Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Eight, Part 1

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.