Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (8 page)

“Too right, you will, and I’m about to
remind you exactly why.”

***

Deep underneath the quilt on her bed, where
Bella had buried herself, curled into a ball, hoping to be left
alone until the morning, she flinched at a light thump on her
bedchamber door. When she didn’t reply, the door handle clicked,
but even with the key available on the other side, the door moved
not an inch, with her hairbrush jammed between the door handle and
latch. If her life was to be made more miserable by her drunken
male relatives, she would hear the yelling before she felt the
pain.

Jeremy had locked Bella in the room after he
wrested so many screams from her, she stopped making any sounds at
all. She had maintained consciousness just long enough to bar the
door in case he decided to return.

“Pssst. Sissy,” she heard, muffled through
eiderdown and solid oak. With a choked-back sob, she carefully
uncurled herself and pushed back the bedclothes, shifting her
black-and-blue body slowly, in tiny increments, rising unsteadily
to her feet. She struggled to the door and pulled the hairbrush
away from the latch. John slipped through the door, then closed it,
leaned against it, and slid to a seat on the floor, effectively
keeping everyone else outside. He had been taking the same position
in secret in the middle of the night since the first time she had
been beaten bloody by their father, when she was nine. By then,
eleven-year-old John and twelve-year-old Jeremy had both been
taking beatings for half their lives, and her middle brother knew a
thing or two about how to dress her wounds. She shuffled to the bed
to lie back down, dropping the hairbrush on to the empty
nightstand.

“Have you brought cakes pilfered from the
kitchen, as you did when we were children?” She pulled the blanket
back over her head.

He spoke in an undertone. “You cannot go to
sleep. Sissy,” he insisted. “You have to go, and now, while they
are floored. I’ve got a hack waiting down the street.”

The edge of the blanket flipped back off her
red-gold head, and her braid dropped off the side of the mattress.
“You have never helped me escape before.”

“Father has never offered to sell you to a
brothel before, and they won’t tell me where he is sending you in
that carriage in the morning.” His voice broke. “I know I… I should
have done better by you, Sissy.” His hand scrubbed across his face,
and he stood. “Get up and get out.” He took her cloak from a hook
by the door and held it out.

She dragged herself from the bed again,
sidling to the door. When she took her wrap, he reached a hand out,
keeping it about half an inch above the blackened skin of her
cheekbone, wincing. “I’m sorry for the…” His hand cradled the back
of her head, drawing her into a loose embrace.

She nodded and allowed herself to be
comforted. He was always sorry, and if the situations were
reversed, Bella would take up a truncheon against anyone to avoid
crossing her father. And like John, she probably wouldn’t learn to
revel in it, as their brother had.

“I don’t know the first thing about this
Holsworthy fellow, Sissy, but I know this: Father will sell you to
anyone with pound note, but Uncle Howard will never let you go to a
degenerate. I can’t stop Father, nor can you, and Jeremy wouldn’t
if he could. Get to the Royal Crescent and do exactly what
Effingale tells you to do. I’ll distract Father as long as I
can.”

May 9,
1805

The Effingale Town House

Bath, England

“
The Prince of Wales
, Lord
Holsworthy?” Bella would have shrieked if she hadn’t been choking.
“You wish me to meet
His Royal Highness
?”

“More to the point, my dear, he wishes to
meet you.”

Lord Holsworthy had been delayed in London
for almost a fortnight on business, and returned to Bath with no
knowledge that she had been removed from, then reinstalled in, the
Effingale’s home. He had no idea she had fled in the night from her
father’s house to return to the Royal Crescent, nor why.

When she bit her lip, the last vestiges of
torn skin broke open, leaving the taste of blood, once more, across
her teeth. The bruises, thankfully, had healed, or no one would
have let Lord Holsworthy into the Effingale house, where Jasper had
yet to turn up to retrieve her. As always, she had no idea when or
if he would, but Uncle Howard had assured her she had been taken
away by her father for the last time, even if he had to hide her
somewhere.

“
The Prince of Wales
wants to meet
me
.” Her heart broke its tether.

“Yes. In fact, he demands it. You must
present yourself—with me, of course—and Lords and Ladies Firthley
and Effingale, should they so choose, at a small gathering at
Carlton House in a sennight. He has said he will make a point of a
private audience.”

Her breathing ceased, full stop, at the
unwelcome thought of a small gathering of the aristocracy at the
Prince’s residence, followed by a private interview with his Royal
Highness. If Char weren’t also invited, she would have fainted, and
her consciousness was not yet a sure thing, especially once she
reached the Royal Presence.

“I’m not sure I can—”

“You can, my dear,” he said, patting the
hand she had twisted in her skirt, “for you have agreed to follow
my directives in such matters. I will buy you a new dress for the
occasion, but the
modiste
must sew quickly.”

“But you’ve said—”

“Of course you may expect to own a more
fetching gown for evening, if you are to represent the Crown.” He
grasped her hand, straightening the fingers and wrapping them
around his own. “Though you must understand, a ship, even one
designed with a wife in mind, is not the place for fancy fashions.
Nor is ostentation particularly seemly, to my mind, for a Christian
woman.”

