Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “But for the circumstances of my elevation and position in trade.”

  “But for those,” Uncle Howard admitted, “But neither is a reputation for less-than-gentlemanly conduct. There is no rumor of that.”

  “That is gratifying.”

  Charlotte hissed from around the corner, so Bella scurried into a niche in the wall until the footman had entered the study with a rolling glass cart, trimmed in gold filigree and holding a silver service of no less than ten pieces. Even from her position twenty steps away, Bella could hear the clinking of china and muted echo of male voices making themselves comfortable, as the footman had left the door ajar. After Uncle Howard dismissed him, though, the far-too-conscientious servant shut the door tightly on the way out. Once he had cleared the hall, Bella crept back to the door, this time leaning down to place her ear to the keyhole.

  “I see there is truth to the rumor you do not imbibe.”

  “Every sinner chooses his own virtues and vices. I am a moderate man of sober personal habits, endeavoring to live simply by the laws of God and Man.”

  “Please forgive, but both religious fervor and abstinence seem out of character for a sailor.”

  Lord Holsworthy’s voice bristled, as though he were tired of making the same argument, though had said not a word on the subject before now.

  “Contrary to popular opinion, all sailors are not cut from the same cloth. I can assure you my youth was properly misspent in my early years at sea, but I was fortunate to find the grace of our Lord and Savior, and learn to live by His precepts, as a relatively young man.”

  “Which brings me to the point of greatest concern. You are very nearly a pirate.”

  “Pirate? I think not, Sir, and I beg you not defame me so again. I formerly captained a privateer, for which I was richly rewarded by the Crown. I am now owner of forty-two ships, and soon to represent England’s interests abroad. And I hold myself to a high moral standard in any company.”

  “Yes.” Her uncle’s tone was noncommittal. “That is the rumor. There will be how many other men on this ship?”

  “Approximately one hundred.”

  “Do they all hold themselves to a high moral standard?”

  Bella could almost see Uncle Howard’s raised brow, but Lord Holsworthy did not sound cowed.

  “Half I have travelled with for many years and trust implicitly. None will treat a wife of mine with anything less than the utmost respect, and assuredly, the same can be said of the fifty men the Prince of Wales will contribute to the enterprise, all subject to the discipline of the Royal Navy. Many captains’ wives travel on shipboard, and as the family and ambassadorial quarters have not been completed, we can find ways to accommodate a lady.”

  “I am sorry if I don’t place so much trust in men who live for months on end—years, quite possibly—with no female company but for the type one finds near docks.”

  “I understand your fear and do not deny the risk, though less, I think, than you believe, given the type of justice meted out in a small community forced to close proximity. And far less a threat on my ship than many others, as I do not take up sailors and pirates from any port, but rather, maintain a tightly knit crew who will neither steal from me, nor otherwise cause trouble. It is also my hope she will not long be on board, if you take my meaning, Sir. Should a blessed event occur, she will return to the barony or to my parents’ cottage in Saltash. If the Lord is willing, we will not make it far before returning to settle Miss Smithson in England.” After a long pause, Lord Holsworthy asked, “Pray, might I call her Isabella?”

  “Bella,” Uncle Howard said absently. “We all call her Bella.”

  “An apt name, as she is a lovely girl.”

  Bella thrilled at the compliment, as no one outside her family had ever called her lovely before. Of course, he was lying to ingratiate himself with Uncle Howard, but she would enjoy it nonetheless. A few moments later, she sighed at her uncle’s only response to the encomium: “She is so quiet. So bashful. I am afraid such a voyage might scare her to death.”

  Lord Holsworthy chuckled, “Bella is made of sterner stuff than she shows—likely more than she knows. She will be a good mother and an excellent diplomat’s wife, and once she finds her voice and her sea legs, she will be a fine sailor. She will not yet believe it, but she is equal to this.”

