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

by Miranda Davis

  • • •

  Sir Oswald Dabney, the duke repeated the name to himself as he sauntered down Milsom Street with Attila. Why was the name familiar? Dabney. Sir Oswald Dabney. Finally he dredged the name up. This was the very gentleman from whom he purchased the Trim Street building and the other property. Sir Oswald was Miss Haversham’s own brother. That was fortunate. Surely, he would provide Miss Haversham with a home after she left Bath.

  Knowing this eased his conscience.

  Now that he’d observed the chit more closely, Ainsworth didn’t dislike her nearly enough to turn her life inside out as he once intended. He wanted to teach the minx a lesson she wouldn’t forget, not leave her utterly destitute. He had a few other misgivings about his plans, just niggles really, nothing more. There was plenty of time to overcome them.

  Chapter 13

  In which our heroine is not the only one on needles and pins.

  “Ready to do your worst, Miss Haversham?” The duke asked, stepping into the Trim Street Apothecary the next day at the appointed time.

  She looked up at him. His every innuendo whipped up a tempest in her eyes. She blushed easily, too. He so enjoyed toying with her. It was only fair that he occasionally unsettled her, given how she permanently disturbed his peace.

  Composing herself, she asked, “Where is Attila?”

  “I left the brute home. Just terrifies convalescents and causes incidents on the pavement.”

  “Poor dears, if only they knew him,” she murmured. “Murphy, please show His Grace to the treatment room and begin.”

  Murphy led the duke past the counter, down a short hall to a tidy room. Once inside, he helped Ainsworth out of his coat and waistcoat. He settled a linen sheet over an odd piece of furniture resembling table with padding. The duke leaned against this table, flinching as he slowly flexed his shoulder.

  “May I have a word with Miss Haversham?”

  “If you insist, Your Grace,” Mustachio said, making no secret of his hesitation.

  “I do.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Ainsworth strained to eavesdrop on the hushed voices beyond the closed door. The rapid back and forth indicated heated debate. He made out ‘not for a lady,’ and ‘naught but a shirt.’

  “Murphy, enough!” Miss Haversham concluded. Clipped footsteps approached, the doorknob turned with a crisp click. She stepped into the room.

  • • •

  “Your Grace?” Prudence asked, disguising her uneasiness with a dispassionate professional manner.

  “Won’t you treat me yourself?” Ainsworth asked as he leaned against the table’s edge with arms crossed, head angled and boots crossed at the ankles.

  Prudence noticed how his shirt emphasized the size of his arms and the breadth of his well-upholstered shoulders and chest. His muscles were substantial but sleek, honed by practical use. She knew all too well how solid they felt. She clasped her hands firmly before her and said, “That would be inappropriate, Your Grace. Murphy performs hands-on treatment for men. I oversee his work and mix the poultices and rubs.”

  “Nothing untoward will happen, Miss Haversham,” Ainsworth murmured.

  “I don’t doubt your word, Your Grace, but I cannot.”

  “Well,” he purred. “If I’m too much for a female apothecary to manage, I understand.”

  “That is not what I said,” she retorted and crossed her own arms over her chest to mimic his stance. “I am surprisingly strong.”

  “With those tiny hands?” Ainsworth flicked his own large hand dismissively in the direction of hers resting on her slim arms, which infuriated her. “Those are meant for delicate tasks, not pummeling someone like me.”

  They stared at one another. His gaze all insolent male condescension, hers female outrage. Neither took a breath. Each gambler waited for the other to fold.

  “Right, on the table,” she directed as she slapped at the long, linen apron over her dress.

  “I don’t mean to browbeat you,” the smug duke said as he seated himself on the table.

  “You’re not browbeating me. You’re goading me. And idiot that I am, I’ll take the bait despite my better judgment.” To herself, she muttered, “If the duke wants treatment, treatment he shall have.”

  “Shirt on or off?” Ainsworth asked, obviously amused by her grumblings.

  “May I rely on your discretion, Your Grace?”

  “You have my word, Miss Haversham,” he said with another cold-blooded, crocodile smile. “I’ve no intention to disgrace you publicly over this.”

