The Tattooed Duke (9 page)

Chapter 17

The Tattooed Duke Strikes Again

“I
t appears that I’ve joined you in infamy,” Harlan said, tossing a newspaper onto the great oak desk, where they joined an assortment of Arabic texts, journals from Wycliff’s travels, and maps.

It was another issue of
The London Weekly.

Wycliff stared at it for a moment, as if Harlan had tossed a dead fish onto his desk. He asked, “Am I going to need a drink?”

“Likely. But then again, doesn’t one always?” Harlan mused.

Sometimes Wycliff wondered if whiskey ran through the man’s veins. He picked up the paper, saw the familiar title, “The Tattooed Duke,” and began to read as Harlan sauntered over to the windows and looked out into the garden, a makeshift home for some of the creatures they’d brought back.

The Duke of Wycliff, of number four, Berkeley Square, is proud to say he is not perfectly normal, thank you very much. While the ton is aghast at his oddities, and readers of this paper avidly devour the details, the duke cares not for their gossip or their opinions.

There is a room in Wycliff House that remains locked at all times. The duke is the only one with the key and he wears it on a leather cord ’round his neck. His desk is covered with unusual texts: the Muslim holy book, maps, handwritten journals in foreign languages. Hardly the stuff of a typical English gentleman.

Also in the duke’s possession are journals describing extraordinarily passionate intimate relations with native women in such vivid detail that any maiden would be ruined to read them. And if she were to glance at the detailed illustrations? There would be a run on smelling salts.

As befitting such an avowed unconventional man, His Grace keeps company that would make a ton matron pale. His faithful companion is a sailor of unknown origins, with only one good eye and one good arm. The stories are wildly inconsistent and devilishly enthralling: wrestling with a shark, a duel with a foreign king, a pagan ritual gone awry, a pirate attack.

One waits with baited breath to see what this tattooed duke will do next. There are rumors that he is planning an expedition to the ever-elusive Timbuktu. So is his rival, mere mister Monroe Burke. This author, intimately acquainted with the facts, would put money on the Wicked Wycliff. To fund Burke Monroe is to surrender to the French. Perish the thought!

Wycliff set the newspaper down. The stuff about Burke was just splendid. It almost made the rest of it forgivable.

He was now portrayed as a heathen, friend of the devil, author of naughty diary entries, and owner of a locked room that contained God only knew what. Wycliff sighed, oddly curious as to what the gossip would claim the room contained.

Harlan handed him a glass of brandy and asked, “Do you think it’s someone in this house?”

He’d been wondering the same thing. Was it Jenny? No, she didn’t seem to think of much other than Thomas the footman. Mrs. Buxby was too drunk; Saddler not clever enough. There were all the other maids and footmen that he didn’t know.

And then there was Eliza.

It couldn’t be her. She couldn’t read and write. In fact, he’d seen the hot pink flush of her cheeks, like an African sunset, when he’d unthinkingly asked her to. He’d felt like such an ass.

Even if she were acting as an informant, he couldn’t pinpoint anything to her—or any other staff member. The salacious details that made their way into print were all items that many had heard, or overheard, or that could be gleaned merely by snooping around.

He had half a mind to cross the room and test and inspect the lock on the door to his private room.

“I don’t know, Harlan. Any ideas? You fraternize with the household help more than I do.”

“I go where the whiskey flows freely and companionship is to be found. That is most often Mrs. Buxby’s parlor. But no, it’s not me. You’re my ticket out of here.”

“Or Burke. Can you believe his plot to launch a Royal Society funded expedition to Timbuktu? How many hours have we all discussed my intentions to do exactly that? I didn’t think he would blatantly steal my plans.”

“Well, you’re not the first person to consider making the trip. I’m sure he is not planning his travels just to vex or to spite you. Not when there’s ten thousand on the line. He doesn’t have a title to fall back on,” Harlan remarked, oddly supportive of their rival. Wycliff decided not to press the point, but he filed that information away.

