Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Smythe said, “To be fair—”

  Charlotte interrupted to enlighten Nick: “When that was gone, they stole ten thousand pounds from my father and his friends in a land fraud and lost every shilling at the tables.”

  Nick had heard all of the stories, not to mention what Charlotte had told him about how well they had valued his intended bride. When he had thought her father and both brothers dead, leaving him no recourse to avenge her mistreatment, he had chosen to neither consider it nor cause Bella discomfort by requesting further explication. Now that one Smithson male, at least, was yet breathing, he had found a target for his rage.

  Charlotte turned back to her cousin, the buzzing tone back in her throat, and spat, “There is no money for you now, John, nor forgiveness.” All three men leaned back just slightly, but Smythe took a full step away. “You should go before I have you taken to the Fleet.”

  Nick thought this was a fine idea, which he would pursue as soon as this threat to Bella’s safety was removed from the vicinity. If the man argued for even one second, he would be removed from the planet. Nick flanked Smythe, but the career soldier stepped to the side to avoid being caught in a trap.

  “To be fair, my father’s schemes fell just on the right side of legal, and my brother and I were not the ringleaders.”

  “To be fair, you were both adults and older than Bella, and you are the last Smithson left I can have gaoled.”

  “Mr. Smithson,” Firthley started. “It might be best to arrange this at some other—”

  “It is Major, and Smythe, if you please.” The right angles of his shoulders could hardly be more precise. “I assure you, I have no need of my sister’s money and can offer recompense to Viscount Effingale for my father’s—my—crimes. I have done well enough and, I like to think, become an honest man. I merely wish to make certain Bella is in no danger.”

  “My brother will care not a whit for your recompense, and Bella is in more danger from you than any other criminals who might be lurking,” Charlotte snarled. “I am sure any number of the officers outside the door can be counted on to have you removed.” She strode across the room with a sense of purpose exceeding even her command of the household after Bella’s abduction. Nick had never seen a woman more resolute.

  He wanted to follow, if only to ensure enough soldiers appeared to kill the man at once instead of giving him the chance to escape. By moving, though, Nick would leave a path open to the adjoining library, and therefore the rest of the house. He settled for flanking the man again, though Smythe smoothly thwarted the maneuver, leaving himself a clear path only a few steps from the door. Nick found himself turning about like a puppy chasing its tail, so he pulled the gun out of his waistband, holding it pointedly at his side. Smythe glanced at the pistol, but it made no difference to his bearing or countenance.

  “Lady Firthley—Charlotte, if I might presume—”

  “You may not!”

  “Lady Firthley, you will find removing me against my will quite difficult, as I am in command of most of the men keeping watch. Those not with the Royal Guards, at any rate.”

  “What?” She looked at Firthley and Nick as though they had withheld some knowledge, and Nick was suddenly aware they had. She stared back and forth among the three men, searching out answers. Nick assumed Smythe was only waiting for her unspoken questions to reach a fever pitch, and saw no reason the man shouldn’t take the brunt of her ire.

  “I will be happy to explain, Lady Firthley,” he offered, “if you’ll allow it.”

  Firthley said, gruffly, “Please, Major, take a seat and make yourself comfortable,” just as Charlotte snarled, “You may sit, but do not make yourself comfortable.”

  When he moved toward the same sofa as Charlotte, Firthley crowded him away. “There,” he said, pointing out a chair on the other side of the tea table. Firthley sat inappropriately close to his wife, and Nick sat in a chair next to the Major, only a step away, his hand still wrapped tightly around the gun.

  “Explain yourself, Smithson. Or Smythe. Whoever you are,” Nick demanded. “A swindler, no doubt, with a stolen uniform.”

  Smithson raised an eyebrow at Nick. “As you and Lord Firthley are both members of Parliament and intimates of the king, I daresay you may confirm my credentials at your leisure.”

  “You may be sure,” Nick snapped.

