The Earl with the Secret Tattoo

by Kieran Kramer

  “Yes,” said Clare. “There was an etching on it of some sort. I don’t remember what it was. But it was distinctly primitive.”

  “It wasn’t much of a talisman, if you ask me,” said Lord Pritchard. “It could have come from a penny shop.” He looked at Eleanor. “Why would you want to ask the Sherwoods about it, especially all these years later?”

  “No good reason, really,” she said. “I’ve had occasional dreams about the robbery. I was asking Clare what she remembered about that day—”

  “We wondered if the robbers were after the talisman,” said Clare, excitement in her voice. “They didn’t take anything else.”

  “Oh?” asked Mother.

  “But perhaps they might have,” Eleanor said, “if the masked man hadn’t shown up and scared them off.”

  “True,” said Clare.

  “Masked man? I never heard about him,” protested Lord Pritchard.

  “Oh, I told you,” Mother replied breezily. “One of the robbers wasn’t working with the others; that’s what Eleanor described in her letter. Remember?”

  “No,” said Lord Pritchard in short, clipped fashion. He always hated being the last to hear gossip or news.

  “Mother, I didn’t actually say that,” Eleanor corrected her gently. “I said there was a separate man who came upon the scene. He was there to frighten away the robbers.”

  “But, Eleanor, I read your letter,” Mother insisted. “He was a robber, too. He wore that mask.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Mother crossed her arms and lofted one finely arched brow. “I know of what I speak, young lady. You were a mere child at the time. I was, and am, your mother.”

  Eleanor suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t tell Mother anything. First, Eleanor had been fifteen at the time of the robbery—hardly a mere child. And her mother didn’t really care what Eleanor ever did and probably had given only a cursory glance to the letter. Second, even if Mother were wrong, she’d never admit it.

  “Enough,” said Lord Pritchard, scowling. “This whole story sounds like a theatrical drama gone bad. It’s over and done with.”

  “I do admit we might be getting away with ourselves,” Eleanor admitted sheepishly to Clare.

  “True.” Clare’s cheeks turned pink. “The talisman might have come from a fair, for all we know.”

  “Or a gypsy caravan,” Eleanor suggested.

  Absurdly, they both burst into giggles. Eleanor wasn’t usually a giggler. But perhaps it was because she’d rarely had anyone with whom to giggle. It was rather nice, actually, especially as Clare’s eyes twinkled when she looked at her.

  Eleanor felt a burst of happiness. And hope.

  But when she looked up, Lord Pritchard was stony-faced.

  “It’s good to see you two getting along,” Mother said with a tentative smile.

  “I fear you both have too much time on your hands.” Lord Pritchard was being quite the grump, worse than usual. He put on a sanguine air for the world, but at home he could be quite surly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Father.” Clare waved a gloved hand. “I’ve got the wedding to occupy my thoughts anyway.”

  “Good.” He sounded slightly assuaged, although his pique was still evident in his ruddy cheeks and downturned mouth.

  An awkward thirty seconds passed. The carriage rumbled on, past the stately townhomes and shops of Mayfair, London’s wealthiest district.

  Mother sighed and flung the end of her shawl over her shoulder. Clare examined her delicate fingers, one of which was soon to wear a wedding ring.

  Eleanor couldn’t help thinking of the Earl of Tumbridge. Would he ever marry? And if so, what kind of woman would he deign worthy of his regard?

  She’d no idea. He was an enigma to her.

  One thing she was certain of, however, was that she longed to catch a glimpse of his tattoo again.

  But she never would, would she? It was an act of fate that she’d opened the door at the ball at the precise moment Clare ran her hand beneath Lord Tumbridge’s shirt and caused it to slip and expose his shoulder.

  Eleanor bit her lip to restrain another entirely extraneous giggle. Thank God Clare was a bit of a hussy.

  And then she sobered again. Without her stepsister, Eleanor would still be in the dark about the fact that her life could possibly be in danger—at least according to the earl—and that there were secrets she must uncover. And without Clare, she’d never have discovered the identity of the man she’d fallen in love with at age fifteen.