“The lot of good this title has done for me. It’s money that’s required. Or at least a title that isn’t tainted by scandal, going back seven generations. But damn, Harlan, of all the places in the world . . .”

Harlan shrugged. “You ought to make your pitch to the Royal Society sooner rather than later. The account books will wait . . .”

Wycliff thought of the maid’s simple question—
What about the tenants and your staff?—
and he felt duty tugging at conscience. He thought, too, of adventure, and Timbuktu, and the wide-open plains of Africa and the pride of discovery. The past he inherited, or a future he forged for himself?

“Let’s go, then,” he said. “We have work to do.”

There were papers to write, to detail the customs of other cultures. There were more seeds to plant, specimens to catalogue, wild animals to feed. All in preparation for his proposal to the Royal Society. The funds had to go to
him
, not Burke, who was a ship captain with no scientific background or exploration experience to recommend him.

This was something he deserved, Wycliff thought. Not because he was a duke, but because he’d spent the past ten years roaming, collecting, detailing, accumulating experience. Timbuktu belonged to him.

Chapter 18

In Which His Grace Suffers Rejection

S
omething bad had happened; it was clear to the entire household. Saddler kept to his pantry, Mrs. Buxby nervously sipped her whiskey-tea, and the others made themselves scarce. The duke bellowed and raged, he stomped and stormed. When something shattered, Eliza was the only one brave enough to venture forth with a broom and dustpan.

She had an ulterior motive: details for her column. That was the only reason, of course. It had nothing to do with concern or care or a simple desire to be near him, especially after their heated moments and scorching kisses.

It certainly had nothing to do with wanting to clean up whatever unholy mess His Grace had made. She had never cared for housework before, but she loathed it now.

She found him in the second floor gallery, stomping across acres of once-polished parquet floors. Furniture sat covered under white sheets, like odd, misshapen ghosts.

Along the east wall, windows overlooked Berkeley Square. On the opposite wall hung dozens of portraits of previous dukes, their homes, dogs, wives, and mistresses. Eliza thought portraits were always supposed to be dour, but these dukes looked jolly. And naughty. Their wives, on the other had, looked so very sober.

The live duke in her midst, however, was glowering and prowling like a caged beast in a rage. He fixed his eyes upon her, and she felt herself shrinking back and stepping behind what seemed to be a chair under a sheet.

The duke stalked toward her, collected the chair and heaved it across the room, where it crashed against the wall, cracked, splintered and collapsed.

His dark hair had escaped its tie and tumbled wildly around his shoulders. He looked like a towering, enraged warrior capable of anything he put his mind to, whether it be violence or passion.

Eliza’s heart began to pound and she thought perhaps the cleaning of broken glass could wait.

He growled at her: “What are you doing here?”

She took a deep breath. She had survived two days in Newgate for a story, spent time in a brothel—as an observer—and investigated factories. One angry duke was nothing to her. She straightened her spine.

“I heard something break. I came to tend to it,” she explained.

The duke folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. Tattoos peeked from the vee in his shirt, which any proper gentleman would have covered with an elegantly tied cravat.

“The whiskey bottle could not withstand the excitement of meeting the wall suddenly, and with great force,” he explained.

“I see,” she murmured. Much like the chair.

“I am in a terrible temper,” Wycliff stated, and she bit her lip. He continued: “And I can see that you are holding back some impertinent quip. I really don’t give a damn.”

“I’ll just see to the broken bottle before you injure yourself upon it, Your Grace.” Eliza proceeded to locate the broken bottle on the far side of the room while Wycliff followed behind her, sputtering in rage. With her back to him, she dared to smile.

“Injure my— I’m not going to— Don’t be ridiculous. You just wanted to see what all my hollering was about.”

“I’ll confess to a curiosity.” She peeked over her shoulder at him; he was still glaring.

“Well, I will tell
you
, Eliza.”

“If you wish,” she said, and then began to sweep shards of glass into a pile. The fumes of the spilled whiskey were intoxicating on their own. Mrs. Buxby would be livid to see it wasted thus.