  “Shirt off.”

  The apothecary didn’t avert her eyes as he awkwardly stripped the shirt up over his head or settled his hair with a quick shake. Straps of muscle pulsed on his arms. He was large, lean, powerful and still in pain. She knew she shouldn’t stare, but stared anyway. Or rather, she ‘closely examined’ him. She justified her gawking as a means of ‘determining the extent of his infirmities.’ Though nothing looked the least bit infirm. He had healed badly, but he was very solid and firm.

  He rolled onto his stomach gingerly, trying not to lean on his left arm.

  • • •

  Ainsworth grunted as he felt her cool, soft hand probe his ruined shoulder. She pressed firmly, shifting the flat of her palm from place to place, over the entire corrugated surface of scarred flesh that covered it.

  By God, she was strong.

  “There’s no heat,” she said, “that’s a good sign. But there’s swelling. Does this cause sharp pain? Or dull soreness?” She pressed deeply into the mass of his muscles just below his shoulder blade.

  He hissed and gritted out, “Pain, Miss Haversham.”

  “My father believed the human body has a genius for self-healing. The swelling and bruising that occur after injury are normal, desirable parts of that process. However, too much or chronic swelling such as this interferes with true healing. I know doctors prefer to bleed a patient. I prefer to address the problem directly. You have fluid trapped in the muscle and tissues of the wound so it has not resumed its natural relationship to the underlying bone.”

  She paused, her hand resting on his scarred skin, and murmured, “It’s a ghastly injury, poor man. It must cause you a great deal of pain but we must drain it. It won’t be a comfortable procedure. Do you wish to continue?”

  “I do.”

  She called out, “Murphy!”

  Murphy entered as if poised on the other side of the door. “Miss H.?”

  “We’ll drain the swelling,” she instructed. “Fetch warm towels, the smallest scalpel, the pump syringe, two glasses and brandy. Afterward, I shall want a strong plaster with generous additions of oil of clove, camphor, honey and tincture of arnica. Also heated, damp linens and a chamois to wrap his shoulder while he rests.”

  Murphy left the room, pointedly leaving the door ajar.

  When he returned with a laden tray, Miss Haversham poured the duke a glass of brandy and handed it to him, “Drink this.”

  He opened his mouth to refuse but she cut him off, “Drink it or be tied down.”

  The duke drank it in a gulp and let the heat course down his throat. He noted that she used the same commanding tone on him that she used with similar success on Attila. She refilled his glass and nodded. He drank more slowly but finished it.

  She poured brandy into the other glass and soaked the scalpel and syringe device in it. She spoke calmly in a low, soothing voice, “Father swore by the old army treatment ‘half and half brandy.’ Heard of it? Pour half in the patient and half over the wound. Prevents festering remarkably well. I hypothesize that soaking tools in strong spirits might reduce the risk of putrefaction as well. In any event, it can’t hurt. You may drink this, too, if you wish.” She held out the glass of brandy used for the instruments.

  The duke shook his head and watched her every move.

  She turned her sleeves up and thoroughly washed her hands in a stoneware basin.

  “Your father was an apothecary,
Miss Haversham?”

  “No, I’m the first apothecary in my family. Father was a gentleman with a scholarly interest in botany, particularly healing plants and herbs. Though he was raised to be a man of leisure, he liked to be useful. This apothecary shop was a hobby, an outlet for his passion. He arranged for a trained apothecary to manage it. I learned from that man. Makes me quite the black sheep.” She gave him a wan smile.

  Miss Haversham took up the thin scalpel and felt his shoulder, finding where it was most tender. “As I say, this will be uncomfortable.”

  “I’ve suffered worse, Miss Haversham. Have at it.” Her eyes sparked, the color he noticed was most changeable, now grayer than blue. Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

  “Very well, we begin.” She cut a small incision deep into his flesh. He hissed sharply as his body tensed at the stabbing pain. Inserting the syringe, she drew on its stopper. Again. And again. Slice, probe and draw out. She felt for swelling and drilled it mercilessly. She drained pus and fluid into a small basin Murphy held.

