The Earl With the Secret Tattoo (2 page)

A few moments of silence passed. Eleanor blinked into the fuzzy velvet.

“You’re looking less than your usual pristine self, Tumbridge,” said Lord Andrew.
“Your cravat’s not in top form, and your hair—”

“Is always a bit of a mess,” the earl said in a testy manner. “Are you taking my mother’s
place tonight?”

Lord Andrew gave a nervous chuckle. “Sorry. It’s just that I saw a comely maid down
the corridor. I thought perhaps you and she had bumped into each other, if you comprehend
my meaning.”

Ugh
. Eleanor’s whole body began to sweat in her velvet cocoon. She’d long thought her
studious beau craved being one of the lads, but she’d never had evidence of it until
now.

“I’d like to bump into her myself,” Lord Andrew added hopefully.

Oh, you poor sod
. It took everything in Eleanor not to throw off the curtain and tell him he’d never
carry off the brute male act and to stop trying.

The earl responded to his unexpected smoking companion’s attempt at bonding with a
beat of stony silence, then said, “Let’s discuss a more banal topic—marriage.” Eleanor
seethed. Of course, Tumbridge would think marriage banal. He lived for trifling pursuits.
“Are you to offer for Lady Eleanor? Rumor has it you might.”

She could barely restrain a yelp of outrage.

There was another pause.

“I think so,” Lord Andrew replied without a lot of conviction.

Hot, red humiliation filled Eleanor from head to toe.

“She’s a lovely girl,” he went on, “and she’ll make an excellent mother.”

“Admirable qualities in a future wife,” murmured Lord Tumbridge.

“Indeed,” replied Lord Andrew.

Eleanor decided in that moment that lukewarm was a most unpleasant temperature—in
soup
and
in compliments.

“Of course,” Lord Andrew went on, “her stepfather is anxious to get her off his hands—now
that he’s got his own daughter well situated. Lady Clare’s welfare was his priority,
as it should be.”

That addendum to his reasoning made Eleanor feel even more…beloved.

The smoking, apparently, went on unabated. And suddenly, she had the horrible feeling
she was about to sneeze.

“I would’ve offered for her stepsister myself,” Lord Andrew said into the silence.
“Her dowry’s bigger. And so is her bosom. But I was too late.”

Men,
thought Eleanor, and closed her eyes tight. The urge to sneeze left her. All that
was left in its place was weary disappointment.

She heard someone stand.

“Yes, it’s much too late to offer for the stepsister.” It was the earl, and he was
moving now, toward the door. “But I believe you’ve made the better choice.”

Something in Eleanor brightened at that.

“Oh?” Andrew rose, as well, his shoes squeaking across the floor.

He was the squeaking sort.

“Yes, I think so,” said the earl, opening the door. “Although I somehow doubt she’ll
have you.”

She felt a reluctant gratitude.

The squeaking paused. “Why do you say that?”

“Just a hunch. If you want her, you’d best step up your efforts. Perhaps a stolen
kiss wouldn’t be untoward. Or romantic words. Quote from Shelley. Or even Shakespeare.
One of his tragedies, so she recognizes your sensitivity.”

Eleanor’s hands slowly curled into fists.

“Right.” Andrew sounded unsure. “Thanks for the advice.”

“You’re welcome,” Lord Tumbridge said in a pleasant enough voice.

Damn him,
thought Eleanor, and sucked in a shaky breath as best she could in the stifling curtain.
She never in a million years thought she’d want to damn the man with the secret tattoo.
Never
. She’d wanted only to be in the same room with him. To thank him. To admire him.
To bask in his bravery.

She spit a piece of velvety fuzz from her mouth. Yet here she was, wishing the man
of her dreams to perdition.

<#>

James Dawbry, Earl of Tumbridge, shut the door behind the idiot Lord Andrew and quickly
pivoted on his foot to face the curtains.

As expected, Lady Eleanor came flying out from behind them, her eyes flashing. She
strode straight up to him and put her hands on her hips. “I hate you, Lord Tumbridge,”
she said low. “But you already know that.”

“You’d hate Lord Andrew more if you ever had to marry him. I’ve saved you years of
misery.” The Brotherhood had had nothing to do with his helping to sabotage this particular
romance. That had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on his part. “Perhaps you should
consider thanking me.”

