The Tattooed Duke (11 page)

Chapter 20

Bittersweet Success

Offices of
The London Weekly

“L
adies first,” Knightly said as Eliza slipped into the last empty seat. Her heart was pounding, and not just because of the mad dash to arrive on time. She had seen a ghost, just outside the pub across the street. The long-lost Liam whom she had not seen since Brighton, all those years ago. What was he doing here after all this time?

“Ladies late,” Grenville muttered. What an old crank. She would have said something, if she weren’t gasping for breath. Instead she gave him the same disapproving look Saddler tended to dole out to the servants.

“Eliza, all of London is on tenterhooks for the latest installment of your column on the Tattooed Duke,” Knightly began. “Myself included.”

“It’s true,” Julianna cut in. “At all the parties, it’s the only thing anyone talks about. It pains me that I cannot boast of my connection to you and
The Weekly
.”

“But there are major issues facing the nation,” Grenville cried. “Does not the aristocracy concern themselves with pertinent matters?”

“Not at parties, dear old Grenville,” Julianna said sweetly. “It’s where all the lords and ladies gossip about each other and prowl about for husbands, wives, and lovers. There is no speaking of anything serious. That’s what Parliament is for.”

“Apparently, our members of Parliament are whoring and roving around the world and tattooing themselves like heathens and savages. It’s a disgrace,” Grenville grumbled.

“It’s sales,” Knightly stated.

“Scandal equals sales,” the entire staff recited obligingly. It was the governing principle of the paper, and it had made Knightly’s fortune and served them all well.

“As you are all aware,
The Weekly
outperforms all the other London papers. But last week’s edition . . .” Knightly paused, so obviously proud and at a loss for words. “We had a second printing by Monday. By Tuesday afternoon there wasn’t a copy to be had. And today the presses are churning out more copies.”

All eyes turned to Eliza. In her hands was the only copy of the third and next installment of “The Tattooed Duke
.
”

Eliza handed over her copy. The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the pages as Knightly unfolded the installment. And then, he began to read aloud.

“ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in want of a fortune must be in search of a wife. The new Duke of Wycliff has his eye on the marriage mart, in the quest for a rich spouse. One in particular, in fact. His debtors and creditors no doubt are of the same inclination.’ ”

“Oh,
Eliza
,” Julianna murmured.

“Why ‘oh Eliza’?” Annabelle asked. “All she wrote was that he is looking for a wife. That’s not tremendously remarkable. Or is it?”

“While it is true that many peers are poor, and many a marriage is simply a transaction . . .” Julianna began, and the men in the room took this time to think other thoughts. But Knightly paid attention. “. . . one might be given to understand that a dowry is a factor in a contracted nuptial. But one does not just say it aloud.”

“Or print it up for all of London to see,” Sophie added.

“We do.
The Weekly
does.” Knightly was firm.

“He will never find a bride, then,” Julianna replied, just as certain. “The duke has almost nothing to recommend him.”

“The title isn’t enough?” Eliza asked hopefully. She had just assumed that somewhere there was a girl who would overlook anything to be a duchess. And while she did not intend to destroy his chances at marriage, she knew this column suffered from her petty jealously. And longing.

“It’s his saving grace, no pun intended,” Julianna replied. “That, and that he is not hideous. But he looks strange, and keeps odd company. We are given to understand that he has gone native.”
The Weekly
expert on High Society continued with her deconstruction of Wycliff’s dire social situation as the Writing Girls listened avidly. The rest of the staff idly paid attention. “His attire is not at all the fashion, and his appetites, shall we say, seem insatiable and unusual. How is any London belle to endure? Who would hand off their daughters—and their dowries—to a scandalous, possibly savage recluse?”

“His best hope was for a love match, when anything may be forgiven,” Sophie explained.

“But who can fall in love with a known fortune hunter?” Annabelle concluded.

“So this shall ruin him?” Eliza asked, vainly hopeful the answer was no. She didn’t want him to marry Lady Shackley, that was all, but she didn’t want to ruin things more either. This column was supposed to help him!

“Well, what is the rest of it?” Julianna inquired.

“The bit about Lady Shackley,” Eliza said, cringing. “And Monroe Burke’s mission on behalf of the Royal Society. And how the duke wishes for funds to outfit an expedition to Timbuktu.”

“Shall we make him respectable, Julianna?” Sophie asked. “We’ll invite him to balls and waltz with the Tattooed Duke. Our husbands can take him to White’s, where they can respectably drink, complain about Parliament and their wives, and generally not do anything scandalous.”

“Your husband could do that,” Julianna replied, and then in a far lower tone, “Mine is delightfully incapable of proper behavior.”

“Does respectable sell?” Knightly asked. And that answered that.

Next to her, Eliza practiced her inscrutable expression, while inside she seethed with something . . . because her friends had wonderful, loving husbands and popular newspaper columns of their own, and lots of pretty dresses and the ability to just make someone respectable. She had tried, with this column, but apparently it would backfire. She was such a fool.

The meeting continued. Grenville led a passionate oration about parliamentary issues, probably to make them all suffer some intelligent conversation after the passionate, frivolous debate about the Duke of Wycliff’s matrimonial prospects. The other writers reported on the latest accidents and offenses: a madman escaped from Bedlam terrorizing young ladies all over London, the theft of a diamond necklace from Lady Mowbry’s home at Berkeley Square, a fire at a bake shop in High Holburn.

All the while, Eliza thought about leaving. She was
mostly
sure she had seen that devil from her past, Liam, lurking outside. Had it been her vivid imagination, coddled by a lifetime in the theater? Or could she trust her own senses? After all this time, she’d thought he would be dead. Or hoped he was, that ruthless, thieving bounder.

But there he was, loitering outside the pub. It must be a coincidence.

But his eyes had met hers. She had seen him.
Why?

She knew she would have to find out later, for Knightly called her into his office for a private interview after the meeting. The last time she’d been here . . . she shuddered. Knightly had put the fear of God into her that day—or to be more precise, the fear of life without being a Writing Girl, life without the work she loved.

“Eliza,” Knightly said briskly. “Sit.”

She took a seat on one of the large upholstered chairs before his desk. They were of a proportion more suitable for a man, and thus made her feel unbelievably small and insignificant. It was probably unintentional, she thought, for Knightly likely hadn’t decorated his office with the intention of doing business with women.

Then again, he was a man to employ every advantage.

“I want to discuss your column,” he said.

She waited a beat for him to continue.

“I should let you know that I have decided to make ‘The Tattooed Duke’ a regular column. ‘Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life,’ ‘Fashionable Intelligence,’ ‘Dear Annabelle,’ ‘The Tattooed Duke.’ All by Knightly’s Writing Girls.”

The news left her speechless. A wave of relief surged over her—she would not be fired! She would not lose her livelihood! And then her heart might have ceased to beat for a moment. In fact, her heart felt like it might explode with pride.

“You ought to have an increase in your wages as well,” Knightly continued, and at that, Eliza beamed. She smiled so hard, so true, so wide, that her cheeks ached. She was back from the edge. She had written herself out of disaster and back into success. All it took was a good story—
Get the story, get the story
—and a good disguise. And the right subject.

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

E
liza 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.”