Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero (18 page)

“She isn’t
going anywhere without me.” John’s heart climbed out of his stomach
as Joan beamed adoring gratitude.

Peter sighed
loudly as if disappointed, “Are you sure you want to c-come? Your
rump…”

“Never mind my
rump, I’m coming with you.”

“I’m so glad
you’re coming Mr Smirke, you’ll be able to take the waters. They’ll
help you feel better…”

“Bollix. That
muck does nothing, but cause gripe.”

“Mrs Browne,
my father’s old cook, swears by it. She says it can cure stones,
runny noses, even the plague and she should know because she had a
sister…”

“The
c-carriage will be here in about thirty minutes Miss Lark. You
d-don’t have t-time for Mrs Browne’s sister or John’s kisses.”

“Thirty
minutes…I can’t wear this horrid black thing.” Joan picked up a
piece of toast and ran from the room leaving John feeling abandoned
and ill used.

“Thanks for
ruining my day Pests. You’re worse than the dead.” His brothers
slapped each other on the shoulders and walked away laughing.

A gentle rain
pattered against the expansive steaming windows of the Pump Room as
the haut ton in damp wool and wet leather swarmed through the large
room with faith in the healing power of gossip. Wintering regulars
had escaped London and secluded country estates to join Bath’s
social circus. The great and the good sipped warm mineral water
from pewter cups exchanging old scandals in hopes of discovering
new ones to ease the tedium.

At six foot
and five inches, Mr Robert Nielson had to lower an ear towards his
female companion to catch every breathy whisper as his calm smile
masked his lusty thoughts. Her husband was away serving King and
country and the lady was clearly in a mood for company. Robert’s
blood was starting to simmer. He had two whole hours before a
prearranged rendezvous with a young widow. His eyes were focused on
his companion’s beribboned décolletage peeking out from her
unbuttoned pelisse when his mind took in the word Smirke and his
eyes snapped up at the woman’s face. “Did you say Smirke?”

“La Robert, I
thought you always listened to a lady. Isn’t that Mr John Smirke
with the wide eyed child on his arm just inside the doors? He looks
like the devil in that red. He’s sure to clear the room. Perhaps we
should lead the way and continue this conversation somewhere more
intimate?”

“My ears hang
on your every word my Lady.” Robert gracefully raised the offered
hand to his lips. “If you’ll allow me to boldly suggest a possible
destination; I own a house on Quiet Street where I can promise an
effusion of wrapt attention.”

“La Robert, my
curiosity drives me to find some peace and quiet.”

“Tell the
footman your name is Florabella and he’ll let you in. I will follow
the scent of tuberoses after several agonising minutes.” The woman
elegantly curtseyed and floated away with anticipation unaware that
her charms were already half forgotten. Robert Nielson’s calm smile
didn’t waver as his eyes fixed on John Smirke’s sour expression.
The girl on Smirke’s arm looked like a Meissen shepherdess who’d
lost her sheep and was about to lose her virtue. The blonde woman
in lavender striped silk couldn’t possibly be the much maligned
Miss Joan Lark. No sane man would leave such a peach in the care of
a heartless villain. Whoever she was she was in need of being
rescued and there was nothing Robert enjoyed more than saving a
damsel in distress. The fact the damsel usually agreed to rest
afterwards in his bed was almost irrelevant.

Robert eyed
the older Smirke brothers with veiled contempt. James Smirke was
infamously stupid. There was no other logical explanation for his
refusal to believe his younger brother capable of wickedness or his
choice of wife. No intelligent man would have saddled himself with
the penniless Agnes. Robert shuddered with horror at the thought of
bedding his beautiful cousin. She was a diamond; stunning and hard
with a tongue sharp enough to shave a man’s face. The fact she
resembled his mother made the thought that much more revolting. The
eldest Smirke, the stammering Lord Adderbury, stood out for being a
tall, dark, handsome man barely capable of speaking to anyone
outside his immediate family. Robert had never spoken to the eldest
Smirke, but any man who looked on John Smirke with that pleased
fatherly expression couldn’t be a threat.

Robert watched
the laughing child pull the scowling villain towards the water
fountain and then turned away to swagger out of the Pump Room into
the rain. With any luck the week ahead would offer an opportunity
to punch Smirke’s teeth down his throat. Robert took a deep breath
of wet air and contemplated future pleasures.

***

Joan pressed
the full cup of mineral water into John’s hands, “Drink it for me
Mr Smirke…”

“I’d rather
drink a tureen of turnip soup and I hate turnips.”