“Why,” she begged to know, “do you keep interfering in my life? What have I ever done
to you?”

“Do you mind if I—?” He pointed to the jacket he’d cast off and thrown over a chair
in the middle of his seduction of Lady Clare.

“Your hair needs arranging as well.” Her tone was disapproving yet also distracted.
She held her hands so tightly together, her knuckles were white. And her eyes—big
and brown—were clearly troubled.

He kept his eye on her as he tucked his shirt in properly and donned the jacket, glad
to see he’d made her blush despite the defiant glare she cast him.

“There’s a pattern here,” she said. “You—sabotaging my marital opportunities. As of
this evening, not once but twice. And now you’re after ruining Clare’s.” She looked
around as if wishing for a frying pan with which to knock him over the head. Alas,
there were none, so she merely skewered him with a damning look. “Not to mention you
ruined my prospect for employment in Yorkshire.”

Oh, yes. He had done. She’d never be the governess to a passel of brats on the dales
now, nor the latest sexual conquest of their lecherous father.

“I’ve nothing against you, Lady Eleanor.”
Quite the opposite, in fact
.

“I don’t believe you.” If her glare were a fire, he’d be nothing but ashes by now.
“I’m going to find out why you’re doing this,” she said with all the passion of a
wronged Athena, “with or without your cooperation.”

She was shrewd, bold, and persistent. But what did he expect from the daughter of
the founder of the Brotherhood?

“This isn’t the time,” he said coolly. “Go back to the ballroom.”

He saw her pause, but then she drew herself up. “Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay
with
you
.”

He girded himself to ignore the heat flooding his veins. “Not advisable, my lady.”

“Why? Are you afraid you might be brought up to scratch?”

He admired her bravado. “Not a bit.” He moved lazily toward her. “Two can play that
game.”

His admiration went up a notch when he lifted her chin and she didn’t flinch.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered, her voice a balm to his soul. “It’s really
not fair.”

He wished he could. He wished he could confide everything in her. But that wasn’t
possible. When he dropped his hand, it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

“What’s going on,” he said in his practiced, jaded way, “is that you and I must part
immediately. Good night.”

He ignored the anger emanating from her in waves and held open the door.

Yet still she wavered.

“The longer you stay, the more likely we’ll be discovered,” he reminded her. “And
you know what that would mean.”

“Oh, all right.” Despite her best efforts to intimidate him with her threatening tone,
she let out a gusty sigh he found endearing. “You win tonight. But rest assured, I’m
not going to sit back anymore and see you continue to play with me—and now Clare—the
way a cat plays with a mouse.”

She breezed by him, the scent of gardenias tantalizing his nostrils.

“Lady Eleanor?”

She refused to look back at him, but she did pause.

“I suggest you say nothing to anyone concerning my identity as your masked savior
turned arch nemesis,” he said quietly.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Her tone was deceptively light.

“Because your life might depend upon keeping my identity that long-ago day a secret.”

Slowly, she turned to face him. “What?” she whispered.

He looked deep into her eyes. “Things aren’t always what they seem. Remember that.”

And then he shut the door in her face before she could say anything back.

<#>

Heroes didn’t exist.

At least, heroes in Eleanor’s own life didn’t, other than her late father, a quiet
genius with a big heart.

And now her life was in danger.

How long had it been so?

The next morning, she felt raw, frightened, and angry. At their ten thirty breakfast,
Clare was hostile. Nothing new, really. But she eyed Eleanor over her cup with a trace
of fear in her eyes, too.

Clare was never so confident as she put on. In fact, when they were robbed, she’d
been shaking all over, her hand clamped around Eleanor’s arm—at least until Eleanor
jumped out of the carriage.

What did Clare remember about the man on horseback who’d ridden up to save them?

“Tell me your plans this morning,” Eleanor’s mother, Lady Pritchard, said in expansive
tones, looking at each of them in turn as if she were a charming queen and they were
her devoted court.

She and Papa had been complete opposites. Eleanor often wondered how they’d come together.

Eleanor’s stepfather, Lord Pritchard, was much more like Mother: vibrant, good-looking,
sure of himself, politically astute.

