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.
“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?”
Chapter Seven
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 acknow
ledge 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.”
“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.” Hi
s 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.”
Chapter Eight
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.
Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella Page 5