Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella by Mariana Gabrielle

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