“You know very well, dear, that I’m off to save the world.” His smile was smug, as
was the one Mother returned. “I’ve a grand speech to present today in Parliament.”

“Well, then,” said Mother archly. Eleanor knew she fancied herself bewitching.

“Parliament is in for a treat.” She swiveled her slender neck to look at Clare and
Eleanor. “Girls? Shall you be receiving this morning?”

Clare pushed her eggs about her plate. “No. I’m off to Pantheon Bazaar with Elsa.”

Elsa was her best friend, another diamond of the first water a tad less attractive
than Clare and not nearly so bright. Eleanor’s stepsister wouldn’t befriend any young
ladies she considered true visual competition, and if it meant she had to endure stupidity,
she would.

“I’m to pay a call on the Sherwood household,” Eleanor said.

Mother drew in her youthful chin. “And why, pray tell?”

Eleanor shrugged. “I haven’t had a good long chat with any of them in a very long
time.”

Her stepfather put down his cup of tea. “The Marquess of Brady is not a man of whom
I’m terribly fond.”

“Why is that?” asked Eleanor carefully. She wasn’t fond herself of conversing with
her stepfather, whom she always addressed as if they weren’t related at all.

Mother and her husband exchanged silent glances.

“He’s rather dull,” said Lord Pritchard.

“Dull?”
Eleanor couldn’t help exclaiming. “He’s one of the most entertaining gentlemen I
know.”

“It depends on your definition of
entertaining
.” Mother’s brow puckered as if they were discussing someone’s unfortunate illness.

“Yes, if you call the Irish penchant for exaggeration a gift,” said Lord Pritchard
with a half-pitying smile.

“Are you suggesting he makes things up?” asked Eleanor between them.

“He does, my dear.” Mother gave a great sigh.

“Well, of course, he does,” Eleanor replied. “He’s known as a supreme joke teller.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Pritchard on a yawn. “How many more anecdotes about Irishmen,
attorneys, and priests meeting Saint Peter at the gates of Heaven must we endure?”

Eleanor pushed away from the table. Mother and Lord Pritchard were entirely jealous.
That was the problem. They grasped at straws—and in illogical fashion—whenever someone
threatened to cast them in shadow.

Clare was in good company, sadly.

Feeling alone, as she often did after interacting with her family, Eleanor climbed
the stairs to her bedchamber to prepare for her visit to the Brady mansion. But dogging
her steps was a sense of threat, thanks to the Earl of Tumbridge.

So her life depended upon her keeping his identity a secret?

Fine. She wouldn’t tell anyone that she knew who the tattooed man was. But she was
intent on going over everything else about that day, and she wouldn’t allow the earl
to intimidate her into not reexamining it.

She was going to find out what he was about, once and for all, and perhaps then, he’d
leave her alone.

On her way back downstairs, she passed Clare coming up. They both stopped on the same
step.

“Remember what I said last night,” Clare hissed. “You and the baron. I’ve loads of
stories.”

Eleanor gripped the stair banister. “Do you remember that day we were stopped by highway
robbers?”

“What does that have to do anything?” Clare’s delicate brows lowered over her nose.

“Don’t you care that I can destroy your reputation in an instant?”

“What do you remember about that day?”

Her stepsister huffed. “Really?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Why do you want to talk about it?” Clare pursed her lips in another wondrous pout.
“It happened so long ago, and it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Because occasionally I’ve dreams about it,” said Eleanor. “I did again, last night.”

Which was true, although last night Lord Tumbridge had replaced her usual vision of
the masked man. “I suppose I want to get it out of my mind, once and for all.”

Also true. She especially wanted to purge her mind of dreams of the earl kissing her
madly—he with no shirt on; she, caressing his tattoo, which had been inked at a tempting
spot on his right shoulder. In the dream, her fingers curled around that shoulder
to pull him closer.

“Very well.” Clare surrendered with a graceful sigh. “I was excited to go on an impromptu
visit to London with the Sherwoods, if only to escape the air of gloom at my house.
Your mother stayed behind with my father, both of them mourning the loss of your father.”

“Yes.” Eleanor still felt a tinge of bitterness. “They made me go with you and the
Sherwoods, even though it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do. I wanted to
stay with Mother.”