James put a
friendly arm around his brother’s shoulders, “Your wedding day will
sap your vigour John. Take my advice and have three cups of the
stuff. You’ll need it!”

Peter winked
at James, “He’d d-drink thirty c-cups if he knew how much vigour
one innocent bride c-can sap.”

John’s glare
drew more amused laughter from his brothers. “What is this, a
Smirke conspiracy? I refuse to drown myself so George can inherit
my life.”

“You need to
drink some water Mr Smirke…it’ll make you feel better.”

“Having my
innards twisted with gripe will not make me feel better.”

Joan pursed
her lips in thought, “You own a pair of duelling pistols don’t you
Mr Smirke?”

“Yes of course
and don’t even think to ask me to teach you to load or shoot them.
I’ve eaten my last piece of lead, God willing.”

“Our John is
being outrageously modest. He owns one of the finest pair of
Mortimers in England, but they’re not as valuable as his
Griffens.”

“My Griffens
aren’t duelling pistols. Where are you going? Miss Lark…” She
ignored him, but stopped a few feet away. He sighed with relief
until she spoke.

“Excuse me.
May I have your attention please?” The words bounced off the
opposite walls into the ears of the ton desperate for
entertainment. “My guardian, Mr John Smirke, would like to wager
his duelling pistols that no man here can out drink him at the
King’s pump.” A stunned silence erupted into shouts of delight as a
horde of young men rushed forward.

“What if we
lose?”

“Mr Smirke
walks away with improved health and his Mortimers. Who wishes to
accept the challenge?” The room quickly gathered around the pumps
to get a good view. Some of the young men waved their arms and
others shoved others out of the way to get noticed. Joan eyed the
crowd for someone who looked kind. She felt tingles over her skin
as she met the intense gaze of a man who looked like an elegant
footman. “You in the bottle green coat…no not you, the one in the
old fashioned periwig.”

“King Midas?
He doesn’t need a free pair of pistols.”

“…the devil’s
own luck…he doesn’t need anything but a sense of humour. They say
he tried to buy one, but they were sold out.” The man with long
white hair curled and set like a wig ignored the rude comments and
stepped forward. “You know he’ll win them, the rich bastard always
wins.”

“Comes from
having more money than God…”

Peter looked
down at his pale baby brother, “You should have drunk that
c-cup.”

“Do you have
any more pointless advice?”

“Mentally
locate the c-closest chamber p-pot. You’re going to need it.”

John’s rage at
being made a public laughing stock was replaced by resentment as
the crowd surged around the two opponents while Joan energetically
laid out ten cups of water on each side of the gushing pump
spout.

The white
haired man politely lifted his hat. “Adderbury, James… Smirke.”

“Lovelace.”
The name slithered out from between John’s clenched teeth. “What
could you possibly want with a pair of pistols? I thought shooting
people was against your golden principles?”

“Last I heard,
there is no law against self preservation. Mayhem aside, you appear
to be losing your noxious touch Mr Smirke. Your challenge is rather
insipid compared to your usual wagers. Allow me to rectify the
situation by raising the stakes.” The crowd erupted in curious
speculation, but quickly hushed to hear the details. “Twenty-five
thousand pounds against the girl’s wardship.”

Ignoring
echoes of loud gasps, Peter whispered in his brother’s ear, “Unless
you love the girl, this would be an excellent opportunity to
acquire a small fortune for Charles. He’s so quiet he gets
overlooked by all the old c-curmudgeons with money.” Joan spun
around dumb struck, darting horrified glances between her guardian
in red and his challenger in green.

“No.” John’s
tight little word lit up the crowd with delight. The dishonourable
John Smirke had just made an honourable action of distinct
foolishness. The man could only be in love. The crowd roared with
pleasure and egged the contestants on.

Loveless
pursed his lips as he cast his eyes at the innocent girl in the
clutches of a devil, “Fifty thousand.”

“Miss Lark is
not for sale.” Joan visibly expelled her breath in relief. She’d
never imagined anyone could have so much money, let alone throw it
away on a silly challenge.

“Seventy-five
thousand.” The crowd gasped in shock as wagers were quickly made on
Smirke’s answer as Joan’s lower lip started to tremble. Her
impulsive scheme to get her beloved villain to drink a cup of water
was turning into a nightmare.

Peter bent
over and hissed into his brother’s ear, “Unless you are absolutely
ppositive without a shadow of a d-doubt that you’re in love with
Joan; now would b-be an economically advantageous time to find her
a new guardian. Lovelace is a good man; she’ll be perfectly safe.
He may even marry her himself. Seventy-five thousand p-pounds would
secure the family c-coffers for the century.”