  Smythe addressed himself to Charlotte, turning his back on Nick, who immediately determined that in the morning, he would show this man exactly what a mistake it was for a soldier, no matter what rank, to offend the Duke of Wellbridge. Nick’s shoulders stiffened, his chest expanded with his own self-importance. He could hardly remember being so insulted. Smythe, for his part, completely ignored Nick’s nascent fury, fanning the flames of his own destruction.

  “I admit, Lady Firthley, I harbored a great deal of resentment against you and your parents. My father, too, for gambling away what would have been my inheritance, which is why I set aside the title and took the new name. Well, not new anymore, I suppose, as no one outside this room still calls me Smithson.”

  “One cannot set aside a hereditary title, Sir John,” Firthley observed.

  “No, but as the Smithson male line disappeared in 1807, so did the baronetcy unless the king confers it elsewhere. A title was a liability in the areas I was forced to frequent, as was my last name. And with no disrespect intended, I take credit only for honors I have earned myself.”

  Firthley inclined his head. “Very well, then. If His Majesty has not called you to account, nor will I. Please continue.”

  For the first time, Smythe seemed slightly unsure, so Nick placed the gun on his lap, barrel turned toward the interloper, more than happy to encourage insecurity. The movement rather had the opposite effect, however. Smythe just sat back, crossed his legs and smirked, implying by stretching his fists and rolling his shoulders that Nick might need a gun to dispatch him, but all Smythe would need to kill the duke was his bare hands.

  “As you know, my brother and I were left nothing from our father but duns. We were turned off our uncle’s land, though he was generous enough to pay Father’s legitimate debts to keep us out of prison. We hadn’t a shilling between us, but for the value of our grandfather’s cravat pins and fifty pounds Aunt Minerva gave me on the condition we never come back to Somerset. Which we did not.” He nodded to Charlotte, who looked away.

  “Of course, our father’s name was utterly disgraced, lawful creditors angry his death had cheated them of a hanging, and less honorable men—quite the wrong sort—trying to take his gambling debt from his sons’ hides.”

  Charlotte took up Firthley’s glass and walked to the sideboard to refill it, while Nick and her husband both straightened in their seats, watching Smythe carefully to make sure he didn’t move even one inch toward her.

  When Firthley asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something, Major?” Charlotte poured the water back into the decanter and left Firthley’s empty glass on the cart, sauntering back to her seat without so much as a glare toward her husband.

  Smythe’s lips turned up just slightly, as though enjoying an amusing memory.

  “Even Bella’s husband refused to help us,” Smythe continued, his face hardening again into detachment, “then Jeremy was killed, so I did the only thing I could to get out of the stews without a knife in my gut: I took the king’s shilling, signed on as a private. I used the incentive money to pay my gaming debts—though not my father’s—and left London.”

  “You paid your vowels,” Charlotte sniffed. “I suppose that is something.”

  “Quite,” he admitted, “given what I learned at my father’s knee.” He didn’t linger on those lessons, which Nick though was probably wise, given the look on Charlotte’s face. “Had you bought the commission I requested, Lord Firthley, I would have remained the same entitled, resentful little boy I had always been, and likely would have killed hundreds of soldiers out of sheer incompetence.”

  At least he hadn’t manag
ed to take out an entire regiment. In fact, if Nick were feeling generous, he might admit Smythe had risen through the ranks on his own merit, and the British military was anything but a meritocracy. It was rather admirable he had taken responsibility for his disgraceful behavior. However, Nick was not at all feeling generous.

  “Given my position as cannon fodder, I was only worth what I earned—so paid in floggings the first year, until I decided working toward promotions was a better prospect for a man who had been nominally raised a gentleman.”

  “Nominally?” Nick jabbed.

  “Not Eton, I’m afraid, but my uncle did not skimp on our tutors. Jeremy and I were educated with Lady Firthley’s brothers, with an eye toward attending university, although neither of us did. By that time, our father’s resources were such that—”

  “Such that you felt the need to steal for your living,” Charlotte interrupted with a sneer.

  Smythe’s face looked like it had been carved from limestone. “Such that our father felt the need to use both his sons to fleece the aristocracy. Perhaps you are not aware, Lady Firthley, of the threats he used to ensure our compliance, but I am certain Bella can provide you examples.”

