Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (7 page)

“I will give you ten thousand pounds
sterling for your daughter. Not a farthing more."

It took not a moment or two of grinding
clockworks in Sir Jasper’s head before he asked, “Shares?”

“You may buy anything you like with the
money, including shares at market value, for the rate you seek is
reserved for my crew. No one is eligible who doesn’t work for it.
But the business is done this day, contract signed and sealed by
sundown, no further ado.”

He kept his eyes trained on Sir Jasper’s
face, watching the man’s cheeks puff out like a water vole, trying
not to choke on his own good fortune.

Slowly tucking the handkerchief back in his
pocket, Sir Jasper attempted to exhibit a modicum of fatherly
concern. “Now, I’m not certain that is quite the… That is to say,
the girl might be… While it is a perfectly fine offer, I can’t be
sure if she’ll agree…”

“You said it yourself. It doesn’t concern
her. This is a matter to be settled between gentlemen. We shall
come to an agreement, you and I, or I will find some other man’s
daughter.”

“Well, now don’t let’s be hasty about… I’m
sure we can come to some sort of…”

“Ten thousand pounds sterling.”

Sir Jasper’s eyes narrowed and one corner of
his lip turned up. He would seek some additional advantage Myron
had no intention of granting. “While the influx of coin would be
welcome, it will not suffice to turn around the fortunes of a tin
mine I was left by my father. I have been looking for investors,
you see, and someone with your standing… your influence… well, it
would go a long way toward—”

“Ten thousand pounds sterling.”

“I had hoped—”

“Ten thousand pounds sterling, or I leave
this house and don’t return.”

Myron had never had to repeat an
exceptionally good bargain so many times before his terms were
accepted. Were he forced to reiterate the offer again, this would
end with a long ride to Gretna Green.

Thankfully, Sir Jasper was no more
challenging than John Jacob Astor, who had capitulated inside a
quarter-hour to Myron’s offer to buy into his fur trading
operation.

“Well, yes, then I suppose…”

Myron reached into his pocket and removed
the drafted marriage settlement he had planned to negotiate civilly
with Effingale, with concessions on both sides. He filled in the
details of bride price and underlined the date by which vows must
be said—in less than six weeks—working quickly with his quill and
ink to complete the business before this nasty little man realized
exactly what Myron might do to remove poor Miss Smithson from his
influence.

Passing it across the table, he pressed, “My
solicitor will return with me to finalize the settlements before
the day is out, so that I may tell the prince the business is done.
Effingale can act as witness. Shall we call him back?”

April 23,
1805

The Smithson Town House

Bath, England

“Isabella!”

Bella’s shoulders tightened, increasing the
ache in her back and arms. She had lost the habit of cooking and
cleaning in the months she had spent with her aunt and uncle at
Brittlestep Manor and the Royal Crescent. But here, in the Smithson
town house, such as it was, there were no servants. Only Bella.
Bella and the dust and filth of months of disuse, the chipped
dishes and rusting pots in the scullery, the laundry and worn
linens, and the nearly bare pantry from which she was expected to
produce exemplary meals for the three men in her family, then join
them at table and never speak. After only one week, she had already
fallen into despair.

Her fingers, rubbed raw from the sand she
was using to scrub grease from the iron pots, twisted in the skirts
of the dilapidated grey day dress she wore when she did housework,
now begrimed from the exertion of heavy work.

“Isabella,” her father called again, his
voice accompanied by the sound of the hasp being removed from the
lock. Her father had taken to padlocking her into whichever room
required her housewifely attentions, coming back to fetch her
whenever he decided the chores should be finished, and not before,
which was an entirely new level of both control and neglect. “Into
the study, girl. Have things I need to say to you.” Before she
could even clean her hands or remove and hang her apron, he
chivvied her down the hall.

She seated herself in what had once been her
grandfather’s study, when the house in Bath had been new and
well-maintained, shiny and fresh as Nye Smithson’s purchased title.
Now, though, it was only a library empty of books. Her father’s
boots rested casually on the desk, as did a bottle of brandy and a
glass.

She could barely believe what was being
asked of her. Surely Uncle Howard hadn’t agreed to this. Surely she
was mishearing the demand.

“You need not pretend to be so dull-witted.
Pack your trunk.”

“But where…?”

“Wherever Holsworthy wants to take you, and
I’ll hear no more about it.”

“But Uncle Howard would never—”

Jasper’s voice rose. “I care not what that
mealy-mouthed prig would or would not do. You are my daughter, and
I’ve made an agreement with Holsworthy.”

She set her shoulders and held her head
high. She was the niece of a viscount and enjoyed a permanent
welcome in his homes, the granddaughter of a baronet, the largest
soap-maker in southern England, who had held a Royal Warrant. She
had her pride, and by the name of Heaven, she would not be given
into wedlock to a man she had barely met. Not when her uncle had
promised her a least a modicum of choice.

“I’ll not do it.”

The small amount of coal in the hearth, not
nearly enough to heat the entire room, spat and hissed and left an
oily haze hanging in the air.

Bella’s father and both brothers stared with
exactly the same dropped-mouth look. For the first time any of them
could remember, she had directly defied Jasper.

The first to gather himself to speak was
John, who employed a reasonable, if slightly pleading, tone. “You
have to, Sissy.”

“Don’t indulge her missishness, John,”
Jasper snarled, dropping his boots heavily on the scarred wood
floor. “She’ll do it because I say so, or I’ll slap the mouth off
her face.”

John wheedled, “You don’t want to be left
with no husband when you could be a baroness.”

Bella set her head at the angle she imagined
a duchess might use when talking down to her servants. “I have no
wish to be a baroness.”

