The Tattooed Duke Page 11

  At the thought of Wycliff, her smile faded slightly. Her success had come at the expense of his.

  Still, she was so proud of herself. And relieved, frankly. And speechless.

  Absolutely. Utterly. Speechless.

  Knightly continued as if this were just another business transaction instead of the hopes and dreams of a young female writer coming true against all odds: “I’m not quite sure what to do about the byline, given your situation. Have you used your real name with the duke?”

  “Yes.” It was the only real thing about her and the duke . . . other than her desire for him.

  “We’ll think of something. Now that settles everything. Regular column, byline, raise. I feel unusually charitable today, but really, Eliza, you’ve earned it. This story has taken the town by storm.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Knightly.”

  Eliza stood to go, but instead strolled over to the large windows overlooking Fleet Street. He was still there—Liam, that ghost—looking like trouble. What was he doing there? Was it a coincidence, or had he come looking for her?

  One thing was certain: she did not wish to know.

  “Is something the matter?” Knightly asked.

  “Would you escort me back to the duke’s house?” The words tumbled out, and she felt absolutely ridiculous to give voice to them.

  “Is the duke harming you?” Knightly’s voice was hard, low, and she made note to always stay on his good side.

  “No. He isn’t. But I can’t say why.” One answer would bring up too many questions she was not prepared to answer.

  Knightly stood and collected his hat and coat from a hook on the wall.

  “Shall we be off, then?”

  She nodded yes, and watched in amazement as Knightly removed a loaded pistol from his desk drawer. So much for pens and paper. But it made sense; newspaper editors often had to defend themselves from angry readers upset with their portrayal. Even Wycliff had come to see him, she had learned.

  At Knightly’s request, Mehitable Loud joined them, too. All six feet six inches of towering muscle and brawn that made up Mehitable. One was surely safe with him on her side.

  The unlikely trio stepped out of The London Weekly offices at the last moments of dusk. And lo and behold, there he was—Liam, smoking and loitering in front of Garroway’s. She felt something akin to relief that she hadn’t imagined him. But it was exceedingly disconcerting to see him there. Still.

  However, he took one look at her companions and vanished into the crowds.

  She was glad that he saw her with Knightly and Mehitable, especially. Perhaps that might scare him off permanently.

  Knightly flagged down a hired hack and they all clamored in for the ride to Wycliff House. They dropped her off one block away so that she might not be noticed in questionable—or identifiable—company.

  All she had to do was slip into the house and hope her absence hadn’t been noted.

  Chapter 21

  In Which Her Absence Had Been Noted

  Wednesday evening

  Eliza had gone missing for a few hours that afternoon. Wycliff was annoyed to discover he noticed her absence. He didn’t believe she was sweeping the attic or busy with linens because, strangely, the house felt different—like the atmosphere had shifted, or the pressure dropped or the mood was more subdued.

  Wycliff did not love the house, but he liked it even less without her in it.

  Worst of all was the gossip that reached him from belowstairs: she had returned to his house accompanied by not one, but two men. He was curious—what business outside of his household could she possibly have? Something like jealousy gnawed at his gut and he didn’t like it.

  Mrs. Buxby, lovable old drunk that she was, hadn’t paid the slightest attention to Eliza or the other maid, who was fornicating with the footman. But after over thirty years on the job, why should she? From what he could gather, save for Saddler, his entire household was one den of sin.

  Typical of a Wycliff household.

  Yet that did not explain where his maid, Eliza, had gone or with whom or why, or, most vexing of all, why he gave a damn.

  Over dinner, Harlan needled and prodded as he was wont to do. Wycliff would have taken supper alone in his room, except it would have looked like he was avoiding something, which would only make matters worse.

  “I heard one of the housemaids vanished for a few hours this afternoon,” Harlan began as he tucked into the beef and potatoes.

  “Gossiping with the servants again?” Wycliff asked, trying to sound like a bored aristocrat. His something—whatever it was—with Eliza could not be discovered by Harlan. But he still wanted to know all the gossip, especially if it concerned that lithe little maid with the jet black hair and ocean blue eyes that intruded on his thoughts and aroused his desire.

  “Always,” Harlan said with a grin. “I reckon she wouldn’t have gotten caught, but for the other one inquired to Mrs. Buxby about her whereabouts and then it was discovered. It was an exciting afternoon belowstairs.”

  “You two are drinking us out of house and home,” Wycliff grumbled.

  “Can’t be helped. Not with this weather. Not with Timbuktu nothing but a faraway dream,” he said wistfully, and Wycliff rolled his eyes.

  “Did she say where she had been?” Wycliff asked.

  “Who?”

  “Eliza.”

  “The missing maid? You know her name.” Harlan’s brows shot up high on his forehead. He sipped his wine and stared fixedly at Wycliff with his one good eye. It was damned unnerving.

  “Naming is a simple technique for distinguishing one thing or person from another. It makes life immensely easier,” Wycliff said loftily.

  “I haven’t been in England long but I do know that ducal sorts don’t much bother learning the names of anyone, let alone their housemaids,” Harlan countered.

  “I’m unconventional. You can read all about it in the newspapers.”

