The Tattooed Duke (8 page)
In Which the Duke Does Some Sleuthing
W
ycliff wasn’t such a fool that he thought a visit to
The London Weekly
would produce anything other than frustration. At best, the editor, proprietor, and publisher of such inflammatory, slanderous, libelous content might slip up and reveal a clue about the author. He might even be intimidated enough to tone the rubbish down for subsequent columns.
He wasn’t such a fool to think that the editor would cease publication of what word on the street said was the most popular thing in town. But something had to be done to keep the scandal under control, especially with Burke sniffing around his expedition. Wycliff would not roll over and surrender his lifelong dream so easily. He wasn’t French after all.
The offices of the newspaper were remarkably easy to find, thanks to the sign hanging over the door declaring
THE LONDON WEEKLY
in capital letters decked in gold leaf. The source of all his ills was clearly marked, right there on 57 Fleet Street. He could see it from a block away.
The entry was blocked by a man of gargantuan proportions.
“What’s your business?” he asked gruffly, with a faint accent that Wycliff placed as somewhere far to the east of Europe. His arms, thick as logs, were folded over his whiskey barrel chest. The man’s skin was swarthy, his brows thick and his eyes black. Wycliff estimated him to be of Turkish origin.
“I’m here to see Mr. Knightly,” he stated.
“Are you now?” the man asked. Listening closely, Wycliff was now quite sure of his Turkish roots. The giant grinned, and not in a nice way. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Mr. Knightly can’t possibly be surprised by my arrival.” A few of this massive man’s teeth had gone missing. Wycliff’s options were clear: attempt battle and likely lose; attempt to negotiate and likely lose.
“Are you the Tattooed Duke?”
“The very one. I hope proof is not required. At least not on the street,” Wycliff said. And then he added a line in Turkish.
“You know my language,” the giant said, awed.
“I know a lot of languages,” Wycliff replied. “When one’s life depends upon the good graces of a foreign host, the least a man can do is learn a few lines in their native tongue.”
“You are not like regular Englishmen,” the giant observed.
“I should hope not. And you, too, for you wouldn’t sell nearly as many newspapers if I was.”
“I’ll let you in to see Knightly, but I won’t do anything to stop that column. We’ve all seen an increase in wages since it started running.”
“An interview with Mr. Knightly is all I ask.”
“Upstairs, second on the right. Tell ’em I’ve let you through.” Then the giant grinned, and it was a terrifying thing.
It was easy enough to find Knightly behind his desk. That Wycliff had gotten past the beast guarding the door seemed sufficient reason for everyone to let him carry on with his business.
“You must be Knightly,” Wycliff said, standing in the open doorway. The man put down his pen. He reached casually for the top of his desk drawer, where most editors kept a good assortment of weaponry, starting with a loaded pistol. Let him be afraid. Wycliff looked down at the newspaperman.
“And you are?” the man asked coolly.
“Wycliff. Perhaps better known as the Tattooed Duke.”
“Ah, I see,” Knightly said, leaning back in his chair.
“Your beast of a man at the door let me through.”
“Really? I hope you haven’t extracted much damage. I’m fond of Mehitable.” Knightly had piercing blue eyes, black hair, and a manner that seemed at ease, though Wycliff could tell that the man was tense and aware.
“Mehitable and I came to an understanding,” Wycliff explained. “I’m here so that you and I might do the same.”
In another part of the office he heard the low hum of male voices punctuated by the chatter of women. Wycliff turned his head to look up the hallway but didn’t catch a glimpse of those infamous Writing Girls.
Since an invitation did not seem to be forthcoming from the editor, and he was the higher ranking of the two, Wycliff ambled into the room and looked around. It was a richly appointed chamber, designed to intimidate and impress.
Knightly stood up from his chair and walked over to the sideboard. “I should find it much more tolerable with a drink. Would you care for one as well?”
“Yes, thank you. You are in the habit of angering people, I presume.”
“The threat of irate lords and ladies keeps Mehitable employed. And the rest of us as well, for that matter,” Knightly said, handing Wycliff a glass of brandy. “I know why you’re here. You’re upset over your portrayal in my newspaper. However, the next issue is already off to the printer, and I shan’t stop the presses on account of anyone, even some mad, bad duke. If you wish to argue or protest, please do go on. Know that I won’t change a thing and I thank you for at least allowing me the courtesy of alcohol whilst I must endure your complaints.”