  Bella was so intent on the conversation, and so curious about what made Lord Holsworthy believe her equal to a life at sea, that she didn’t hear or see the man sidling up the hallway, until he had the back of her dress in his hand. Choking on sudden terror, she squeaked and tipped onto the balls of her feet to try to control the angle at which she might be tossed against the door jamb.

  Chapter Six

  Myron began to explain his intentions for Miss Smithson’s dowry, but before he could finish his first thought, the study door was thrown open and Lord Effingale jumped to his feet. A man with a passing resemblance to Lady Effingale held Miss Smithson by her collar, so tightly she was mincing forward on her toes to keep from choking. Myron had thought she looked frightened while meeting the Pinnesters, but no mere nobles had claim to terror like this. This was a well-worn fear that fit as tightly as her stays.

  Pushing her inexorably into the room, the man sneered, “You know this one likes to eavesdrop, Effingale. Should set guards before you discuss things that don’t concern her.”

  Myron eyed the man’s grasp on her dress, and the hair falling from Bella’s neat bun. Lord Effingale’s forehead wrinkled and eyes narrowed. “Let her go.” The man shoved her forward so hard she nearly fell to her knees, his smug smile begging to be wiped from his face with the back of a hand.

  Effingale reached out, but Myron made it to Miss Smithson first, offering his arm to steady her and his handkerchief to dry her sudden tears.

  “Bella!” Charlotte dashed into the room with her mother close at hand. “I told Mother he sneaked in, and she said—”

  “Jasper Smithson, I will not have you in my home! You will take yourself—”

  “My daughter, not yours! No call to act like you can just—”

  Uncle Howard raised his voice too loudly to be ignored, stopping all strident voices but his own, before any could gain traction.

  “That is outside of enough! You girls listening at keyholes will stop this day! Isabella and Charlotte, you will go to your rooms with all due haste. And Lady Effingale, I have made myself plain; your attendance is not required nor requested. All of you leave us this instant! If I hear so much as the swish of a skirt on this floor of the house, you will hear the rough side of my temper!”

  From the way all three women looked at him, Myron knew his temper was a ruse they all humored. Thankfully, they did so today.

  Miss Smithson dragged her feet out the door, doing a fair job of maintaining her dignity, but a better job of evading the eye of the man who had started this mess. Once the poor, frightened lamb had cleared the room, Lady Firthley and Lady Effingale both swept out the door with noses turned toward the ceiling to the same degree.

  While the women removed themselves, Effingale reined in his fuming temper, evidenced by his clipped words and a throbbing, blue vein in his temple. “Lord Holsworthy,” he began, “Sir Jasper Smithson, Bella’s father.”

  Myron’s tea cup clattered into the saucer. This surprising introduction posed more questions than it answered; most notably, why her uncle had been negotiating Miss Smithson’s marriage settlement. When asked about her family, Bella had spoken only of the Firthleys and Effingales, all of whom had been present at both meetings with Bella. No one had, at any time, mentioned a father.

  Both men nodded shortly, Sir Jasper with a malicious gleam that would have set Myron’s teeth on edge had he not already been grinding them, trying to keep from tossing the man against a wall for his ill treatment of Miss Smithson. Eyes like this in a sailor denoted personal storms that would wreak havoc on a ship; in gamblers, they indicated men who dealt from the bottom of the deck. He could not im
agine leaving a dog in the care of such a man, to say nothing of a daughter. Myron would rather have no offspring at all than leave a child at the mercy of such a windowless soul.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “At your service, Sir.”

  Effingale’s slight sneer was at odds with the jovial, kindly impression Myron had been left with both times they had met, and the only explanation was the other man in the room, who paid no notice to the tension rising. Still, when Effingale went to the drinks cart, he poured two.

  Sir Jasper took a tumbler of brandy from Effingale, sniffing it loudly and smacking his lips in anticipation before quaffing a sizable swallow. Myron shook his head when the liquor was offered, and Effingale said, “That’s right. I’d forgotten you prefer tea. Shall I call for more hot water?”

  Sir Jasper goggled. “Tea? You prefer tea to brandy? Ain’t you a sailor, man?”

