Royal Regard (47 page)

Nick and Firthley stared at each
other, dumbfounded, then at the General, who regarded them
earnestly, no idea of the cannon blast he had just released in the
marquess’s study. Charlotte had assured Nick the Smithson men were
beyond his reach, burning in the flames of Hell, where they
belonged. At best, this was an imposter.

No, perhaps not
best
. It might be
better if the man were her dear departed brother, so Nick could
force restitution for every bruise Bella had experienced at his
hands. Yes. On reflection, that would be an outstanding
outcome.

Before Nick could envision all the ways to
make Major Smythe pay for the damage he had inflicted on his
sister, Firthley recovered the powers of speech, but in a register
almost too shrill for a man.

“Her
brother
?”

“Yes, Your Lordship.” The set of his jaw
portended a lengthy chastisement of said brother. “Major Smythe was
asked to remain in the receiving room. I wished to bring you up to
date and secure your agreement before I invited him to join
us.”

“Quite right!” Firthley’s voice continued to
rise in both pitch and volume.

More to the point, Nick assumed without
expressing his opinion, the general wished to take credit for his
own regiment’s successes before allowing anyone else to supplant
his men in the king’s esteem.

Firthley stepped out from behind his desk,
taking up the brandy decanter. He offered the dregs, which were
declined, and used the near-empty carafe as a reason to cross the
room. Placing it carefully on the sideboard, he looked over at
Nick, brows turned in, forehead furrowed.

“If you have nothing else, General,” he
intoned, nobility rising, breaking the surface unease in the room
like oil through water, “you had better send Smythe to me. You
needn’t return, as I will interview the man myself.”

Nick looked back and forth between Firthley
and the soldier, but while the marquess had no problem looking him
in the eye, the general finally appeared to grasp the tension, so
kept his impassive expression studiously anywhere else. He stood,
ineffectually dusting his uniform. Before Nick could speak, he
said, “If you have no further inquiries, Your Lordship, Your
Grace?”

The General looked briefly at Firthley, who
said, “You may go.”

Once the man had left, the marquess summoned
his butler, who appeared so quickly it was certain he had been
waiting just outside the door.

“Keep the gentleman in the receiving room
under guard for the moment, and ask my wife to attend me here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Firthley turned to remark to Nick, “If the
man is her cousin, she’ll be able to confirm it. I’ve only met him
twice, years ago.”

Speaking once more to Corbel, he instructed,
“Once you have spoken to Her Ladyship, please have two soldiers
posted at the door to Lady Huntleigh’s room, and two more below her
outside window, and only then show Major Smythe up.”

Once Corbel had cleared the doorway, Firthley
explained, “The family name is Smithson, not Smythe, and no matter
who has vouched for him, I know nothing of this man.”

Nick considered dozens of reasons a stranger
might dissemble to gain entrance, and the dismay must have crossed
his face, as Firthley said, “Quite.”

Firthley slammed his hand down on the desk,
the orrery bouncing and shaking at the impact.

“Demme! Wretched timing. As though there
weren’t enough turmoil.”

Firthley crossed to a row of locked cupboards
and found a new bottle of fine French brandy, emptying it into the
decanter. He splashed well-water into both of their empty glasses,
however, which spoke volumes about the clarity he thought required
for this meeting. And he was right. Nick’s mind was more than
muddled enough.

He asked, “This is the brother who will be
after her money?”

“From what I understand,” Firthley said,
returning the carafe to the shelf. “He wrote after his father’s
death, asking that I buy him a commission, but Charlotte and her
family were firmly against it.”

Charlotte rushed in the door, removing the
sullied apron as she flew across the room to her husband, Corbel
picking it up and folding it across his arm as he trailed
behind.

“Am I hearing correctly? John Smithson is
here? Now? My unspeakable cousin has reappeared after all this
time?”

Firthley put his arm around her tensed
shoulders. “So it would appear, though the man gave the name
Smythe. I can have him sent away, but I thought it prudent to
confirm his identity and find out what he wants. Do you mind seeing
him?”

