Read Online The Duke's Tattoo: A Regency Romance of Love and Revenge, Though Not in That Order by Miranda Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: Miranda Davis
Tags: Fiction, historcal romance
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Grayfriars Abbey till then.”
“Very good. And the second?”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. I wish to purchase a property in Bath, No. 3 Trim Street. I believe it currently houses the Trim Street Apothecary on the ground floor. I wish to conclude the transaction quickly and quietly. I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“I’ll make inquiries representing an anonymous purchaser. It’s common practice. Do you have a figure in mind?”
The duke recalled Miss H.’s lithe form, her movements like quicksilver, and her small, elegant hands.
“Your Grace?” Sterling repeated diffidently.
Ainsworth recalled himself to the present, “I’m unfamiliar with the property or property values in Bath so I’ll rely on your recommendation when the time comes.”
However odd Sterling considered his employer’s wish to buy real estate sight unseen, he was far too discreet to mention it. His countenance remained equally impassive while he noted the address in his small, leather bound notebook.
“Much will depend on what I learn about the owner,” Sterling explained, “I shall send inquiries to Bath immediately and have it well underway by week’s end.”
“I’m certain you will. You are a wonder, Sterling. I cannot conceive how I would get on without you. Thank you.” The duke often surprised Sterling with sincere appreciation. Ainsworth had no idea it was assumed by his class that serving an illustrious personage was reward enough (along with customary compensation) to make any explicit gratitude unnecessary. But unlike his peers, Ainsworth acknowledged Sterling’s efforts frequently and graciously. This inspired in Sterling the profoundest desire to surpass the duke’s every expectation.
Their business concluded, Ainsworth saw his man to the foyer where Thatcher awaited with Sterling’s winter coat and beaver hat. After he left, the duke whistled through his teeth to summon his mongrels for a quick victory lap around Hyde Park, chiding nannies be damned.
While the dogs gleefully menaced park wildlife, Ainsworth gloated. Assuming this Miss H. creature lived in rooms above the apothecary shop at No. 3 Trim Street, he could look forward to sweeping into Bath in the spring, confronting his nemesis face to face and having her tossed into the street, lock, stock and barrel.
Since he couldn’t demand satisfaction from a woman, he would end life as she knew it by economic means. This would have to suffice.
In the next moment, Ainsworth’s steps faltered. As a gentleman, setting out to destroy her troubled him a bit. She was only a woman, after all. Weak. Vulnerable. Helpless…
Helpless?
He snorted and kicked up a spray of pea gravel. Miss H. despoiled a man’s most prized personal possession. Her blasted tattoo made a jest of it and invited the mockery of others. The vicious little harridan deserved eviction and bankruptcy, if not worse. Had she been a man, Ainsworth would’ve challenged her to a duel and shot her through the heart without compunction. By closing her shop and running her off, he let her off easy. She could always hire another storefront in Bath — unless he decided to buy that building out from under her, too. Lord knows, he had the resources to do that until she apprehended the wisdom of relocating elsewhere, say, the West Indies.
His conscience silenced, the duke looked forward to her comeuppance. After all, what was the point of revenge, if not to repay such an infamous insult in full?
Chapter 8
In which three out of ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ meet at White’s.
June 17, 1816.
“I cannot credit it. Our Jem dead,” Lord George Chase Percy, second son of Viscount Rutgers, said. Tawny as a lion, with an unruly mane to match, Lord Percy raised amber eyes heavenward and lifted his glass.
“Nor I,” grumbled William Tyler de Sayre, Baron Clun, staring into the middle distance. Clun was a forbidding man with hooded black eyes, too long, almost black hair and a monumentally
“Very good. And the second?”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. I wish to purchase a property in Bath, No. 3 Trim Street. I believe it currently houses the Trim Street Apothecary on the ground floor. I wish to conclude the transaction quickly and quietly. I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“I’ll make inquiries representing an anonymous purchaser. It’s common practice. Do you have a figure in mind?”
The duke recalled Miss H.’s lithe form, her movements like quicksilver, and her small, elegant hands.
“Your Grace?” Sterling repeated diffidently.
Ainsworth recalled himself to the present, “I’m unfamiliar with the property or property values in Bath so I’ll rely on your recommendation when the time comes.”
However odd Sterling considered his employer’s wish to buy real estate sight unseen, he was far too discreet to mention it. His countenance remained equally impassive while he noted the address in his small, leather bound notebook.
“Much will depend on what I learn about the owner,” Sterling explained, “I shall send inquiries to Bath immediately and have it well underway by week’s end.”
“I’m certain you will. You are a wonder, Sterling. I cannot conceive how I would get on without you. Thank you.” The duke often surprised Sterling with sincere appreciation. Ainsworth had no idea it was assumed by his class that serving an illustrious personage was reward enough (along with customary compensation) to make any explicit gratitude unnecessary. But unlike his peers, Ainsworth acknowledged Sterling’s efforts frequently and graciously. This inspired in Sterling the profoundest desire to surpass the duke’s every expectation.
Their business concluded, Ainsworth saw his man to the foyer where Thatcher awaited with Sterling’s winter coat and beaver hat. After he left, the duke whistled through his teeth to summon his mongrels for a quick victory lap around Hyde Park, chiding nannies be damned.
While the dogs gleefully menaced park wildlife, Ainsworth gloated. Assuming this Miss H. creature lived in rooms above the apothecary shop at No. 3 Trim Street, he could look forward to sweeping into Bath in the spring, confronting his nemesis face to face and having her tossed into the street, lock, stock and barrel.
Since he couldn’t demand satisfaction from a woman, he would end life as she knew it by economic means. This would have to suffice.
In the next moment, Ainsworth’s steps faltered. As a gentleman, setting out to destroy her troubled him a bit. She was only a woman, after all. Weak. Vulnerable. Helpless…
Helpless?
He snorted and kicked up a spray of pea gravel. Miss H. despoiled a man’s most prized personal possession. Her blasted tattoo made a jest of it and invited the mockery of others. The vicious little harridan deserved eviction and bankruptcy, if not worse. Had she been a man, Ainsworth would’ve challenged her to a duel and shot her through the heart without compunction. By closing her shop and running her off, he let her off easy. She could always hire another storefront in Bath — unless he decided to buy that building out from under her, too. Lord knows, he had the resources to do that until she apprehended the wisdom of relocating elsewhere, say, the West Indies.
His conscience silenced, the duke looked forward to her comeuppance. After all, what was the point of revenge, if not to repay such an infamous insult in full?
Chapter 8
In which three out of ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ meet at White’s.
June 17, 1816.
“I cannot credit it. Our Jem dead,” Lord George Chase Percy, second son of Viscount Rutgers, said. Tawny as a lion, with an unruly mane to match, Lord Percy raised amber eyes heavenward and lifted his glass.
“Nor I,” grumbled William Tyler de Sayre, Baron Clun, staring into the middle distance. Clun was a forbidding man with hooded black eyes, too long, almost black hair and a monumentally
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