  Myron did not dignify the question, only graciously accepted the additional refreshment. While his host attended to that detail, Myron was given a few moments to size up this new variable. He had not even thought to wear a visible weapon to a meeting with Lord Effingale, but now found himself contemplating the dagger sheathed in his boot.

  Sir Jasper was younger than Myron, if not in visage, at least in swagger and smugness. Though they were nearly the same height, Sir Jasper’s thin face was slightly bonier than his shoulders, leaving Myron with the sure knowledge he could snap Smithson in two like a matchstick, if need be. His hair was worn long and tied in a queue, dragging his forehead back and lengthening his features, the greying locks greasy and dusted with flakes of dried skin. The velvet-trimmed suit the man wore was well tailored, the fabric sturdy, but the nap was begin to shine and, after Myron’s excruciating visit to Pinnester’s tailor, he could tell it was at least a few years out of date.

  Once the hot water had been delivered and talk of the weather exhausted, Sir Jasper’s voice turned as oily as the bridge of his nose when he waved his hand at his brother-in-law. “You need not stay, Effingale. Holsworthy and I can do business without you.”

  “You will not,” Effingale returned in a quiet voice. Were that precise tone directed at him, Myron would already have a knife in his hand. Effingale’s quiet exactitude was more treacherous by half than Sir Jasper’s blustering. “And as always, you may call me Lord Effingale.”

  Sir Jasper just snapped, “My daughter, ain’t she, Effingale?” sloshing a bit of brandy from the tumbler to his thigh and rubbing the stain into his breeches.

  “Lord Effingale,” Myron said, though he had been on an informal basis with the man for almost a sennight, “should you prefer, you may certainly leave me to discuss the matter with Miss Smithson’s father.”

  Their eyes met and Myron acknowledged without words that he knew this man did not have his daughter’s best interest at heart—and that Effingale did. The viscount slowly traversed the carpet, placing the decanter of his good brandy back on the sideboard as he left the room.

  Myron sat forward to pour himself more tea. Sir Jasper seemed to be in no hurry to discuss terms, as he was more focused on gulping as much good brandy as he could. This was to Myron’s advantage, though, for if there was one thing he could do better than anyone he had ever known, it was negotiate a contract. Starting with remaining silent until his opponent blinked.

  Myron sipped his tea slowly, waiting for demands to be made known by the other man; the term gentleman sat more easily on Myron than it did on Smithson, and Myron still didn’t like it on himself at all. Tracking Sir Jasper across the room to the brandy decanter, he watched the level in the glass rise nearly to the top before Miss Smithson’s father replaced the crystal teardrop stopper and pushed the carafe across the wood, likely leaving a scratch.

  On the way back to his seat, Sir Jasper finally spoke. “You want to marry my daughter, do you? My dearest, darling girl?”

  Myron inclined his head. Not only did he want it, but if the alternative were leaving that shy, gentle young lady in the hands of this degenerate, he would do nearly anything to accomplish it, including a trip to the Scottish border. He was more than half-certain Effingale would loan his carriage if it came to that. Still, no use showing his hand when he didn’t yet know if this man knew how to play cards.

  “I heard you want to take her off to sea with you.”

  “Correct.”

  Sir Jasper shook his head slowly, false concern etched into his forehead, clucking his tongue in a small rebuke. “I’m afraid I could never allow such a thing. She is my little girl, you know. Just a gentle babe. Would break my heart to put her in such danger. Her mother, God rest her soul, would strike me dead if anything should happen to that sweet girl.”

  The questioning look over the rim of Sir Jasper’s glass tried to determine if Myron was buying the line of fustian being slung about the room. Myron schooled his eyes to provide no answer and waited to see how long it would take for Sir Jasper to admit what he wanted. Almost certainly money. He sipped his tea, remaining still and silent.

  “‘Course, no other man has come around to ask my blessing.” Sir Jasper guzzled the second half of his drink and set the glass down on the tea table. “Wouldn’t like to see her on the shelf when she would make some man a good wife. Not much to look at, you can see with your own eyes, but keeps the house spotless and cooks like a dream, and all cats are grey in the dark, if you take my meaning.”