  Her masked hero didn’t out to be who she imagined him to be, but at least the mystery had been solved. That was something.

  When she’d woken up this morning, Eleanor tried to convince herself that it was best for her not to live in a fantasy world, outside of her stories. But her heart still hurt, and her disappointment in her hero’s current behavior weighed heavily on her spirits.

  “You look prettier than I’ve ever seen you,” she whispered to Clare now.

  Clare tossed her a grin. “Thank you. And you look lovely, too.” She cocked her head.

  “I’ve never seen you in such a becoming blue. When did you get that gown?”

  Eleanor shrugged, feeling embarrassed. “I happened to find it in a shop, already made, this afternoon, on the way back home from my visit to the Sherwoods. I—I was a bit impulsive and bought it on the spot. It needed only the slightest alteration.”

  “I agree with Clare,” said Mother in that knowing voice she loved to adopt at every opportunity. “You look striking.” She peered closer. “Indeed, I’d say you look lovelier tonight than I’ve ever seen you. You have the rosy look of a woman in love. Has Lord Andrew captured your heart?”

  Eleanor blushed. “No, Mother. Not at all. I think perhaps I’m overheated, that’s all. The carriage is a bit stuffy, isn’t it?”

  Mother didn’t look at all convinced. Neither did Clare.

  “I promise you,” Eleanor said in firm tones, “I’m not in love with Lord Andrew.” She paused. “Or anyone else.”

  She looked out the window and thought of Lord Tumbridge—heated, inappropriate thoughts of him—but then she remembered him kissing Clare.

  She released an inaudible sigh. Where are the heroes? she asked herself.

  And where is home? She’d felt a glimmer of it with Clare, here in this carriage. But it wasn’t to be found with Mother and Lord Pritchard.

  Yet somewhere, she reassured herself—because she was her father’s daughter, ever optimistic, ever hopeful—somewhere, home still existed.

  She needed only to find her way back to it.

  “Who’s got the blasted talisman now?” her stepfather asked out of the blue.

  Eleanor suppressed a stab of annoyance. Hadn’t he only just now told them to stop going over the subject? But all three occupants of the carriage looked expectantly at her.

  “I—I don’t know,” she said, not sure why she felt compelled to lie.

  Lord Pritchard’s eyes bored into hers. “Did you not see it today?”

  An odd sense of caution dancing lightly down her arms made a tight wall of her belly. There was something about the way he’d asked the question.

  What did her stepfather care about the blasted talisman?

  “No,” she said lightly, and wished Clare had never brought the subject up. “I think the Sherwoods must have lost it.”

  His facial expression didn’t change, but she sensed rather than saw a relaxing of his back against the luxurious black leather squabs.

  Once again, Eleanor had to fight hard to suppress her loathing of her stepfather. After the carriage stopped, he got out first, then reached up to take her hand and help her alight on the pavement.

  When he released her, for a moment their gazes met, and she saw unfettered dislike in his eyes.

  The feeling is distinctly mutual, she said back with her expression, and turned to walk up the pavement to the mansion blazing with candlelight. The sounds of laughter, talking, and violins poured forth f
rom its open windows and front doors.

  But the closer she got to the house, the more nervous she became that she’d let her guard down.

  She’d no idea why she should be worried. And what could her mother’s husband do to her anyway?

  Soon she’d be gone. She’d written several other families and was only waiting to hear if one of them would require her services as a governess. This time, however, she’d have to warn the Earl of Tumbridge not to interfere again, for whatever strange reason he was doing so.

  Once again, she wondered if he would be at the ball. A part of her craved to see him, and it wasn’t the part that wanted to censure him. Whatever her mind told her, her body longed to feel his touch again but closer this time. She wanted to feel his body against hers, to know what it would be like to bury her own fingers in his hair and kiss him, openmouthed and with abandon, the way she’d seen Clare kiss him. She longed to feel his hand caress her own back and bottom.