“I feel so special,” Wycliff deadpanned. Knightly choked on his drink. “I never met a problem that was solved by complaining about it. I don’t expect that any sort of outburst, angry threat, or emotional plea will change your plans to mine my private life for your public gain.”
“Then what brings you here? If you wish to duel, you need only say the word. We can schedule it—I believe I am free next Tuesday—and I can return to my work,” Knightly said, then sipped his drink.
“I thought this issue was already at the presses,” Wycliff said, trying to catch him in a lie.
“My work is ongoing, relentless,” Knightly replied. There were faint lines around the corner of his eyes; he probably wasn’t lying.
“However do your authors keep pace?” Wycliff inquired.
“It’s a weekly, not a daily,” the editor said plainly. “If they can’t handle it, there are a hundred more waiting to replace them.”
“You don’t put much stock in your writers,” Wycliff remarked. One of those authors, perhaps, might feel underappreciated by this Knightly fellow. They might then feel motivated to betray him.
“I actually employ an exceptional collection of writers. But I’m not in the business of handholding or warm tender feelings—not even for the women. My writers are expected to write, and write well. And, frankly, cause a scandal whenever possible. It does remarkable things for sales. Without fail.”
“And what of those chits you have writing for you? They must have had tongues wagging all over town. And from what I hear, the allure of scribbling females hasn’t worn off.”
“Scribbling females,” Knightly said with a laugh. “You best not let them hear you say that, although I daresay they’ve heard it all.”
“It’s a pretty remarkable thing, hiring females to write in this day and age.”
“Exactly. Anything that has the ton in an uproar is bound to be good for sales. My Writing Girls do not disappoint. Neither do your tattoos.”
“Is that all you care about—sales?” Wycliff asked.
“Yes,” Knightly said, sipping his drink. Wycliff did the same and found it was a fine French brandy.
“I understand. So long as my scandalous self sells your newspapers, I can count on your writers to devote their attentions to drivel about myself. You will make a fortune off of me. But what is it you do with all the money?”
“I have it,” the editor said with a shrug. Wycliff understood the security of having money in the bank.
“Tell me, Mr. Knightly, how did you come to employ the chits?” It was an easy, obvious question to get the man talking about his writers.
“If you knew them, the question would be how could I not? A bolder, more brash, more meddlesome collection of females I don’t know. Well, most of them, anyway,” he said, and Wycliff was immediately intrigued by the quiet ones, whoever they might be.
“And your other writers? Pardon me for asking what may seem to be inane questions, but even given all my travels, I have yet to explore this dark, underbelly of London’s publishing world. Duke’s usually do not, after all.”
Knightly’s jaw clenched tightly. Wycliff knew he had hit a nerve. So the upstart news rag proprietor was sensitive about class, was he? Well, he rebounded quickly.
“You do a lot of things dukes do not usually do. Yet I have managed to profit from your exploits, while you do not.”
Wycliff said nothing, only finished his drink. The mark was well placed. Knightly knew it.
“Money, or a title? Is one any good without the other?” the duke mused. Honestly. The man across from him was probably flush with cash, yet there it was again—the tightening of the jaw. Even a flash of irritation in his eyes.
“ ‘Deep Thoughts from the Duke of Wycliff.’ Won’t that make a splendid new column for
The Weekly
,” Knightly retorted.
“And which writer would I be replacing? One of the chits or some bloke?”
“Nice attempt, Your Grace. I shall not reveal that, not so you can attempt to intimidate the author into writing something more to your liking. Though I doubt you could. After all, I wouldn’t send a coward to the den of lion.”
Wycliff took that to mean the author was a man. When phrased like that, no decent man with any pretense to calling himself a gentleman could possible send a female into the most salacious and dangerous household in London.
“ Well, I can’t be bothered to author it, though. Not as a duke,” he said, allowing condescension to infuse his tone. And then with a laugh he added, “You could send one of those chits around to take notes as I dictate.”
“Yes, I bloody well could,” Knightly murmured as he downed the last of his drink.