“I would just
love
to see him,”
Charlotte growled, in a voice Nick had never heard and never wanted
to hear again. She sounded like she might chew a man’s arm off if
asked to trim a fingernail. “The deuced rat must have been waiting
in the gutter for Myron to die.”

“Lady Firthley!” Firthley barked at this
shocking speech, but Charlotte was unmoved.

“The moment he says
closest male
relative
, I will throw him down the front stairs!”

Firthley patted her gingerly on the arm as he
stepped back just a bit, his eyes rounded. Apparently, he didn’t
hear this voice often either.

“That will not be necessary, my dear.”
Firthley took a pistol out of his desk drawer, loaded it, and
slipped it into his waistband, underneath his jacket, looking for
all the world like a back-alley criminal in a gentleman’s clothes.
“I’ll be with you the entire time.”

Wondering if he were too exhausted or
inebriated for pistols, Nick asked, “Do you really think you’ll
need a firearm? He
is
her brother.”

“You have no idea, Wellbridge,” Charlotte
said, straightening her hair in the pier glass on the wall near
Firthley’s desk. “My uncle and cousins were the very dregs. Make no
mistake: he will have some awful plan, and on the heels of
Malbourne… If we aren’t careful, Bella will be drugged again and on
a ship to the Continent with another man trying to browbeat her
into signing over her fortune… It would not in the least surprise
me if they were in league.”

Nick took the other gun Firthley offered and
ensured it was loaded. “He will have to kill me first.”

Firthley seated himself on the front of his
desk, Charlotte standing right next to him, and Nick stayed near
the door, to keep the man from escaping Firthley’s weapon if he
tried.

No more than five minutes later, during which
time none of them moved or spoke, all preparing themselves for a
meeting none could predict, a tall man entered, wearing a
full-dress military uniform, minus the shako. Just below his craggy
face and closely shorn, greying hair, a deep scar cut across his
clean-shaven jaw. The resemblance to Bella was slight, visible only
in the nose, the tilt of his head, and the bronze shimmer of the
few hairs not yet silver.

Even had the General not prepared them, Nick
would have known he was a member of the elite Coldstream Guards.
Nick marked the insignia of a First Major on his double-breasted
scarlet jacket, faced with white. Two rows of buttons were shiny,
boots spotless, as though he had jumped directly from a carriage to
the marble front foyer, and his white breeches and kid gloves were
clean as a nun’s linen. The entire ensemble had been perfectly
tailored, needing no padding to enhance his broad shoulders and
trim, but not thin, middle-aged waist. His height, weight, and
breadth were uncomfortably comparable to Nick’s, but his eyes spoke
of much more experience killing.

Nick wondered how long he had been watching,
waiting for the right moment to strike.

Charlotte and her husband spoke at the same
time:

“Mr. Smythe, I presume?”

“Why are you here, John Smithson, and what
have you done with your real name?”

“Charlo—my apologies, Lady Firthley, Lord
Firthley. It’s John Smythe now—Major John Smythe.” Smythe bowed
sharply, then stood straight as a javelin, making no move toward a
seat.

Charlotte snapped, “You still look like a
Smithson to me.”

The Major looked chagrined at the charge, but
left the bait dangling. He turned toward Nick, relying on the
haughtiness and superiority of a British officer to maintain
control. “And who, Sir, might you be?”

Nick drew on the arrogance of generations of
Northopes to quash any thought of superiority. “The ninth Duke of
Wellbridge and Lady Huntleigh’s betrothed.”

The soldier’s eyebrows rose. “Betrothed? I
had understood Lord Huntleigh only recently—”

“I am not the one required to explain
himself, Sirrah.”

“Of course.” After a lengthy, unrepentant
stare, he inclined his head and said, “I beg your pardon, Your
Grace.”

Turned back to Charlotte and Firthley, Smythe
offered, “I know it has been many years, Lady Firthley, and
understand why you might be reticent to invite me into your home,
but quite aside from the military posting, my sister is badly
injured, and I wish to see her.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you do
wish to see her, and any inheritance from her husband, but you will
not set a finger on a ha’penny. The three of you spent Bella’s
dowry and sold her to Myron and a ship filled with sailors, and
that is all you will ever get.”

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.