The Earl With the Secret Tattoo (6 page)

Her parents’ lack of belief in her that day—Mother’s insistence that she carried unnecessary
hostility toward Lord Pritchard and Papa’s silence on the matter—had gone far to making
Eleanor the quiet girl she became. Never again had she shared with her parents or
any close friends her perceptions of people—in case she
were
mistaken about them.

She revealed her observations in stories. She followed her intuition only on the page.

“It was a lovely visit,” she said now to her stepfather. “Lady Brady was her usual
gracious self. Thank you for asking.”

“Did you find out anything more about the talisman?” Clare asked her, their hips and
shoulders touching as the carriage swayed.

“The talisman?” Lord Pritchard asked sharply.

“Yes, Father,” said Clare. “Remember the copper talisman Lord Robert found in the
cave near Summer’s End?”

“I do,” interjected Mama, her gold-spangled shawl setting off her beautifully rounded
shoulders. “It was a bit crude, wasn’t it?”

“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
from 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.