  Ainsworth wished he’d taken more brandy. Or a truncheon to the head.

  “That will do,” she finally said to Murphy. Ainsworth let his tense, sweaty body settle. She swabbed his shoulder with brandy. He flinched at the sharp stings. As she mixed a poultice into paste, its pungent smell roused him from his sweaty daze. She applied it, wrapped it up in linen bandages and covered his shoulder with hot towels. Her hands lingered to comfort him as they had That Night. She placed a chamois over everything to retain the heat and moisture. Last, she draped a dense, soft wool blanket over his bare upper body. Without a word, she turned and strode from the room.

  Watching her leave, Ainsworth knew something had gone seriously wrong with his plans.

  Chapter 14

  In which our hero confronts his abuser.

  Blast the chit! Since her torturous treatment the previous week, Ainsworth’s shoulder improved significantly, which he hated to admit. His arm swung more naturally, almost comfortably, with each step. For the first time since Waterloo, he was a man restored to vigor, which irked him mightily, for he owed it to his tormentor-in-chief. Nevertheless, he remained adamant about avenging himself on the competent little apothecary. To this end, he decided to confront her that very night and return to Town on the morrow.

  Almost midnight, under a full moon, the duke stalked down Broad Street to cross Pulteney Bridge. He made his way to Henrietta Street. He relished the idea of making Miss Haversham squirm as he revealed her punishment for the crime of indelible mockery. He was a cad to corner her in her own bedroom and rip up at her till her ears bled. But at least it was a private venue. However furious he was, he was gentleman enough not to give Miss H. the cut direct in public or abuse her in front of her patients.

  Through the silvered night, he strode down the street past countless, tall, attached cream stone townhouses toward his objective. He met no one along the way. Unlike London, Bath Society tended to end evenings before midnight. Just as well, because he wore old, worn buckskin breeches, his favorite pair of ‘mucking’ boots also too worn to be seen in and a barely serviceable, loose dark wool coat over nothing but a linen shirt.

  By the time Ainsworth reached the cottage, his mind was calm, his thoughts clear.

  Miss Haversham’s window was dark.

  He slipped quietly to a side entry to try the knob. Locked. He stepped back to look again. Ivy climbed the entire wall, surrounded her window and continued well above. He struggled through the rose bushes that grew in irritating profusion on that side of the cottage. The roses’ thorny branches picked and nagged at his clothes as if beseeching him to reconsider. He pushed through. He tested the old vine with a boot. It held firm under his weight. He grasped another vine overhead and tested his left shoulder, sore but tolerable. He lifted himself up with his legs and steadied himself with his left hand. He sought the next handhold overhead with his stronger right hand and carefully pulled himself higher.

  Her window was open a crack allowing Ainsworth to slide his fingers under the sash and lift it. He swung a leg over the sill and sat for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark room before stealing inside.

  In the moonlight he saw Miss Haversham lying in a large bed, linens frothed around her, a long, thick braid of brown hair draped over a pillow. The rush of cool night air tickled her. She awoke with a start.

  “Who are you!” She gasped, wide-eyed as an owl.

  “Ainsworth.”

  “Why are you here?” Came her whisper.

  “You know why I’m here,” he growled then clarified, “you perpetrated a vile assault upon my person.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You had your fun, Miss Haversham. Time to pay the piper.” Ainsworth prowled toward her bed as she huddled beneath the covers, peeking out at him.

  “Please forgive me, Your Grace.”

  “I’ll forgive you when your bloody tattoo disappears,” he scoffed.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “How did I earn your enmity, Miss Haversham?”

  “You didn’t. I made a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

  “A mistake?” He spit out, incredulous.

  “Obviously. I intended to tattoo the previous Duke of Ainsworth but I didn’t know he had passed away — my condolences, by the way – and then there you were. It was too late.”

  He gawped at her before gathering his wits enough to ask, “Why did Phillip deserve such infamous mistreatment?”

  “He disgraced me.”

