Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “Only so Lady Jersey can be first to tell tales,” Bella grumbled in a higher-pitched voice than she had meant, as she smoothed down the awful dress. Charlotte poked her fan at Bella’s hand. “Stop it. You have to face the gossips sometime.”

  Charlotte and Bella both curtsied to the much older ladies, and Charlotte made the introductions: “Lady Yarley, Lady Lannadae, might I present my cousin, Lady Holsworthy?”

  Both ladies sniffed, as though they hadn’t come over specifically to speak to her. Lady Yarley’s mouth puckered like she was sucking soured food from her teeth, and Lady Lannadae’s eyes snapped as viciously as a hungry crocodile. They stood straighter than Bella’s hair, elbows tucked into their sides, hands grasped tightly across their old-fashioned waistlines, identical but for color—one lady in mauve with grey trim and the other grey trimmed in mauve—both restraining themselves to the last vestiges of pretended courtesy.

  Bella knew the role she had to play, no matter how unpleasant it might be. Her husband had always depended on her gracious behavior and deference toward anyone with whom he might do business, most especially men’s wives. It was very nearly second nature, even in London, so she pasted on a simpering smile.

  “Ladies, I am so pleased to meet you. It has been far too long since I have spoken to civilized people in the English tongue. Lady Lannadae, I must say the lace on your gown is lovelier than any I have seen, even in Brussels. I hope you might tell me where you found it.”

  Without so much as a how-do-you-do, Lady Yarley ripped into her subject as a wild dog into a cornered coney. “I’ve heard you and Lord Holsworthy have been in the most disreputable places—the Dark Continent, the Spanish New World—”

  Lady Lannadae broke in, “The penal colonies!”

  Eyeing her cohort coldly, Lady Yarley continued, “I cannot imagine any well-bred young lady surviving such a voyage.”

  Both of the women’s eyes narrowed to exactly the same slits.

  Bella’s mouth twisted into a patently false depiction of continued civility. “The blizzards of Siberia, the monsoons of the Orient, the tropics of South America…” As the ladies leaned in, intolerance dripping from their rabid fangs, Bella abruptly decided to provide them fresh meat.

  In a clear, uplifted voice, infused with the ice of a Russian winter, she continued: “Some places, one can hardly stand to wear any clothing at all. I have seen more natives au naturel than you might imagine exist on the planet.”

  Lady Lannadae sucked in a breath, nearly swooning.

  Charlotte’s voice took on a shrill tone as she laughed too loudly, “My cousin is such a goose. Of course, she is joking.” Jabbing the fan into Bella’s side, she whispered, “Au naturel… My heavens, Bella.”

  Lady Yarley spoke to fill her companion’s shocked silence. “No lady of my acquaintance would stand for such immodesty.”

  “Given the choice of standing for it or being cut up and made into British-subject soup,” Bella returned, “I learned to cope with the indiscretions of people who know no better. I like to think I was a civilizing influence.”

  Suddenly feeling her age and experience, Bella determined to hide neither.

  “Of course, we haven’t been without the trappings of civilization entirely. We’ve just spent the last half-year as guests of King Louis in Paris, though lavish apartments in the Tuileries Palace were not our standard fare. Most often it was riding astride on camels and bathing in river water under tents. When we had tents, of course. And the food! Rancid meat, offal, reptiles, insects; the retching alone might have killed me. And obviously, only by the grace of God have I made it back without being raped to death by hordes of barbarians.”

  Judging by the matching pinched looks of horror on their faces, if Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley hadn’t leaned against each other, they both might have fainted dead away on the Aubusson carpet. Charlotte fumbled in her reticule, presumably for smelling salts.

  “It has been so lovely to meet you, ladies,” Bella said crisply. “You must feel free to call. I will be receiving Monday and Thursday afternoons.” Turning away from them, Bella once more sought her husband through the crowds in which she would soon be a social pariah. In that moment, she didn’t give a whit, but was canny enough to know she would later.

  Before the ladies could respond, even before Charlotte could voice the horror crossing her face, a man stepped up to introduce himself, ignoring the need to be presented, his lips turned up at Bella’s pointed depictions.