“Yes, Sir, you’ve said. I’ve sent for my
simpler clothes, though all I have here is dresses for the Season.
Charlotte has seen to that. I daresay we have something that will
do for the king.” Biting her lip, she started to speak twice and
stopped. Finally, the third time, she said, “I am not certain of my
ability to represent the Crown, my lord.”

“I, however, am certain.”

“I haven’t the… the backbone, Sir. The
fortitude.”

“I shall provide your backbone until you
find it within yourself.” He smiled at her and touched her
shoulder, as though he would steady her. “And you will, Miss
Smithson. I have faith.”

“Yes, Sir.” She dropped her eyes, not in the
least convinced, but well used to doing as she was told.

Her breathing evened a bit, having agreed.
In some ways, his gentle demands were a comfort, for she very much
doubted she would ever be chastised with fists for any mistake.
“You will be my husband, and I will follow your instruction.”

“Good girl. I have one other… it is rather…
er…” He stepped across the room and reached out the door; he must
have left something on the hall table. “I will drop you at the
shops when I leave here, and I beg you take this with you to the
modiste
and ensure they are well-fitted.”

His face was flushed, and he seemed
reluctant to hand her the long, flat box. “I assure you, Miss
Smithson, this is in no way…” he was nearly choking. “…prurient. It
is not that I wish to discuss your…undergarments… only… When we
travel, you will need to wear certain… your… I’ve had stays made…
boned with gold coin, and I will require you to wear them while we
travel.”

He shoved the box at her, and she took it,
sure her face couldn’t be redder than his. She set the box aside,
saying, “I am confused, my lord. Gold coin?”

He took a deep breath and collected himself,
once again nominally in command. “I do not wish to put you in fear,
Miss Smithson, but travel by sea is not always predictable. I
should wish any wife of mine to be able to access a few hundred
pounds in gold should she find herself in need of it. You must
never tell anyone it is there but for the direst circumstance, and
you must wear it wherever we go. I’ve had two made, but I know
little of women’s fashions. You should have them adjusted in
whatever way will make them most comfortable.

“As such, and considering your summons, you
must attend the
modiste
without delay. You may ask Lady
Charlotte to accompany you, if it is convenient.” He paused, and
when he gathered his voice, he continued, “I prefer Lady
Effingale’s taste not be considered in this outing.”

For once, she would not be subject to
opinions designed to show her to disadvantage. Or rather, to show
Charlotte to advantage right next to her. If nothing else, she
might adore a man who insisted upon that.

“Let me ask after Charlotte’s plans for the
day and gather my things.”

“Very good.”

May 18, 1805

Carlton House

London, England

Bella sank into a curtsey so low she might
have fallen over, had His Royal Highness not held out his hand to
help her up. The unruly wave in his hair seemed to announce a
contrary nature, confirmed by a mischievous twinkle in his royal
eye as he appraised her. His cheeks slightly flushed, it seemed
more than possible he had already had more than one glass of the
claret he was carrying. He drained the glass and handed it to a
nearby footman.

“This is the young lady, then, Holsworthy?
What is your name? My apologies for having forgotten.”

“Miss Isabella Smithson, Your Royal
Highness, of Somerset,” she squeaked. “I am called Bella.”

“Cousin to Firthley, is that not correct?”
Alexander stepped forward to confirm the relationship, Charlotte
curtseying for the second time in as many minutes, as low as Bella,
nearly as dumbstruck. Myron and Alexander’s attempts to shield
Bella from the prince collided, both nattering about her, but not
allowing her to speak.

“Stop, gentlemen. Stop.” The prince held out
his hand. “I shall speak to the young lady alone, for I will
ascertain her mind in this.” He held out his elbow to Bella and
said, “I trust my sister’s presence will be considered protection
enough for your virtue? It is she who brought you to my attention.”
Alexander and Myron both reached out, as though they would escort
her, then their arms fell as Bella tentatively took the prince’s
arm and half-whispered, half choked to Myron over her shoulder,
“Princes do not make requests.”

The prince in question leaned in and
whispered in her ear, “Quite right, Miss Smithson.”

Once in an audience room, they found
Princess Amelia waiting. Only a few years older than Bella, the
lovely blonde woman had a friendly face and sweet smile, no hint of
the conceit and self-importance that rose off the much-older Prince
of Wales like expensive
eau de Cologne
. Her welcoming
presence made Bella slightly more comfortable, though the respite
was, of course, relative.

Bella repeated the ritual curtsey while a
footman poured sherry. The prince sat, spreading his arm across the
top of a long sofa, leaning comfortably into the upholstery. He did
not invite her to take her ease, and when the princess did, Bella
was at a loss. Such informality was unheard of, but she had no
knowledge of anyone who had been called to a private audience.
Perhaps the rules were more relaxed in such a setting. Finally, he
nodded his assent, so she gratefully settled, very slowly, into a
fauteuil
, keeping her back straight and legs crossed at the
ankle.

“You are white as a snow-covered specter,
Miss Smithson.”

“She’s been called before the Crown,
George,” the princess remonstrated. “Give her a moment to catch her
breath.”

Bella gratefully took the moment and a large
sip of sherry, looking around at a room designed to intimidate
everyone but the royals who owned it. It might as well be a peasant
cottage for all the attention they paid to the masterful artworks,
gilded trim, walls lined with what appeared to be peach silk; she
would have to move closer to be sure and she was not certain her
legs could support her if she tried to stand.