The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order by Miranda Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

that, Prudence had no doubt. Italy or no, nothing in her entirely predictable life in Bath would change.

Chapter 6
In which our hero anticipates laughing last and best.
    A utumn’s many mortifications gave way to a somewhat less mortifying winter for Ainsworth at Grayfriars Abbey. By New Year, he returned to Town to look in on the House of Lords as was his duty. From what he saw, this involved a great deal of sitting in hard, high, straight backed wooden benches. Only the occasional foot stamping or “huzzah!” relieved the monotony of speechifying. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps next year he would take his seat. Or the year after.
    The duke’s shoulder still ached like a sore tooth. The skin had knit roughly together but the underlying muscle remained in painful turmoil. He couldn’t raise his left arm much less lift any weight with his left hand without triggering pain.
    Excepting Smeeth, who fussed over his hair and person like a mother baboon nitpicking her young, the rest of the duke’s staff understood implicitly they should not dwell upon his infirmity. Even the household mongrels sensed he should not be importuned. They sat at a respectful distance whenever a walk in the park seemed in the offing.
    Thatcher grew concerned about His Grace’s chronic discomfort. One late January day, he held the duke’s caped greatcoat and dared to raise the subject obliquely when the duke winced as he lifted the coat off the butler’s arm.
    “Wounds take time to heal, Your Grace.”
    “They do, Thatcher.” Ainsworth looked his butler in the eye, “And how do you get on?”
    “Well enough now, Your Grace.” Thatcher said perfunctorily.
    “It wasn’t always tolerable?” The duke asked, “The pain.”
    “I had tenderness of the stump but,” Thatcher clammed up, fearing he importuned the duke with inappropriate personal details.
    “But?” Ainsworth asked.
    Thatcher hesitated but the duke silently awaited his reply. After an uncomfortable pause, the butler blurted out in a rush, “The missing arm gave me so much grief I wanted to have it cut off all over again!”
    “Did you see a doctor?”
    “Even if I could afford one, why pay a man to tell me I was certifiable?” Thatcher replied. The duke said nothing, waiting intently. Thatcher elaborated, “Got to the point, I was beside myself distracted by it. Then another fellow in my condition told me about Miss H.”
    “What?” Ainsworth’s head throbbed.
‘Mizzach!’
That Night, he heard those two syllables over and over. Now perhaps he understood. “Miss H., you say?”
    “Miss Haversham, Your Grace. Bless me if Miss H. didn’t put me right! Has special salves. Her man at the apothecary shop had ways of working what was left that settled my stump nicely. She told me to try grabbing things with my missing hand…in my head, pretending that is. Thought her daft but I swear it helped. Only charged for the liniments and poultice. She was a godsend, sir.”
    “You call her Miss H., this Miss Haversham?” The duke’s hackles rose.
    “Everybody does.”
    “Where in Town might I find this Miss Haversham?” He asked quietly.
    “Not in London, Your Grace, Bath. Her apothecary shop’s on Trim Street, tucked away in the corner. Number three. Can’t miss it. Worth the trip, I’d say.”
    “No. 3 Trim Street, Bath,” the duke committed the address to memory. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew the empty glass jar. “In the meantime, is it possible for someone to get more of this? I’ve used it up.”
    “The housekeeper will see to it tomorrow, Your Grace. What is it Mrs. Clarke should get?”
    “I’m not sure what it’s called, Thatcher. All I have is this.”
    Ainsworth opened the jar for his one-armed butler, who sniffed it once and said, “Demme if that isn’t one of Miss Haversham’s rubs, Your Grace.”
    “There’s no label.” The duke showed his butler the top of the lid.
    “Funny,” Thatcher replied,