  Firthley cleared his throat, placing his hand on Charlotte’s before she could respond. Her face paled and mouth slackened, looking for all the world as though she wanted to beg Smythe’s forgiveness.

  Before she said a word, Firthley offered, “You may call me Firthley, Major. Where did you serve?”

  “Thank you, Firthley. Please call me John.” He nodded to acknowledge the tentative approval, then replied. “In Ireland first, but then recruited for the Guards and spent almost ten years on the Continent in various locales, my last posting at Waterloo. When I returned to England after the war, I was given command of the men now lining your street. My post in London is permanent—as permanent as these things can be.”

  Before Nick could explain how very temporary military postings could become at his request, Charlotte asked, dubiously, “Why haven’t you come before now?” A very good question, which Nick should have asked as soon as the intruder had walked in the door.

  “Have you considered it might take a few weeks to work up an apology for selling my sister into near-certain death?” Charlotte conceded the point with a shrug. “By the time I found the courage for abject contrition, she had been made a countess, and her husband had the confidence of the king. Lord Huntleigh had no reason to allow me contact. I might not be here now if she weren’t in danger with no husband.”

  Nick growled, “She is protected quite well, so you need not feel compelled to stay.”

  Firthley snapped, “Enough, Wellbridge.”

  Nick’s opened and closed his mouth in impotent outrage. After everything he and Firthley had gone through saving Bella, he couldn’t credit the man suddenly taking up against Nick with this… this criminal… this parvenu scum. They had no way to know the man’s intentions, nor what he might do if left to his own devices. If there were the slightest chance Smythe might hurt Bella, physically, emotionally, or financially, Nick would stop him, even if it once again meant murder.

  Nick was sorely tempted to use the gun on Firthley when he added, “You may throw Major Smythe out of your drawing room the next time he is there, Wellbridge, but this is my home, not yours. Keep a civil tongue.”

  Smythe turned a cynical eye toward Nick, but again, spoke to Charlotte. “I have no desire to push in where I’m not wanted, but I need to know Bella is safe—most especially from men with inappropriate intentions and an eye on her money.” Smythe all but growled at Nick, who tightened his hand, finger on the trigger.

  “Civil tongue, Major,” Firthley warned. “The duke has earned his right to be here, while you, as yet, have not.”

  “Of course, Firthley,” Smythe said, his eyes narrowing. “I would never think of offending your guest.” His tone said he might think of nothing else until he accomplished it. “Lady Firthley, might I see Bella for a moment?” He held up his hands. “I have no weapon.”

  Charlotte nodded swiftly, but didn’t speak. Nor did she look him in the eye.

  Firthley stood. “I will be happy to accompany you, and Wellbridge can take up the rear, so long as his purpose is not shooting you in the back on my staircase.”

  “If he presents no threat, I have no intention of shooting him at all.”

  As all three men stood, Firthley commented, “Good. There has been enough pain and scandal in this house to last a lifetime.” As Nick was about to add something scathing, Firthley chided, “Civil tongue, Wellbridge, or out the door you go.”

  Chapter 29

  Bella slowly opened her eyes, blinking to bring the room into uncertain focus. Apart from the same sort of spinning and nausea she experienced after too much champagne, the room was innocuous. Moving only her eyes and fingers, she could tell she was resting on a soft mattress on a curtained, four-poster bed frame. Pomona-green brocade drapes hid any hint of the hour and muffled the quiet songbirds of a back garden. Muted light from beeswax candles glowed atop a secretary desk and an inlaid armoire, leaving the room dim. She let her eyes flutter closed again, but before she could drift off, she was startled by a voice right next to her ear.

  “Bella, darling. You’re awake.” She shied away from an earsplitting whisper. “Oh, thank God, you are awake.” Nick was nearly crying; she could hear it in his tone, but she wasn’t sure why.

  “Have I been sleeping?” She tried to bring her hands up to rub her eyes, but she found herself swaddled like a child. Nick loosened the blankets and took her hand once she had rubbed the sleep from her lashes.