  “Can’t be bothered to read it. Not when the entire staff is discussing it.”

  “Are they?” Wycliff said, to encourage Harlan to say more. Of course the entire staff was discussing it. That’s what they did: gossiped about the master of the house.

  “Aye, when they’re not reading Pamela or some other romantic rot about lordships ravishing their female staff. It’s what they do every afternoon while sewing and mending. I suppose you are not unconventional after all,” Harlan mused, and sipped his drink.

  Wycliff sipped his wine. Suddenly this conversation bothered him. It was so very typical—a Wycliff duke, his maid. It was precisely the kind of behavior he was trying to avoid. He did not want to be typical. He wanted that cool self-possession and control from his mother’s side to win over the wenching ways of his father.

  And yet, his thoughts strayed to Eliza. His senses seemed finely attuned to all things her: he was primed to detect her voice, her laughter, evidence that she had swept through a room. More than once he thought of things he might request her to bring to him, only so he might see her.

  Wycliff sipped his wine, thinking these troubling thoughts. Then he noticed Harlan, far too observant, looking like he’d been mind-reading.

  “Harlan, do you remember that time you were bound and gagged by cannibals?” Wycliff asked.

  “Indeed I do. And yes, before you ask, I also remember how you single-handedly saved my life with naught but a pocketknife and a palm frond.”

  “Kindly do keep that in the forefront of your mind. And Thomas,” Wycliff said, turning to the footman attending their supper, “I know about you and Jenny, so I expect this evening’s conversation to remain between us blokes.”

  Chapter 22

  In Which a Housemaid Finds Herself in Trouble

  The study at Wycliff House

  “You called for me, Your Grace?” Eliza asked meekly. She stood before his desk nervously smoothing out the aprons on her skirts. All he could think of was lifting those skirts, exploring, bringing her to unfathomable pleasure . . .<
br />
  Focus, man, he commanded himself. Mrs. Buxby should have been reprimanding this errant housemaid, not he. But the housekeeper was deep in her teacups and wouldn’t suitably impress the seriousness of the situation concerning Eliza. Mrs. Buxby also would not dig for information and then remember to relate it to him afterward.

  And because he had been bewitched by the girl, Wycliff took every advantage to be in her company.

  Eliza stood before him expectantly. He pushed his fingers through his hair and tried to recall his father for some guidance on how to act ducal, but he could only remember the occasion—he must have been only ten—when he burst into the study and found one of the housemaids giggling and perched on his father’s knee. She then gained weight in her belly, and left to visit her family in Shropshire shortly thereafter. Many a maid had suffered the same condition.

  Wycliff cleared his throat. He was born to act like a bloody lord and master, and many a man and woman had told him he knew perfectly well how to do so. If he wanted to lead an expedition he would have to deal with insubordination properly.

  Starting with Eliza.

  Whom he wanted to ravish.

  On his desk.

  “It has come to my attention that you took leave of your duties yesterday afternoon. Without permission.” He summoned the voice he used with recalcitrant animals and potentially hostile tribes. The tone itself was effective at crossing language barriers.

  She said nothing, as she was deeply fascinated by an invisible spot on the carpet. In her silence, he wondered: Was he asking as her lord and master who expected her at his beck and call at all hours? Or as a would-be lover or jealous rival for her affections?

  “You do not deny it,” he stated. Where the devil had she gone? And with whom? Why did the ignorance and curiosity burn in his gut? Had it been Jenny in her place—he couldn’t have cared less. But Eliza . . .

  “I am sincerely sorry, Your Grace,” Eliza burst out. “My mother had taken ill and I had gone to visit her.”

  Bollocks, he thought. More hand-wringing. He’d wager an elephant that her mother was right as rain.

  “I’m deeply sorry to hear that,” he said consolingly, and all the more intrigued. Was she with a lover? Was she in trouble? He had to ask: “What ails your mother?”

  “Consumption. It’s very tragic.” Eliza batted her long lashes. He nearly groaned. She was spinning falsehoods like a practiced stage actress—fine. But did she need to look so bloody adorable as she did?

  “Will you need more time away to spend with her?” he asked. When she seemed surprised at the offer, he carried on, “I’m not an ogre, Eliza. I may be unconventional, but I am human and I do care for my fellow man. And woman,” And then he smiled and went in for the kill. “That is why I was so glad to learn you had chaperones for your return journey.”

  Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. He smiled like a cat with a mouse. She, brazenly, smiled in return.

  “Brothers?” he inquired politely.

  “Cousins,” she corrected. The audacity. Lying through her teeth, too. And then she had the nerve to smile again.

  Funny, that. Because the gossip said that one of the men accompanying her had been unusually large. Wycliff’s mind wandered to the giant guarding the door at The London Weekly. A coincidence? He did not believe in coincidences. But he also believed in evidence and proof, not gossip.

  His heart began to pound, and this annoyed him.

  Wycliff drummed his fingers on his desk and looked her over well and good. Silky jet black hair pulled back in a tight, spinsterish bun. Made him want to give a little tug and watch it tumble down.

  She wore a plain gray dress with a white apron pinned to the front reminding him of her place in his world. A maid. Naught but a maid. Or . . . ?