  Eleanor wanted the man with the secret tattoo, and the man on the steps at the Brady mansion, and even if it meant she had to kiss the rude, aloof Earl of Tumbridge—the man who had no honor, no shame—to get him, she was severely tempted.

  But much to her disappointment, Lord Tumbridge never appeared. She had to content herself with seeing Clare smile at the bedazzled Viscount Henly as if she meant it when he asked her to waltz with him for the third time.

  Love, Eleanor thought, her heart warming at the vulnerable expression on her stepsister’s face. It could start as a whisper. Or a glance. Or the feel of someone’s hand clasping your own in the middle of a waltz—

  Even a waltz in which you’re haranguing someone for interfering in your life.

  “No, it can’t,” Eleanor murmured aloud into her glass of sparkling wine.

  But one glance down at the blue satin gown she’d so carefully donned in the hopes that the earl would see her in it mocked her words.

  <#>

  Late that night, Eleanor was yet again caught in a dream with the man with the secret tattoo—he was the earl again, masked, and he had her up against a wall and was kissing her—when she felt a rough, large hand upon her mouth, pressing hard.

  Her eyes flew open, and the hand was still there. Panic made her rigid, her heart beating so hard and fast, she thought she might die then and there of her own accord.

  This awful moment was real.

  “Mmmm!” she screamed, but no one could hear. Certainly, they couldn’t. The closed bedchamber door was heavy and thick, the carpet on her floor and in the corridor muffling any sound.

  When she felt the prick of a knife at her throat, she screamed louder. This time, the hand went over her nose, too.

  Her instinct for survival made her go limp and silent to show her compliance, although everything in her longed to rage, fight, and flee.

  It seemed as if eons passed, but finally, the hand moved lower, allowing her to breathe. She sucked in a huge amount of air through her nose, but slowly, one hitching breath at a time.

  She would remain calm.

  She flicked her eyes to the right and saw a black shadow crouched by her bed.

  “Where’s the talisman?” a rough male voice asked. His accent was slightly foreign, but she couldn’t place it. “And don’t scream, or I’ll kill you and whoever comes in to save you.”

  He lifted his hand from her mouth.

  “I—I don’t know,” she whispered. Her temples throbbed so loudly, she couldn’t hear her own voice.

  The knifepoint pressed deeper into her throat. “Tell me.”

  What if he killed her after she told? He’d have no need of her anymore, would he?

  “I really don’t know.” She hoped he’d believe her.

  He growled in his throat, like a beast. “If you’re lying—”

  “I’m not,” she said hurriedly. “But if you give me a chance, maybe I could find it.”

  The black shadow sighed. “Very well. I’ll be watching you. And I can get into any room you decide to sleep in at night. You’ll look for it, and when you find it, you’ll sleep with your window open.”

  “All—all right,” she said, tears slipping out the corners of her eyes.

  Her entire body jolted when he stood. He wasn’t as tall as she expected, but he was stocky, no doubt strong enough to kill her with his bare hands if he so wanted.

  “Now close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them for several minutes.”

  “All right,” she whispered again.

  There was no moon, so she left her eyes open. She watched the intruder silently open her bedchamber door and slip out.

  She lay still and prayed he would go straight downstairs and out from whatever door or window he’d opened to get inside—and leave the remaining residents of the house alone, especially Mother, Clare, and the female servants, all of whom she hoped were snug and safe in their beds.

  Five minutes passed.

  Her body began to shake. Violently. She could have been murdered. So easily.

  The Earl of Tumbridge had warned her not to let anyone know he was the man with the secret tattoo—but he hadn’t said she couldn’t talk about the actual robbery. Yet here she was, queasy with fear and nerves, having been assaulted the very night after she’d begun doing just that.

  With whom had she discussed that fateful day? She made a mental list: Clare, the Sherwood sisters, Mother, Lord Pritchard—

  Her gut seized at the thought of him. She remembered how agitated he’d been in the carriage on the way to the ball, how she’d felt a whisper of caution that had compelled her to lie to him about the talisman’s whereabouts. She was almost sure he had something to do with this—her own stepfather!