“Apparently, I am thoroughly disreputable,” the duke stated dryly, and she only murmured “Mmm” as he continued. “So very disreputable and scandalous that I cannot be trusted with an expedition. Or the funds for one.”

“According to whom?” she inquired. Besides, of course, nearly everyone.

“The Royal Geographical Society of London.”

Eliza kept her head bowed low.

“They—those old, gray, overweight and overbearing old oafs—” the duke muttered.

Esteemed men of Science, Eliza thought to herself.

“They said that I demonstrated a lack of discipline. They could not, in good conscience, use the King’s money to send one reckless and scandalous peer gallivanting debaucherously around the world.”

“Gallivanting debaucherously?”

“Exactly. One of them actually accused me of wenching and thieving my way across continents. That is apparently an unsuitable use of resources.”

“What of your quest to Timbuktu? What about your collection, and your papers? Did you not explain all of that to them?”

Here the duke’s smile turned bitter and his eyes darkened considerably. Her heart ached for him, for he was continually denied what he wanted. Yet he defiantly searched for another way. He refused to give up.

“They were not interested in hearing more about that because they already have their man to claim Timbuktu. He’s been settled with a ship, a crew, a veritable army, a princely sum, and the well wishes of the King. Damn him!”

“Who is it?”

“My good friend, Monroe Burke. And not because he’s more qualified than me—which we can all agree he is not. He may be a captain in the navy, but I’m the one with the scientific knowledge and experience that will make the expedition useful and not some bloody, conquering free for all that serves only to make more enemies. Do you know, Eliza, what recommends him over myself?”

“I couldn’t venture a guess.”

“His reputation. Or rather, it is my reputation that’s the issue. Whatever dregs of it are left, thanks to those damned, bloody news rags. They’re the damned thorn in my side,” the duke muttered. Eliza thought she might have actually heard him growl under his breath.

“The newspapers?” she echoed lightly. By now all the glass shards were neatly contained in one pile of clear, sharp daggers. Nevertheless, she continued to sweep with her gaze firmly focused on the floor.

“Though they claim to be men of science and learning, the Royal Society relies on extremely questionable sources of information. Nevermind my work, or my decade of experience. Because
The Weekly
has detailed the more salacious aspects of my travels, they think I’ll take the King’s money and spend it on trollops and rum while sailing carefree around the globe. It was that damned column in
The London Weekly
that did me in.”

“Which one?” she asked, and was appalled at the hollow sound of her own voice. She was raised by an actress, she ought to be better at acting through scenes like this.

“The Tattooed Duke. I am assured that everyone in England is reading it, from the King himself to the lowest scullery maid.”

“Oh yes, that one,” Eliza said, recovering herself. “The one that mentioned the harem.”

“Idiot Basil spreading that gossip all over town,” Wycliff grumbled. “The lot of it.”

“Was it not true?” she asked.

“It wasn’t
hundreds
in a night. Good God, you can’t make proper love to a woman in just a few minutes, which is all you’d have in order to ravish hundreds from dusk till dawn.”

“How long does one need to make proper love to a woman?” Eliza asked. “Just out of curiosity, of course. Scientifically speaking.”

That teased out a harrumph of laughter from the sullen duke.

“At least one entire night from sunset to sunrise,” he answered, not missing a beat.

Wycliff caught her gaze and held it, with an intensity so strong that she couldn’t break it. For that moment, she couldn’t breathe. There was something so wild and reckless about him; she ached to throw caution to the wind and join him in mad, passionate pursuits. But her position—in his house, and at
The Weekly
—depended upon her restraint.

“You could write your corrections in to the editor of the newspaper,” she suggested, once she’d recovered herself. “I’ve heard that is sometimes done.”

Wycliff gave her an incredulous stare, punctuated with bitter laughter.

“Are you truly suggesting that all I need to do to right some egregious wrongs is to
write a letter to the editor
?”

“It most likely wouldn’t solve anything, other than soothing your temper,” she said, and resumed her sweeping. Amazing things resulted from letters to the editor; that’s how she came to write for
The Weekly.
But she couldn’t mention that to the duke.