  “Bonsoir, ladies,” he nodded briefly, but didn’t bow, to each of them. All of the women curtsied, though Charlotte’s face fell still and silent.

  “I had hoped to gain an introduction to the celebrated Baroness Holsworthy.” He bowed deeply and kissed Bella’s hand before she offered. “I have heard you are the most fascinating creature to grace our shores in a century.”

  Charlotte grimaced as she made the presentation: “Lady Holsworthy, may I present Adolphe Fouret, Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne?”

  His dark hair was cut short, slicked back with pomade from a widow’s peak, highlighting eyes and brows black as coal and deep as a quarry. High cheekbones and a hawk-like Gallic nose spoke of an aristocratic bloodline, and flawlessly tailored evening clothes showed a likely fortune to perfection, every inch in black but for his pave-diamond fleur-de-lys cravat pin, emblematic of the French monarchy. A lifetime of haughtiness preceded him, thicker than the scent of bergamot wafting from his hair.

  “Enchantée, Monseigneur,” Bella said in his native language. “Are you enjoying the party?”

  “But of course, you speak French,” he observed in English, “and with a perfect accent.”

  “Mais oui. How could I entertain in Paris otherwise?”

  Lord Malbourne chuckled and his smile slid like a fingertip up her arm. He continued the exchange in French, excluding the other women by posture, if not conversation.

  “I hope you will indulge me one day soon with your impressions of Paris. It has been more than thirty years since I last stood on French soil, almost too young to be called a man.”

  Bella considered his probable age and took in his still youthful appearance: hair only slightly silvered at the temples, face barely lined, spine straight and unyielding. His frame was still powerful and athletic, more like a man twenty years younger. More like a man who might attract a woman her age.

  Lady Yarley and Lady Lannadae watched closely, one with eyes on her, the other staring at the duke, switching with every utterance. Realizing she had been considering his body much longer than she should, Bella shook her head and cleared her throat to return to the present moment.

  “I would be pleased to engage in such discourse, Your Grace, but I am afraid you will find my impressions weigh heavily toward le Jardin des Tuileries and le Musée du Louvre, not intrigues at Court.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, shoulders held straighter once he noticed she was looking. “But I have heard from across the water that you are a most original hostess and patroness of the arts. Your small suppers and soirées musicales are very nearly legend. I will look forward to dancing with you this evening, if you will permit.” His lips twitched. “Perhaps you will share some tales of your travels. I have heard they are très amusants.”

  “You will have to ask my husband, Your Grace, for I shan’t dance at all without his accord.”

  It was her customary answer in any unfamiliar ballroom, until she could discern the undercurrents of the event, and until Myron advised on any men whom she needed to impress with her flawless dancing and charming gentility. Once finished with that chore, she could retire to a seat along the wall.

  Lady Yarley snapped, “It is a wonder your husband—”

  “I certainly understand,” Lord Malbourne agreed, dismissing Lady Yarley with his eyes. “Although I shall be bereft should he refuse. If you will forgive, I have other business to attend, but will search you out as soon as I might speak to Lord Holsworthy.” Bella felt her color rise as he bent over her
hand again; she dared not look at the elderly women who were sure to pass on this even-better gossip. “Until then, ma chère.”

  Hot, restless unease travelled down her neck; her cheeks flamed when she felt it spread to the low décolletage of the loathsome dress, and then watched Malbourne’s eyes follow. His lips turned up in a barely perceptible leer—a subtle, momentary expression of raw desire and innate carnal authority somehow even more French than his conversation.

  His nod both acknowledged and dismissed everyone in the vicinity but Bella, from whom he would not look away. Dropping her gaze to the floor, her eyes swept the corners of the room, searching an escape from his scrutiny. Finally, he snapped his heels together and backed into the crowd.

  Before she could take up the conversation again, Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley excused themselves, presumably to tell everyone in London that the Duke of Malbourne had just called her ‘dear.’

  “Bella!” Charlotte snapped. “That was awful! You can’t just talk about naked barbarians at Almack’s.”

