Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Eight, Part 2

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.

Smythe addressed himself to Charlotte, turning his back on Nick, who immediately determined that in the morning, he would show this man exactly what a mistake it was for a soldier, no matter what rank, to offend the Duke of Wellbridge. Nick's shoulders stiffened, his chest expanded with his own self-importance. He could hardly remember being so insulted. Smythe, for his part, completely ignored Nick's nascent fury, fanning the flames of his own destruction.

"I admit, Lady Firthley, I harbored a great deal of resentment against you and your parents. My father, too, for gambling away what would have been my inheritance, which is why I set aside the title and took the new name. Well, not new anymore, I suppose, as no one outside this room still calls me Smithson."

"One cannot set aside a hereditary title, Sir John," Firthley observed.

"No, but as the Smithson male line disappeared in 1807, so did the baronetcy unless the king confers it elsewhere. A title was a liability in the areas I was forced to frequent, as was my last name. And with no disrespect intended, I take credit only for honors I have earned myself."

Firthley inclined his head. "Very well, then. If His Majesty has not called you to account, nor will I. Please continue."

For the first time, Smythe seemed slightly unsure, so Nick placed the gun on his lap, barrel turned toward the interloper, more than happy to encourage insecurity. The movement rather had the opposite effect, however. Smythe just sat back, crossed his legs and smirked, implying by stretching his fists and rolling his shoulders that Nick might need a gun to dispatch him, but all Smythe would need to kill the duke was his bare hands.

"As you know, my brother and I were left nothing from our father but duns. We were turned off our uncle's land, though he was generous enough to pay Father's legitimate debts to keep us out of prison. We hadn't a shilling between us, but for the value of our grandfather's cravat pins and fifty pounds Aunt Minerva gave me on the condition we never come back to Somerset. Which we did not." He nodded to Charlotte, who looked away.

"Of course, our father's name was utterly disgraced, lawful creditors angry his death had cheated them of a hanging, and less honorable men—quite the wrong sort—trying to take his gambling debt from his sons' hides."

Charlotte took up Firthley's glass and walked to the sideboard to refill it, while Nick and her husband both straightened in their seats, watching Smythe carefully to make sure he didn't move even one inch toward her.

When Firthley asked, "Are you sure you wouldn't like something, Major?" Charlotte poured the water back into the decanter and left Firthley's empty glass on the cart, sauntering back to her seat without so much as a glare toward her husband.

Smythe's lips turned up just slightly, as though enjoying an amusing memory.

"Even Bella's husband refused to help us," Smythe continued, his face hardening again into detachment, "then Jeremy was killed, so I did the only thing I could to get out of the stews without a knife in my gut: I took the king's shilling, signed on as a private. I used the incentive money to pay my gaming debts—though not my father's—and left London."