  Her hands, clasped sweetly in front of her, were telling. They were rough and red; they were the hands of a woman who worked. More telling they were not covered in ink stains. And she could not read or write. He’d seen her blush of mortification when he had asked her to. He still felt like an ass about that.

  She smiled sweetly at him.

  But she could be an informant for a Weekly writer? A few extra coins each week to supplement the meager wages he could afford to pay her . . . it was possible.

  It would behoove him to tread delicately. Observe. Test.

  “While I am greatly sympathetic to your consumptive mother, I do need to make an example of you for the other staff,” he told her.

  “Are you going to sack me?” she asked breathlessly, and it was nearly his undoing. Her eyes widened with terror, her skin paled, and the hand-wringing intensified. This anguish struck him as actually genuine.

  The urge to consol her was great, as was the urge to take her in his arms and . . . Thank God the desk hid his lap from her view. It wouldn’t do to let her know the power she held over him because of this illicit, constant attraction.

  His Wycliff blood ran true. There was no denying it.

  “No. However, there will be some form of punishment,” he said smoothly, letting his voice drop a register, just to watch her eyes widen and her lips part. Did she think he was going to beat her? Or enact some deviant sexual act upon her unwilling person? Good Lord. He had something much less dangerous and more bizarre in mind.

  “I will require assistance cataloguing some of the insect specimens from my travels. It is immensely tedious work. You will suffer through it, under my supervision.”

  He would get to be near her. Just to torture himself.

  Feed her details he’d like made known to London, just in case she was an informant.

  And perhaps he might emerge wiser. More tempted and tortured but wiser. And the insect catalogue would be finished faster.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she all but whispered.

  “We’ll begin later this afternoon,” he said, and by way of ending this torturous meeting, started shuffling the papers on his desk. She bobbed a little curtsey and sauntered out. Wycliff watched the sway of her hips and his breeches tightened in response.

  When she was gone, he returned his attention to the papers spread out before him. In his shuffles he had unearthed a letter from Lady Althea that arrived days ago and that he had not yet responded to. The lure of Shackley money called like a siren song. She had asked for him to pay a call upon her; there was a personal matter to be discussed in person that could not be committed to print.

  Chapter 23

  In Which Cataloguing Insects Is a Romantic Endeavor. Yes, Really.

  Later that day

  In truth, Wycliff could not wait another moment to be near Eliza. Lately it seemed he lived only for the moments that she was in his proximity. He yanked hard on the bellpull. While he waited, his thoughts strayed to another troubling female . . . Lady Althea. And her letter. He couldn’t decide if he would pay her a visit or avoid her.

  Eliza finally arrived.

  “Insects,” he said gruffly, because he was glad to see her, more than was respectable. And Lady Althea . . . Maddening females. He took one look at Eliza’s ocean blue eyes and pink mouth and was irritated all over again. Just in a different way.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She was meek because he had to punish her, or make some ridiculous show of pretending to. He hoped she got over that deference soon.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked. She was just standing there, timidlike, as if waiting for him to ravish her. Or was he just suffering from wishful thinking?

  “I am awaiting direction, Your Grace. I have never catalogued insects before. Usually, I just kill them.” Spoken like a city girl, he thought.

  “Well these are already dead. Please don’t squash them. It would be a tremendous loss to science if you did.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He scowled. There was nothing quite so irritating as an excessively agreeable female. Especially when he was in a mood for sparring.

  “We’ll need paper. And pens. And there are boxes labeled ‘Insects’ over there that need to be brough
t to the table. Do not drop them or you’ll be sacked.”

  “You have made great improvements in your ducal demeanor,” she said, finally showing some backbone.

  “Are you saying that I’m being overbearing, tyrannical, and generally disagreeable?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said, this time with a smirk.

  “That’s what I thought,” he replied, and a smirk to match hers tugged at his mouth.

  He watched as she crossed the room purposefully. And then she stopped. There were many boxes. Some were labeled Insects and some were not.

  She hesitated. So did he.

  There were two sides warring within him: end this awkward moment and tell her what was what, or wait and somehow prove that she was a spy for The Weekly because she guessed which box said Insects. He was ridiculous. She was a lovely chit, a tempting minx, and really, what grounds did he have to suspect this illiterate and beautiful woman of such treachery?

  With a sigh, he said, “The ones on the top, to the left.”

  Then she began to move boxes and he collected paper and quills, and the moment had passed. But he felt bad to doubt her. It felt wrong to test her thus. She’d been a damn fine confidante, and he lusted after her tremendously. Yet a part of him suspected her of a massive betrayal.

  The tyrannical, ducal demeanor would have to smooth over the rough moment.

  “Start unpacking the boxes. It’s full of glass jars. Kindly refrain from breaking them.”

  “I have experience sweeping broken glass, Your Grace.” It was marvelous, really, how calmly she said things like that. But nevertheless he gave her a look of shock, simply shock that she dare refer to the brash introduction of the whiskey bottle and the wall.

  If she were an informant . . . she’d be clinging to this position and not risking a firing by leaving for hours, unexplained, or speaking so freely with him. This logic satisfied him.