  “I’ll speak of anything I like to such horrible old cats. They are lucky I didn’t come here tonight in trousers with a dagger and pistol in my belt.” Bella said, tossing her head, feeling more ringlets fall out of their pins. “They had no liking for me fifteen years ago, nor I them.” Her voice revealed a bit more bravado than good for her. “Myron is still a parvenu, and I am the daughter of a disgraced baronet. We wouldn’t even have Strangers’ Tickets if not for you.”

  “Myron has the king’s confidence, Countess Peagoose, and you have Myron’s. As long as you both stay in Prinny’s favor, you can dine out among the social set forever.”

  “To my infinite dismay.”

  Bella had never aspired to be part of the social whirl. Her childhood had been spent entirely on Charlotte’s father’s estate in Somerset. Charlotte, the viscount’s daughter, resided in the sixty-room manor house. Bella lived with her destitute father and brothers in a run-down cottage on the outskirts of her uncle’s land: three rooms above, three below.

  With no dowry to speak of, no firm foothold in the landed gentry, and no semblance of a pretty face, it was only by the sponsorship of her cousin and aunt that she had any prospects at all. If not for them, Bella would have been married to a country squire or a vicar with low expectations—or more likely, never married at all. She couldn’t imagine what machinations must have been required to gain her admittance to these exclusive assembly rooms.

  “I have no wish to be a countess, and it is much simpler to act the baroness while wearing one’s own clothes.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Charlotte said. “It is not my fault you were robbed. I cannot imagine why you stayed at the Blue Bear. Everyone knows—”

  “I am now well aware what everyone knows.”

  Bella wished she and her husband had never stopped at the horrible roadside inn. They had woken to find a sneak thief had stolen the night’s receipts from the innkeeper and money and valuables from every traveler, including the Holsworthy’s luggage and their coach from the stables.

  The theft had been a real blow. They had lost her only child’s christening gown, a gift from Charlotte that had never been used; Myron’s war medals from the rebellion in the American colonies; the miniatures that were the only remembrances she had of her family; and the elegant Parisian gown she had intended to wear to her first party in London.

  Still, she could only find fault with Charlotte for forcing her to be here, not for her own unreasonable fear. She wished she had stayed at home, curled up with a novel in the library.

  “We could have waited to attend a party. We haven’t settled into the house yet, and the trip wearied my husband more than he will admit. I must be concerned for his health.”

  “Nonsense. Myron is as spry as ever.”

  Bella’s lips compressed into a thin line; Charlotte’s constant references to the thirty-two-year age difference had started even before she married him, and only Bella knew how dangerously ill Myron had been on the trip back to England. Even Myron pretended he had no notion.

  “You have been here more than a week without attending any parties,” Charlotte nagged, “and you would never present yourself anywhere unless forced to it.”

  “I have become quite adept at parties, and in any case, common courtesy would have forced the issue soon enough. It is simply easier to feel elegant and refined in the company of people with every reason to be kind to a man and his wife on His Majesty’s business. Myron has more influence in Ceylon or Barbados or Sierra Leone than in London, and no one likes a bookish girl in England.” Bella bit her lip. “I know my place, Charlotte. I just would have preferred to face the ordeal in the dress I had made for the occasion.”

  “You look quite handsome,” Charlotte argued. “Your hair is straight as a plumb line, but the color is brilliant as ever, not even a trace of grey.” Charlotte smoothed it in the front. “And you have finally grown into your face.”

  Bella’s nerves fled with a cynical laugh and an impudent curtsey. “I am ever so grateful for the backhanded compliments, Your Ladyship.” A habitual, playful disparagement raked over her cousin. “I can be as handsome as I want since I caught and kept a husband, and I am offended you discount my scintillating conversation after I have worked so hard at it all this time. The Governor-General of British India finds me fascinating.”

  “And no doubt the commandant of the penal colonies.”

  “The title you are looking for is Governor of New South Wales, and yes, Governor Macquarie and Myron have been acquainted for many years, beginning in India, and his wife, Elizabeth, and I were quite bosom friends both times we were in the Antipodes. She is the one whose care of the natives—”

  She broke off when Charlotte held her hand out. “I beg you not continue about natives.”