  “Ten days, my love. The worst ten days of my life.”

  She turned her head slowly, trying, with minimal success, to keep the room from whirling like a Sufi dancer. His face went in and out of focus, and he looked older, as though ten years had passed, not days. Perhaps, she thought, it was a trick of the light.

  “You are fuzzy, Your Grace.”

  He held up two fingers to test her sight, but she giggled weakly and touched the scruff of his tenth-day beard.

  “She’s saying you need a shave, old man, and she’s right. You look like a tap-hackled toss pot.”

  Nick used the same two fingers and showed John the back of his hand and Bella, with a frown, turned to take in the second visitor. John just tilted his head and gave Nick a sardonic smile.

  “My brother is here,” Bella mused. “Must be sleeping.” She reached her hand out to touch his face, but grasped at the air a few inches away. She looked back at Nick. “Dreaming, I s’pose.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Or the afterlife.”

  John smiled and took her hand, holding it to his stubbly cheek. “No, sweeting. Not the afterlife and not dreaming. I’m here. Chaperoning this hairy miscreant who claims you’ve decided to marry him.”

  She looked over at Nick, even more confused. “Marry? I’m already married.”

  As soon as Nick’s eyes met John’s, sheer horror filled her mind, clearing up her bleary confusion. “Oh, no. Myron.” She struggled to sit up, but both men pushed her shoulders back.

  “Myron died… is that right? Is he buried?” Her voice rose and speech quickened. Her agitated struggling against their hands shook the entire bed, rattling the frame. “Has my husband been buried and I don’t remember? And where am I? Why am I not in my own bed? Oh, God,” she moaned, searching Nick’s face, but the room began to spin so quickly she thought she would fall, so she grabbed on to the mattress with both hands.

  Nick loosened her fisted hands and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to help her lean up in the bed.

  “Here, my love. Have a sip of water.”

  John pushed two pillows behind her back. With every movement, her head throbbed a bit more. When her hand moved to her temple to ease the aching, she found another surprise. “My hair…” She combed through the close crop, which likely looked like a hedgehog’s quills if she had been in bed so long.

  She drank deeply, then
pushed the glass away with a weak hand. “Someone please tell me what’s happened.” Before they could answer, she again put a hand to her forehead. “My head hurts. And I’m feeling faint. I am never faint.” She dropped her head back onto the pillows, but kept her eyes open and stared at the wall.

  “I remember I was at your house…” She blushed when John arched his brows. “Having… tea… I think I remember a carriage, but no crest. Lord Malbourne was… No, that makes no sense.” She finished faintly, “My head hurts.”

  John spoke up, running his hand over her shorn hair. “That’s enough for now. Wellbridge, why don’t you go find Charlotte? And make the acquaintance of a razor while you are gone.”

  Bella sat up again, hand at her temple, shifting uncomfortably under the blanket. “I need the—” She looked ever so briefly at the chamber pot on the other side of the room. When John reached for a bedpan, as though such things were de rigueur, her cheeks went bright red, and she nearly whimpered to Nick, “Please call for Charlotte or Michelle.”

  John looked grim as Nick reached for the bell pull. “Someone will bring Charlotte in just a moment, sweetheart. Lie back. Stay still.” She followed his instruction, and all three remained silent, waiting for someone to respond to the call.

  When no servant was forthcoming, John tipped his head toward Nick, motioning for the duke to go find one, but Nick stayed firmly in his seat, no intention of leaving for even one moment, kissing the back of Bella’s hand for good measure. She tried to set aside her confusion about the open display of his affections—it was unthinkable to take such chances when she was now in mourning. And in front of her brother! Nick would be lucky not to be called out, if a duke would even deign to meet a baronet on the field of honor.

  Flinching, Bella laid her head back on the pillow again. “You look older, Johnny. A bit like Papa.” Enough like Papa to be a vague threat, but of the three men in her family, John had been the kindest. If one could call any of them kind.

  “You look just like you did when you set sail. Prettiest girl in England.”