In Which the Seeds Are Sown
Conservatory of Wycliff House
E
liza heard the ringing from the drawing room, and because she had not yet learned the distinct tone and pitch of each bell and its corresponding room, she had to dash madly to the butler’s pantry to see which one was ringing. And then she had to dash madly to the conservatory, since that’s where His Grace was awaiting a maid.
She arrived breathless, which she seemed to do a lot lately. Running here or there, arriving late and worried about being caught and discovered wherever she was. For a spot on the second page of
The Weekly,
though, she wouldn’t complain.
Golly, if that didn’t make her heart nearly burst with pride.
And then, when summoned by the duke, it mattered naught if she arrived breathless for it would only be a few moments before a look or a caress had all sorts of deliciously unsettling effects upon her.
Just setting her sights upon him did it. She caught a glance of him through the tangled, heady forest of plants. The conservatory was hot, heated by a large stove. It was stuffed with large, luscious plants and trees, obscuring a clear view. As she wandered through, she caught glimpses of Wycliff as he worked, who was as yet unaware that he wasn’t alone.
His hair was pulled back from his face, tied roughly with twine. She caught the glint of sunlight on his small gold hoop earring. And his lips were parted slightly as he worked, his gaze utterly focused on what he was doing.
Eliza walked around a potted orange and some other large green plants she didn’t recognize until the duke was in full view. He stood at a high table with an assortment of pottery and his hands in the dirt.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing the snaking black lines of his tattoos, which seemed to move as he flexed his muscles. She was transfixed. In fact, she stood there watching and ogling his forearms, like a ninny, until the duke took note of her presence.
“You rang?” she asked, reminding them both what she was doing there.
“I require assistance,” he said, stepping aside to make room for her at the table. She had a feeling this was not a typical task of London housemaids. But she wasn’t one to stand on ceremony when it could yield material for her column.
Get the story.
Get the story.
Knightly’s voice was forever in the back of her mind, urging her on.
She saw dozens of pots and small paper packets with what must have been the duke’s scrawl. She could make out Latin names and descriptions.
“I haven’t much experience with planting, being a born and raised London girl,” she said. “All I know of nature is Hyde Park. And this conservatory.”
“It’s not difficult. I’ll show you.” Of course he had to say this with the kind of smile that made a girl go hot all over. The kind of smile he’d given her the other night. That couldn’t happen again, much as she might hunger for it.
Eliza pushed up her sleeves like his, and it didn’t escape her notice the way his gaze lingered on the bare skin of her hands and arms for just a beat longer than necessary or proper. But he quickly looked away.
Did he desire her? Why did that give her such pleasure?
“It’s as simple as making a small hole in the soil and placing just a few seeds before covering them up.” The soil was cool and soft on her hands; a welcome change from hot, soapy water or a thin coating of dust.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, not because she was a writer on a secret mission to uncover his secrets, but because she was genuinely curious about him. How many dukes puttered around their conservatories? Probably not many, she’d wager.
“The gardeners at our country estates. My governesses often neglected me and my studies, as they were engaged in other pursuits,” Wycliff explained. And the hot, mischievous glance he flashed her told Eliza exactly what kind of pursuits he spoke of. “Like any boy, I wandered outside and did my best to get dirty. I often succeed admirably.”
“I daresay most dukes wouldn’t have been able to run wild like that.” She thought of Brandon, Sophie’s double-duke husband, who was the very epitome of a straitlaced, dutiful duke who never, ever neglected anything. Or mucked around in the mud.
“We all know that I am not most dukes,” Wycliff replied, which was the understatement of the century, in her opinion. Not that she knew many dukes. She just knew that there was no one like him.
“You’ve enjoyed more freedom than most,” she said.
“Or I’ve been sadly lacking in discipline, as are most Wycliff men. But it depends upon whom you are asking,” he added, and then asked casually: “Would you hand me the
Gardenia taitensis
?”
Eliza hesitated. In order to keep up her ruse as an innocent, simpering, unthreatening housemaid, she shouldn’t reveal that she could read—and in Latin, too.
No, she had to act stupid. Just this once. It pained her to do so, because she was a proud woman, particularly when it came to her talents with the written word, and she wanted to impress him.
Why did she care to impress him? she wondered. There could only be one reason . . .