The sly look John sent her way spoke volumes
about what she might expect as the wife of a man who outranked
their father—some small measure of power, and increased demands to
ensure their support. She stared directly at a bright square of
wallpaper where a painting had once hung, before everything in the
house had been sold, one item at a time. She could acknowledge no
one, or her challenge would be met swiftly with terrible
punishment. Not that it wouldn’t be anyway.

If Lord Holsworthy acted even remotely like
the baronet who had sired her, she would prefer to marry a night
soil man than a nobleman. She would rather be buried alive in a
coal mine than be joined to a man like the one eyeing her like
excrement left on his armchair.

“I hope, at least, you have agreed he will
marry me,” she said in her most high-handed Cousin-Charlotte voice,
“not ruin me in pursuit of his own pleasures.”

Jasper’s cheek twitched and the throbbing
vein in his forehead carried a familiar implication. “I will have
none of your tempers. You’ll do whatever he asks of you, vows or
no. It is no business of mine why he wants you, nor why he insists
on gallivanting all over England with you in tow before you board
his ship. Don’t know what he’s about. Plenty of dressmakers and hat
shops in Bath.” Jasper continued with a wheezing chuckle, “Not that
dressing you up will make you any easier to bed. Better to buy a
burlap sack so he don’t have to look at you.”

“He is older than you are!”

Bella realized her mistake before his eyes
could even narrow. Her father’s vanity precluded any mention of his
sagging jowls and dull, grey hair. She glanced over at John, but he
just raised his eyebrows, took the slightest step back and turned
attention to his snuffbox. Jeremy, on the other hand, smirked, eyes
sparking with the same excitement he might show when a pair of dogs
attacked a fox.

Her father continued, “All the better to
keep you in line. Not like another offer from a rich man is going
to fall from the sky—or any offer at all. Can’t say why he wants
such an ugly girl in his bedchamber, but he’s willing to pay for
the privilege of taking you off my hands, so I say let him have
you.”

“You’ve… You’ve
sold
me?” Handing her
off to a man who would not ask for a dowry was one thing, outright
purchase another.

Jeremy chimed in, “I know a brothel that
would buy her, since she’s still a virgin.” He turned to Bella,
“You are still a virgin?”

She snapped, “Of course I’ve not—”

At the same time, her father rejoined, “You
think any man in his right mind wants to defile
her
?”

“I think plenty of men won’t give a damn
what she looks like,” Jeremy offered, “if they have a chance at her
maidenhead without having to take her home. Even better if she’s
squeamish.” He nodded his head, convincing himself further by the
second. “Might be we could get just as much from an abbey as the
cit is willing to pay. Maybe more if we bargain.”

Humiliation and anger triggered a blush, and
Bella sucked in a breath; the males in her family didn’t make
threats they wouldn’t carry out. Her twisting fingertips clenched
into fists, nearly as tight as the knots in her stomach and throat,
just barely keeping her small supper intact.

This was, by far, the worst threat that had
ever been leveled against her in her own house, and she was no
stranger to threats. It wasn’t as though her virtue had any
inherent value elsewhere, with no man ever likely to want it, but
having it taken by force—again and again—was a much crueler
prospect than marrying a kindly man whose only fault was being
unwise enough to do business with her father.

John made a small movement toward her, but,
at a look from Jasper, stayed his steps, grimacing in Bella’s
direction but offering no support by word or deed. Bella couldn’t
blame him, knowing all too well the ways their father used to keep
both sons in line, now that their fists were stronger and faster
than his.

“Papa…” She only called him Papa when she
hoped to induce sentiment, and it never worked unless he were
drunk, but anything was worth a try tonight. She pleaded, prepared
to prostrate herself and beg if it might work against the greedy,
feckless men in her family. “I can’t just leave in a carriage with
some man I’ve barely met, who plans to put me on a ship and take me
who knows where. I can’t defend myself against a whole boat full of
sailors.”

Jasper’s voice grew steely and quiet, “If he
wants to make you a whore for his crew and he’ll pay me as much as
an abbess might, it’s not your place to complain about it. You’ll
do as I say or, by God, I’ll make you regret it.”

Very quietly, without fanfare, she played
her last card in an even, gentle tone, though the words were sharp
as carpet tacks, and might draw blood—most likely, hers. “I should
think you wouldn’t want anyone to know that Grandpapa’s tin mine
played out before you ever inherited it, nor that my brothers keep
you all in pocket money by cheating at the gaming hells.”

With that, Jasper rose and stalked toward
her, eyes trained on hers as she shrank back into the chair, trying
to watch his hands without making it obvious. It didn’t matter,
though. He knew. He clenched and unclenched them for emphasis.

The swipe of his hard hand across the side
of the head would leave no bruise, only set her ears ringing. She
was relatively certain he wouldn’t leave her marked where Lord
Holsworthy might see the damage, as he had never been one to risk
an advantage just for spite.

It only took a moment to realize the folly.
He grabbed her arm tightly between his quick fingers, and before
she knew it, a lump rose on Bella’s torn lip, the blood on her
tongue just slight, so he hadn’t loosed a tooth yet. She would be
confined to the house at least a few days though, because her
father was too angry to realize he was leaving bruises that
couldn’t be covered. Perhaps, by then, her uncle could forestall
this plan.

Jeremy stepped behind her chair and Jasper
dragged her up out of it. John averted his eyes, which couldn’t
last long; soon enough Jasper would demand he act like a man and
participate in the bludgeoning. Before any of them really got
started, she begged, “I’ll do whatever you say, Papa. I won’t
argue. I promise I will hold my tongue.”