Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (6 page)

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 imagine 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. Even 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?”

Myron couldn’t even form an adequate
response to such a revolting question, but when the man continued,
he wished he had said anything to silence him. “Have a widow hidden
away somewhere, I’ll wager, and if not, you’d best get one and keep
your tallywag in your breeches, for without my blessing and a
vicar, there’ll be no sowing your seed in my daughter’s field. She
might not be pretty, but she’s a good girl, and a baronet’s
daughter. You’ll not treat her like a doxy.”

Myron was willing to bet that if he walked
away, this wouldn’t be the last time this man offered up Miss
Smithson for sale. Myron allowed Sir Jasper to take a deep gulp of
brandy, then said, “Ten thousand pounds sterling. Hard cash.”

Sir Jasper dropped his half-full glass and
nearly spat out his drink, gagging as he swallowed, allowing a bit
to dribble down his chin.

“What?!”

The smell of cognac rising from the carpet
would have been enough to turn Myron’s stomach, if he hadn’t inured
himself to the unwelcome aroma of spirits years ago.

While Miss Smithson’s father took out a
handkerchief that probably hadn’t always been grey, Myron steadied
his gaze and bit his lip to keep from smirking. The man couldn’t
choose whether to affect obsequious gratitude or feigned
distress.