“I don’t care
about the family coffers; sell one of your brats if you’re
desperate for money, Miss Lark is mine.”

Midas Lovelace
glanced at the pretty wide eyed child and back to the sneering
Smirke, “No woman deserves to be chained to you by a legal document
drawn up by a madman; one hundred thousand pounds.”

John’s fury
boiled over as he stamped his umbrella and snarled with impotent
rage as the crowd roared with laughter. His instinctive response to
demand satisfaction was forgotten as a Joan flung herself at him;
the brim of her bonnet bashing against his lips. “Please don’t take
the money Mr Smirke; I’ll be good. I’ll never, never try to make
you drink from the King’s fountain ever again.”

Sucking on his
sore lips John put his right arm around Joan’s middle and held her
close relishing the rare site of Lovelace stunned by jealous
disbelief. “Miss Lark is shortly to achieve her desire to become my
wife. Drink that muck for my pistols or step aside and let someone
else win a belly-ache.” Shouts of approval mingled with gasps of
disbelief as money exchanged hands in the crowd.

“Shall I fetch
you a cup Mr Smirke?”

John wiped
several large tears off Joan’s cheek with his gloved finger. “It
seems you must.” John grimaced as he took the cup. “When next you
wish to trounce me Miss Lark, try a more private method such as
purchasing a poodle.”

He was just
about to raise the cup to his sore lips when Miss Lark stood on tip
toes and whispered into his ear, “You’re a hundred thousand times
more beautiful than when I left the breakfast table.”

Drawn into
smiling cornflowers, John forgot he was angry as his heart
pleasurably shouldered him in the chest, “I’m glad to hear it.
It’ll give me some comfort as I lay dying from a burst bladder.
King Midas isn’t walking away with my Mortimers.” John tipped back
the cup and drained it, his face clearly displaying his disgust. He
handed the upside down cup to Joan and watched his opponent drain
his cup and lick his lips as if he’d enjoyed it.

“The next cup
is yours Mr Smirke.”

“Obviously.
Miss Lark another cup…” John lifted the cup and sighed out loud
before gulping it down and wiping his lips on his right sleeve.
Lovelace drained his second cup and raised a white eyebrow in a
silent challenge. The crowd roared as new wagers were taken as to
which man would first rush away in need of a chamber pot. Time
dripped by as the standing cups were slowly emptied and the group
of bystanders grew as word spread out of the building and down the
street.

John listened
to water slosh about in his stomach as he waddled from one foot to
the other as he tried to pretend he didn’t want to run away to
release the pressure on his bladder. The only consolation was
seeing Lovelace doing a similar dance.

“Hand me
another cup Miss Lark.”

“But Mr
Smirke, you’ve had thirteen cups.”

“I’m drinking
the muck, you should be pleased.”

“I only wanted
you to drink one cup…you’re drinking water like a madman and he’s
no better.”

“Hand me a cup
before I explode and lose my pistols.” John gulped down the warm
water, shifting from one foot to the other as his opponent
hesitated. “Drink the muck or throw down your cup in defeat.”

Lovelace
hesitated, “Did you know the French have been known to do this to
prisoners to gain confessions of guilt? Perhaps you’d like to
confess that I’m going to win your pistols?”

“Over my
exploded bladder.” John poured another cup of foul liquid down his
throat, but struggled to keep it down.

The hair on
his neck stood on end announcing the dead were near, “Take care you
don’t drown yourself John Sebastian. Accidentally committing
suicide to retain a pair of pistols won’t win you a certificate of
intelligence at the eternal bar of justice.” John groaned as his
stomach sloshed with the movement involved in locating the pretty
Probationary Agent at his elbow. “Let him have the Mortimers. One
more duel and you’ll be crying for your Mamma from another dark
corner of hell.” John’s snarl earned him the laughter of the dead
as well as the living. “Your little Lark is quite a handful. If my
wife had routed me with a trick like that I’d have spent all her
money on a new suit. You’ll certainly never be bored with Joan. You
may not be sane, but you’ll be alive…unless you drown yourself.”
John looked at the full cup in Joan’s hand and then at his opponent
shifting from one foot to the other. He gagged on his pride and let
out a gargled sigh. The prospect of bedding Joan far outweighed any
pleasure in owning a pair of stupid pistols. The Pump rooms went
silent as they waited.