“Darling,” Wycliff purred like a practiced charmer. “My darling Eliza. Shooting things soothes my temper. Shooting living things is even better. Hurling furniture and whiskey bottles against the wall also has mollifying qualities. Writing a letter to some low-life hack news rag editor is . . . well, let’s just say it would soothe my temper if I could also stab him with the quill and gag him with the letter.”

Eliza stared at him, horrified. He just shrugged.

“I am merely a housemaid, Your Grace,” she said once she had collected herself.

“A tempting, intriguing, and impertinent housemaid,” he corrected.

She curtsied, cheeks flushed, heart racing. “At your service.”

“I do need to do something about that newspaper, though,” the duke mused, and began to pace around her. “Especially that damned Tattooed Duke column. It’s scandal mongering and it’s ruining things for me. The Royal Society has been spooked by it, and the haute ton is gob-smacked. Left unchecked, I suspect it will only get worse.

Never had a patch of floor been swept so thoroughly. Eliza couldn’t look at him. She could only see, in her mind’s eye, all the things that she’d written about him thus far. Every outrageous, damaging word.

“If they won’t stop writing about me, the least that malicious and vile writer could do would be to compose something decent . . . let alone flattering. I have done great things, mind you. It wasn’t all just whoring my way across continents.”

“I would be curious to know of your adventures, Your Grace,” Eliza said, pausing in her sweeping.

“I have liberated slave ships in the Indian Ocean,” he began. Eliza glanced around in the vain hope that anyone was around to hear this. Because if she was the only one to know it, then she could not publish it.

All alone with the duke, she listened to Wycliff’s
noble
adventures, wretchedly aware that she could not print one glorious word of it without ruining her disguise.

“I have survived shipwrecks and captained a purloined pirate ship around Cape Horn. I collected strange plants now prized by the King at Kew Gardens, and now planted all over England. I rescued a woman or two from an unfortunate marriage, sunk a French warship or two, negotiated the liberation of Burke’s crew from a pack of cannibals, and I saved Harlan from a shark attack, or most of him, at least. I did spend a night in a harem and enjoyed myself considerably before liberating a kidnapped English maiden
before
she lost her innocence. And above all, I have represented my country with decency, diplomacy, and dignity, which is more than can be said for most of the Royal Navy.”

Awe did not begin to describe what she felt . . . Neither did supremely vexing. Neither did adoration or mesmerized, though all these words and phrases crossed her mind. Her heart beat hard and her conscience rang bells of alarm.

The duke was an amazing adventurer. He was a reluctant duke, and an outrageous scandal, but this was a man who had really lived. She was acutely aware of her own little misadventures in this small, albeit bustling, corner of the world. She’d enjoyed more excitement than most women. But it did not compare to the duke’s travels. What marvelous fun it would be to join him . . .

“There is an entire world out there, far beyond the skyline of London, and I have seen it and sailed it and learned it. I can’t fathom how someone like Basil can live going from his home to his club to some party and not feel like he is wasting precious moments, precious years, of his life.”

“At first I didn’t quite understand why you were so reluctant to be home,” she said. “To be a duke. But now I think I am beginning to.”

“Have you not traveled?”

“Once, to Brighton.” Damned, damned Brighton trip. If there was one thing she regretted— Other adventures might have happier endings, she thought.

“That’s right,” he remembered. “And it didn’t give you a taste for adventure and travel?”

“It quite nearly ruined me,” Eliza said, but the duke seemed to miss the flat note of her voice, thank goodness. It wasn’t something she wished to explain. Or even think about it.

“Yes, that’s the beauty of it. When you know how wide and blue and wonderful the rest of the world is, London seems like a dank dungeon in comparison. Staying here becomes impossible. Ruined. As if I could be content going from party to party . . .”

She could see how one might become bored with that . . . eventually. But when the duke prattled on about the chains of his charmed life, she did not feel so guilty about what she wrote. She boldly interrupted him.

“Some of us, Your Grace, would love the opportunity to become bored with fancy dresses and glorious parties and champagne and waltzes.”