  But she’d never trusted him.

  Never.

  Yet there was also Lord Tumbridge. He’d seen her at the Brady mansion. He’d gone back inside the house with that lovely little painting. Perhaps Janice and Cynthia had told him she’d been asking after the robbery. Had Janice told him she’d given Eleanor the talisman? Or had he simply suspected she might have it?

  Had he sent someone to frighten her?

  She was in terrible trouble, and she needed answers.

  Slowly, she sat up and put her feet over the side of the bed. An awful decision must be made: Should she trust her mother—and thus Lord Pritchard—to help her, or force more answers out of the Earl of Tumbridge, who’d shown himself to be a dangerous man with his own secrets?

  The latter, she decided, and knew it was the right decision. Her heartbeat’s frenetic pace subsided to a more steady one. It was a gamble, yes, to confide in the man. She was almost sure she’d have to show him the talisman. But it was the right decision. Somehow, she knew.

  She got up, wrapped her navy blue cape around her night rail, and put on her navy blue bonnet, all very quietly.

  But a fresh doubt assailed her. She’d have to trust the man who’d brazenly kissed her stepsister when she was clearly engaged to another man.

  Could she trust Lord Tumbridge? Should she?

  Hesitating a fraction, Eleanor picked up her reticule, which hung from the side of her full-length looking glass and still held the talisman. Heavens! She’d come so close to losing the small token.

  And then she crossed to her dressing table, where she took her sharpest hat pin and stuck it into the flimsy velvet pouch. Yes, she told herself. She’d have to trust Lord Tumbridge; she’d have to focus on the part of him that had saved her and her friends during that robbery.

  But she didn’t have to be naïve about it.

  When she opened her bedchamber door, she stood for a very long time and listened to the sounds of the house. What she was about to do tonight was far scarier than crossing that creek Papa had long ago urged her to do.

  Finally, when she was as sure as she could be that everyone was abed, she stepped out into the corridor, walked swiftly past Clare’s bedchamber, down the stairs, and out the front door, shutting it quietly behind her.

  It was time. Ti
me to trust her instincts.

  <#>

  James was in the middle of a dream about fishing with his father, but Lady Eleanor was there, too. A fish kept knocking into the boat, a big fish, one he wanted to catch to impress Lady Eleanor and Father. But he couldn’t see it—

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  His eyes flew open and he jumped out of bed. Literally sprang out and landed on his feet like a cat.

  Someone was at the front door.

  He wrapped a silk banyan around him and opened his bedchamber door. There was a candle in the hallway—one of the servants was already on his or her way.

  “I’ve got it, Michael,” he said to the footman.

  “Very well, sir,” said Michael, and handed him the candle.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  James hurried down the stairs and opened the front door. Lady Eleanor Gibbs landed against him with a light thud.

  He put out his arms to stop her fall. Catching her was much better than landing a big fish.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I—I’m so sorry. I’d put my ear against the door to hear if someone was coming, and then you opened it—”

  “It’s all right,” he soothed her.

  For a brief second, he got the feeling she didn’t want him to let her go. He didn’t want to, either. It was the last thing in the world he wanted, in fact.

  But he must.

  Gently, he placed her upright on the scarlet-and-gold carpet. “My dear Lady Eleanor, what’s wrong?”

  Concern filled him, followed swiftly by fury. Who’d put her in such a state?

  She swallowed, and then she began to tremble.

  “Steady.” He put his hands on her small, soft shoulders, so temptingly hidden beneath a navy blue cape.

  “Please just give me a moment.” Her tone was staunch. “I’ll be all right.”

  “May I take your cape?”

  “I—I can’t,” she said, and put her arms through the slits in the fabric to show him that they were encased in pink muslin and lace. From her left wrist dangled a small reticule with a pearl-tipped pin stuck through its folds. “I’m afraid I’m in my night rail.”

  “That’s all right,” he said as if it weren’t significant in the least that she’d appeared at his door en déshabillé. “Keep it on, then.”