  Her accusation stopped Ainsworth dead in his tracks. His brother? Impossible. Duty, honor and propriety guided Phillip’s every action in life. His brother had been a prig but a most excellent man. Of that, he was certain.

  “Impossible,” the duke stated flatly.

  “I live as I do because of it.”

  “There’s a child?”

  “No! My reputation suffered harm, nothing else. But a virtuous reputation means everything to a young lady, doesn’t it?” She sat up in bed and watched him.

  “You wanted to tattoo my brother for nearly but not actually debauching you, Miss Haversham?”

  “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Your Grace.”

  “And I don’t appreciate your tattoo, Miss Haversham,” he spit back.

  Head bowed, she worried the linen sheet in her hands, twisting and smoothing it, “Such an awful blunder. I’m usually far more deliberate. Careful. I regret what I’ve done. I am truly, dreadfully sorry, you must know I am.”

  “I know nothing of the sort but you will be sorry,” he growled and leaned closer to her. “Come to think of it, I might as well commit the debauchery for which I’ve already been punished. That should begin to balance the scales.”

  Her head shot up. The silence between them lengthened as they glared at each other from a few feet away.

  Finally she threw up her hands and sighed, “Well, if you must.”

  The Duke of Ainsworth found himself well and truly gob smacked. He shot straight upright and withdrew to glare at her from a safer distance. His threats were not having the desired effect.

  “You have no objection to my ravishing you?”

  “Of course I do! Of all the bacon-brained questions,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I think it’s childish to insist on tit for tat. I’m trying to apologize to you! I do feel the full horror of the wrong I’ve done you.” Here, her voice took on a patronizing tone, “But if debauching me will balance accounts and send you back to London, then do your worst and be done with it.”

  “My worst!” he choked and then recollected himself. “You couldn’t possibly know what you’ve done to me. You’ve ruined one of life’s greatest satisfactions, Miss Haversham, that of seeing a woman on the verge of…” He interrupted himself. Blast and damnation! Her wide-eyed curiosity stopped a scandalous retort on the tip of his tongue. More disturbing, staring at him were the eyes he imagined whenever he found release for nearly a twelve month. He took a calming breath before speak
ing, “Suffice it to say, I’ve been denied a great deal of pleasure because of your witless prank.”

  “From what I’ve read, you’re not denied any pleasures,” she said. “Indeed, you’re notoriously well supplied.”

  “That’s nothing but gossip! In truth, I won’t expose myself to ridicule so I live like a bloody monk, Miss Haversham. I cannot be with a woman without fear of… That is to say, uh, when I try to find amusement, there’s your bloody tattoo and then you, you,” he bit back the rest. No point revealing he had carnal knowledge of her apparition. It’d only muddy the waters. Instead he growled, “You’re a bloody menace!”

  He was far too furious to regret his liberal use of profanity with her. Besides, he was guilty of more serious improprieties, standing bold brass in her bedchamber threatening her with rape being chief among them.

  “I acknowledge that I assaulted you in an unforgivable manner,” Miss Haversham whispered. “And I’ve undertaken your rehabilitation with the sincere desire to make amends.”

  “You think a jar of goo,” he sputtered at her, beyond irate, “and stabbing me repeatedly with that infernal sucking thing…”

  “Fine,” she interrupted. “If you insist on your revenge, you shall have it. Just stop bellowing at me!” She lay back in bed with arms at her side, stiff as a corpse.

  He stood staring at her, mouth agape. He snapped it shut and fumed on the verge of bellowing some more. He had no intention of carrying out his threat. Still, he was a large, intimidating man. She was a slip of a woman. How could it be that he was the one knocked askew?

  He tried another tack. “Assaulting a peer of the realm is a serious offense, Miss Haversham.”

  “If you intend to press charges, you should know I alone am responsible,” she addressed the ceiling with dignity. “My staff participated unwillingly, under threat of dismissal. So I alone must answer for it.”

  “How noble of you,” he mocked. She wanted to shield her co-conspirators. It irked him, this nobility of hers. He also realized with disgust, he approved. He’d do the same. “Blast!” He hissed.