernal fussing. Speaking of staff, remember Smeeth? He’s my valet now.”
“What happened to…?”
“Thorpe? Phillip kept him on along with father’s butler, Middleton. They received pensions when Philip died. I’m just as happy to hire my own staff. Fewer reminders of my unpromising youth.”
“Capable man, Smeeth,” Seelye said.
“Brought me Thatcher, late of the 71st Foot, my new butler,” the duke added. “Fought at Hougoumont. Lost an arm.”
“Back since last August?” Percy asked. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“Neck deep in God-awful drudgework here or in the country. Otherwise, nothing particularly noteworthy,” Ainsworth concluded evasively.
“Didn’t see you at the holiday to-dos,” Percy said.
“Hang on…It couldn’t have been your brother in the papers last year,” Seelye chortled. “You scoundrel! It was you! You’re the Mayfair Stallion!”
Lord Clun aspirated his port. Seelye and Percy both pounded him on his back as he gasped and laughed, eyes streaming. Recovering himself, he chortled, “The Mayfair Stallion in our very midst! Be still my heart!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ainsworth growled.
The three leaned toward him and poked him in the ribs like schoolboys tormenting a classmate.
“From horse guard to stallion in a few magical nights!” Seelye sighed and made cow’s eyes at him.
Ainsworth had the good grace to blush as he scowled.
“Oh my, our duke has been a busy boy,” Percy teased.
With no little disgust, and to the great amusement of the others, Ainsworth summarized his misadventures. He omitted mention of the dreadful tattoo because his shameless arses-for-friends would require a thorough review of it, regardless of club rules on proper attire. There was even a possibility they would shuck him bare arse naked if he dared refuse them.
After the foursome drained an additional bottle, Ainsworth returned home to the silence of his study in a mellower mood. A few days hence, he would sortie out to Bath to reconnoiter the enemy.
Paperwork completing the purchase of No. 3 Trim Street lay on his desk signed, sealed and ready for Sterling, who successfully negotiated for it with Sir Oswald Dabney, a baronet in Oxfordshire. It proved doubly costly because the seller insisted on off-loading a second property in the same transaction, No. 11 Henrietta Street, described as a small stone cottage with land in nearby Bathwick. Apparently, the baronet had little use for either property so far from his principal seat near Chipping Norton.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Ainsworth concluded. It was only money. If it purchased satisfaction, it was worth every ha’pence.
In the meantime, a drift of snowy invitations accumulated on the demi-lune table where Thatcher added more each day. The Season was under way in London. Ainsworth knew he ought not miss much of the Marriage Mart if he wanted his pick of the year’s debutantes. It was time he did his duty and bred some brats to carry on the family name. But there would be pleasure before pain. First, he would see to destroying the plague-y Miss H. He allotted himself a few weeks in Bath to accomplish the task.
Sterling had hired a suitable house on Morford Street in Bath and arranged to staff it from one of his nearby estates. Only Thatcher and Smeeth would accompany the duke from Town. For so short a stay, he was inclined to leave the dogs behind. Then again, he wondered if Miss Haversham feared large dogs. If so, he should bring Attila. On second thought, all the ladies in his acquaintance found Attila terrifying. So, he concluded with an evil chortle, Attila must come.
Ainsworth always found himself exhilarated on the eve of battle. His blood was up. His senses sharpened. His hands twitched and flexed with excitement. He was even more restless than usual. The duke anticipated his vengeance with grim satisfaction.
His Grace surprised himself with the depths of his rancor. He wasn’t normally a resentful sort. Nor was he prone to holding grudges, especially toward the fairer sex. He had a healthy sense of humor and a genial if taciturn disposition. His friends certainly considered him untemperamental, tolerant and willing if not eager to find the good in others. In general, he treated others as he would have them treat him.
His enemies, however, found him implacable. And the spiteful female who went about randomly, whimsically and permanently defiling a man’s privates wa
s his enemy.
Miss Haversham’s personal Waterloo was only a few days away.
Chapter 9
In which Sir Oswald sells our heroine out of house and home and apothecary shop.
By June of 1816, after nearly a year without consequence, the dark cloud of dread hovering over Prudence Haversham finally dissipated. She considered herself extremely lucky to have painlessly learned her lesson about giving in to ill-conceived, hoydenish impulses. She smiled when Mrs. Mason handed her the letter; letters were a rare treat. She recognized the handwriting. Her brother, Sir Oswald Dabney of Treadwater, had written. New storm clouds brewed on her horizon. He began with a disquieting effusion:
Dearest Sister,
We have delightful news! A most respectable gentleman approached us regarding the building on Trim Street. We were intrigued. (Sir Oswald had taken to referring to himself as ‘we’ in correspondence and conversation since becoming baronet.) He represents a person whose identity the gentleman is not at liberty to reveal. This anonymous party finds the Trim Street building desirable for reasons to which we are not privy. We are confident “Anonymous” is a peer of distinction; otherwise such discretion would be unnecessary. It is most gratifying.
How could we refuse such an august person his heart’s desire?
The price offered was most generous. An offer our own dear father himself would doubtless approve if he yet lived. Margot and I believe some small portion of the proceeds could be used to supplement the income you already receive.
At the buyer’s insistence, the cottage on Henrietta Street will also convey with the Trim Street property. If you wish to lease the cottage, we are more than willing to request first right of refusal on your behalf.
Failing that, we understand Bath has a surfeit of suitable rooms to let. You may retain the services of Mrs. Mason by making the proper economies.
The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order Page 6