  To distract Charlotte from further comment, and put an end to any argument, she inclined her head toward Malbourne, murmuring, “He is very handsome.”

  Across the room, he was under siege by a young lady on the shelf at two-and-twenty, scandalously dressed in near-translucent silver muslin, whom, it seemed, had been pushed into the inappropriate pursuit by an ever-vigilant mother trying to find a way to compromise her daughter.

  Charlotte spoke even more quietly than her cousin. “Leave off any interest in Lord Malbourne. He’s French, as though you need to know any more. You must not let him flirt so.”

  “Keeping a Frenchman from flirting is like keeping a snake from a mongoose.” At Charlotte’s raised eyebrow, Bella explained with a half-smile, “The mongoose might win, but most likely, the snake will slither away to try again.”

  “Why is he here?” Bella asked when Charlotte stopped giggling. “I know the war is over, but I confess I thought London hostesses would be fighting yet. And why ‘Lord?’ Is he not a duke?”

  “He is a French duke,” Charlotte said, as though it were explanation for any rudeness she cared to inflict, “though he has been in England most of his life,” Charlotte started, clearly enthralled by the prospect of passing on delicious tittle-tattle. “You may have met him when—”

  Bella shook her head.

  “Well, you were only in London a few weeks. His late wife inherited land near Dover, and he took possession just before the Revolution. I heard he left her to die by guillotine, but Alexander says she was taken in childbed.”

  “Does Alexander know everything about everyone?”

  “Yes. Now, hush, or I won’t pass on what he’s told me.” Bella closed her mouth before Charlotte made good her threat. “He entertained King Louis at his manor house during the exile, and it’s said he loaned King George half a million pounds toward the war debt, but that is probably a lie. Everyone knows he lost all his money when he ran from the rabble in Paris. Now that the Little Corporal has been deposed, Monsieur le Duc is making the rounds of London again, pretending to be better than he is. They say he is looking for a wife, but he won’t pay attention to any one girl.”

&
nbsp; “Why did a pedigreed émigré not return to France when—”

  Before Bella could complete her question, their husbands joined them at last. Alexander Marloughe, Marquess of Firthley, moderated his lengthy stride to match Bella’s spouse, who tottered on a cane, supporting a gouty leg and declining state of frailty, both of which had precipitated their return to England.

  When Alexander held out his arm to provide a steadying hand, the elderly man stumbled slightly to the side to avoid it. Myron Clewes, Baron Holsworthy, could be a stubborn man when he so chose. Stepping to his side, Bella slipped her arm through her husband’s, in order that he might lean on her surreptitiously, an inconspicuous position both comfortable and well established.

  After many years of salt winds and tropical suns, they were both unfashionably tanned. For her part, Bella welcomed it, for it helped to hide the lines she was starting to see in her mirror, although one more mark against her in polite society. On Myron, the lines were years past hiding, as was his thinning shock of white hair, twice as bright just by proximity to his darkened face.

  “My dear, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Myron said, grasping Bella’s arm more tightly than usual. “Was that Malbourne I saw?”

  “Yes.” Bella was taken aback. “You know him?”

  Myron’s lips were suddenly thinner, his face almost ashen. “I know of him, and will not allow his attentions toward my wife.”

  “Of course, husband,” she said, bowing her head to the chastisement, letting any irritation drift into the crosscurrents of rumor and innuendo. Myron would entertain her thoughts, opinions, observations, questions, or arguments on any topic she chose—at home. In public, she always agreed with him.

  “He’s right, Bella,” Alexander said. “Slippery man, that. Not good ton.”

  “‘Good ton,’” Bella pronounced, “is a contradiction in terms.”

  Alexander didn’t disagree, only turned to his wife, saying, “I wish you wouldn’t force me to Almack’s, Charlotte. Knee breeches are as bad as a ball gown.” He shifted in his clothes, pulling at his cravat until it was drawn askew. With his hair tied and powdered in the manner of several older, more influential members of Parliament, and attired in formal black breeches, clocked cream stockings and a coat of black superfine, he appeared closer to Myron’s age, a quarter-century beyond his one-and-forty. He had not yet matured, however, into the same sense of quiet dignity.