His gaze rested on her face, watching her intently.
And that’s what suffused her cheeks with a pink blush, like the desert rose blooming nearby. She felt something . . . she cared about what this duke thought of her, which could only mean . . .
While she stumbled and tripped over these feelings, he reached past her for the
Gardenia taitensis
. He brushed against her as he did so. She felt it everywhere.
“What is all this for, anyway?” she asked.
“While I could walk into the Royal Society and impress them with my haughty, ducal demeanor in a plea for funds, I’d rather show them what they could gain by funding my next expedition. I have accumulated an extensive collection of seeds, among other things, that could be tremendously useful to England.”
“When you were not ravishing all the women in a sultan’s harem, that is,” she teased.
“It’s important to explore and engage with the local flora, fauna,
and
females,” he added. And there it was again—a mischievous flash in his eyes, a quick grin. She could live off flirtatious looks like that.
“All in the noble name of research,” she remarked, returning to planting seeds as he’d shown her. He hadn’t just been wandering or idling away the days. He’d been doing something important. She should put that in her column.
“Precisely,” he agreed. “I’m glad to see you’re a woman of sense. Like some rare blossom.”
“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult,” she responded, but her heart was beating hard with pleasure, because he didn’t think her some idiot female after all.
“Take it as a compliment. You’ll find life much easier if you do.”
“Is that how you take newspaper columns about you?” The words were out of her mouth before she paused to consider if she ought to give voice to them. This was treading on dangerous conversational territory. But she had been starting to feel little pangs of
something.
Was it guilt? Was it pangs of decency?
“Are you reading those?” He treated her to a questioning, sidelong glance. He was probably an excellent interrogator. She ought not have mentioned this at all.
Must keep wits about self
. She cautioned herself even as she could see the outline of his well-muscled chest through his white shirt, and the vee of tattoos at his neck. Even as she thought about another kiss—a glorious, melting, exquisite kiss that tempted her far too much.
“Your Grace, all of London is reading them—or being read to—including your staff. You’ll find life much easier if you accept gossip as inevitable.” She tried to laugh it off, but he didn’t join her.
“I am unconventional, and that is remarkable. That makes me threatening. I understand this. I’m not too bothered by it. However, were it to start affecting my work, or my chances to secure funding for the Timbuktu expedition . . .”
Was that a warning? Her heart beat hard. He couldn’t possibly suspect her, his illiterate housemaid with her hands in the dirt.
“I understand. Idle gossip is one thing, until it begins to wreak havoc upon one’s life,” she said. Could she walk that line?
“What is it about you that makes me talk so much?” Wycliff questioned. She didn’t know, but she was tremendously grateful for it. His confidence in her made her bold. As if she weren’t just a housemaid, or the lowly, unknown Writing Girl with the articles in the back of the paper, next to the cure-alls for revolting maladies.
She was now a star writer, falling for her subject.
“Are you trying to impress me, Your Grace?” She dared to flirt with him. But how could she not? It was a warm, lovely day in the conservatory, and this intrepid, worldly explorer was spending the hours with her.
“Impress you?” he repeated, laughing a bit. But he placed his hands on either side of her, blocking her in. She couldn’t move if she wanted to.
It went without saying that she did not want to.
“Or perhaps win my favor?” she asked pertly, tempting him to take it further.
“Or just a kiss?” he asked as he gently brushed his lips across hers.
Eliza thought of the reasons they should not kiss as his hot, tempting mouth pressed upon hers, urging her to open to him.
The story.
This was not part of the story.
To hell with the story.
She entwined her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the soft locks of his hair and shamelessly pressing the length of her body against his. She felt his taut chest against her breasts. The duke groaned and his broad hands caressed her all over, leaving heated skin in their wake.
Eliza tilted her head back as he pressed hot, open kisses upon the sensitive skin of her neck. She clasped the fabric of his shirt in her hands. She felt the leather cord he wore, with the key that surely opened those taunting, locked doors.
Get the story.
Get the story.
She ought to slip it off. But more than that, she wanted, needed, ached to feel his hot bare flesh against hers.
But she shouldn’t. She had her reasons, and they had nothing to do with the story and everything to do with that mistake she made years ago in Brighton.