  Myron’s jaw tightened, and Sir Jasper must have noticed, as he hastened to change the subject.

  “My sister, Lord love her…” Sir Jasper’s hand gestured involuntarily at the door through which his sister had departed, “taught Bella everything there is to know about running an estate. Bella oversees their manor in Evercreech—and a sizable house it is—whenever they go to London.”

  When Myron still didn’t respond to the looks from the corner of Sir Jasper’s eye, the brandy bottle proved more tempting, though one more glass like the last and Myron was certain the man would fall face-first to the floor. Not the worst result, if he wished to do his business with the more respectable—more fatherly—Lord Effingale.

  “Been taking care of Effingale’s sons their whole lives, too. She’s good with children, and her mother was a good breeder—three brats in four years. Nothing to suggest she won’t take after Arabella. That’s what I heard at Barstow’s, that you are looking for a woman to give you a son.”

  Sir Jasper waited for him to reply, but there was no reason to confirm or deny any rumor that might be making the rounds of the mid-range gaming clubs. It was enough to know his personal concerns were being bandied about town. The baronet cleared his throat, tugged at his waistcoat, and shifted his eyes toward the corner of the room. Miss Smithson’s father was now, finally, on the verge of making his central point.

  “She don’t come with a dowry, you understand.”

  Of course.

  “I had been given to understand she came with five thousand guineas.”

  “Well, yes, but at the expense of my brother by marriage, and I hate to be beholden to him for the upkeep of my family.”

  Myron sipped his tea. "So you would deny her the dowry? Even if I were to say it is the only reason I have any interest in your daughter?"

  Shrewdly, Sir Jasper said, “Not the only reason though, is it? Turned down flat by every other marriageable lady in Bath.”

  “I can say with some assurance, Sir, that women can be had, a penny a peck, in every corner of the globe. If I wish a bride, one can be found in many other locales than Bath, not least London, where I repair tomorrow. To meet with the Prince of Wales and accept an in absentia appointment to the Privy Council.”

  Surely, if ever there were a reason to draw attention to his political connections, it was to cow a wretched worm of a man who would act with such dishonor toward his own daughter.

  “Yes, I had heard that.”

  Sir Jasper’s face recalled a wolf sighting a wounded deer, but Myron was not at all vulnerable. Ev
en more to Myron’s favor, Sir Jasper was the type of gambler who didn’t recognize his own exposure until he lost everything.

  “You see, as I say, don’t wish to take a hand-out from Effingale, but I’ve not had such good luck with my investments the past few years. Can’t provide for my darling child the way I’d like. They say, though, that won’t prove a problem for you, with the Crown’s purse behind you. They say the Prince of Wales himself is backing your firm. And most of the ton.”

  Myron merely shrugged one shoulder and leaned forward to pour more tea.

  “I might be interested in buying into your firm. In a small way, you understand.”

  “Seventh Sea sells shares.”

  “‘Course. Though, I wondered…” He coughed slightly. “If there is a preferential rate you might extend to family."”

  The man was ambitious. Now dangling the right bait, he said, “The only family I have who own stock are my parents, and I gave them theirs outright.”

  “Is that right?” Sir Jasper’s hand and right eye twitched in unison. “Are they living?”

  Myron resolved to set guards on his parents before another day had passed. “They are, though given my life, I never know if it will be the last time I am able to visit with them. They own a small farm in Cornwall.”

  Brandy sloshed over the side of Sir Jasper’s glass at a bob of his knee. “Own it outright, I expect?”

  “That’s right.”

  With no warning, Sir Jasper changed the direction of his mendacities. He had gathered all the information he thought he needed to justify whatever decision he had made.

  “They say you’ve no mistress, nor frequent the bawdy houses or the taverns. You’re a sailor,” he repeated again with the same dumbfounded look as before. “What do you do for quim, man?”