Page 18 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Eighteen

S ebastian returned to the King’s Head with a folded scrap of paper in his pocket, torn from the gardener’s logbook and hastily written upon in pencil, and a deep sense of foreboding. He had a feeling Mr Fitzherbert Smythe would be rather more pleased to see Sebastian than Sebastian was to see him.

Well, that was not entirely true. Sebastian would have been simply delighted to call upon Mr Smythe if it meant flinging a glove in his face and demanding he pay in blood for every slight, every cruel word, every petty injustice he had perpetrated against the wonderful girl whom he was charged to nurture and protect.

Unfortunately, in this particular instance even Sebastian and his burning sense of injustice could not deny that the injured party was Mr Smythe, and it was Sebastian who had done him the injury.

He had taken Jenny – or had let himself be taken along by her, at least. He had kissed Jenny. He had kept her from the match her uncle had made for her and had filled her head with dreams of passion which Beeston could never provide and, therefore, it did not seem quite fit for him to give Mr Smythe a thwack to the jaw as well.

For Jenny’s sake, he had to behave.

“Captain Whitby!” The devious tradesman was a tall man of intimidating bulk, with steel-grey hair that swept back from his forehead in thick waves, exquisitely coiffed. His eyes were sharp and discerning and did not quite match his smile of welcome. Mr Smythe sprang to his feet the moment Sebastian entered the room, shaking his hand as warmly as though he were a long-lost brother. “How good it is to see you again! Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you a glass of something? The inn has a rather fine selection of brandies, so I’m told.”

Brandy sounded the ideal tonic for the hot fist of tension clenching in Sebastian’s gut, but Jenny would want him to keep a clear head. He declined.

Mr Smythe was only perturbed for a moment. “Elspeth!” he called, barking the name over his shoulder the way one might summon a dog. “Come and serve Captain Whitby some tea!”

Elspeth Smythe answered her father’s command without hesitation, gliding into the room with a fragile smile trembling beneath eyes that were red and sore. Sebastian rose and bowed and took the tea tray from her hands before she dropped it. The poor lady looked as though she had not slept since last he saw her.

“I hope you are well, Miss Smythe?” He could not ask the question without wincing. She was not at all well. Any father with a heart would have sent her to bed – or told her the truth, so she had no need to weep for a cousin who was currently perfectly healthy and enjoying a sunny afternoon in Whitby Manor.

“Thank you, Captain.” She inclined her head and sat down. Mr Smythe cleared his throat, and she flinched. “My health is as robust as ever, thank goodness. Do you take sugar?”

Sebastian set the tray tea down in front of her and clenched his hands tight to prevent himself from reaching out to assist her again. When Jenny and I are wed , he promised himself, we will have her live with us .

But there was a long way to go before that distant future was anything more than a shimmering mirage.

He accepted the tea with a tight smile that felt as though it stretched his mouth far too thin.

“I trust you are enjoying your stay in Appleby,” he said, aware of the way the cheer in his voice rang too false, too bright. “I am too partial, perhaps, but I have always considered it the loveliest town in England.”

“Oh, it’s charming,” said Smythe, smiling in a way that showed all his narrow teeth. “Lord Beeston must be very glad of your father’s hospitality.”

Sebastian merely smiled and sipped his tea. Mr Smythe leaned forwards in his chair, shooting a sharp glance at his daughter. “Leave us, Elspeth.”

She startled and got to her feet, giving Sebastian a quick bob of a curtsey. He caught her eye and inclined his head towards the tea tray.

“Do not forget your tea, Miss Smythe. I think it will do you some good.”

She froze a moment, glancing at her father, who merely grunted, then lifted up the tray again. The cups clanked together from the shaking in her hands, but the little note which Sebastian had slipped underneath the sugar pot was quite safe. Miss Smythe bobbed again and withdrew.

Mr Smythe cleared his throat, setting a meaty hand on each of his knees. “That’s better,” he said. “Now we can speak to one another plainly.”

Sebastian set aside his tea. “I was alarmed to hear of Miss Cartwright’s illness. Have you had any further news of her?”

“Not yet,” said Mr Smythe tersely. “She is a strong young woman and her condition will surely improve. Lord Beeston need not have any concern. His marriage will go ahead as planned. It is only delayed.”

Sebastian bit on his tongue with the effort of staying silent. His jaw was beginning to ache from the effort of maintaining what Jenny had assured him was an inscrutable smile.

Mr Smythe leaned back again, steepling his fingers and giving Sebastian a wary once-over. “It seems Miss Cartwright’s malady may have caused her to behave contrary to her character.”

Sebastian nodded, and a private amusement warmed his false smile. Love-sickness was certainly a malady, of sorts. If only Mr Smythe knew how close he came to the truth.

“I’m sure you are aware that a high fever can make a person say and do all manner of strange things,” said Mr Smythe. “Things they would be most distressed to hear had become the subject of gossip.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Such things as… writing a letter, for example?”

“Well, now we come to it,” Mr Smythe’s voice grew soft and low. “Yes. I know that my niece would be simply devastated if anybody had read that silly letter and believed it to reflect her true feelings.”

“She was delirious,” Sebastian offered.

“Precisely.” Mr Smythe leaned in again, his gaze turning hungry. “You are a man of discretion, are you not, Captain?”

“You mean to ask whether I have relayed to Lord Beeston the contents of that letter?” Sebastian took a small degree of satisfaction in the way Mr Smythe flinched in alarm. “I have not.”

Mr Smythe let out a breath and sank back in his chair. “Well, that is simply –”

“Not yet .”

Those foxlike eyes hardened. Sebastian kept smiling.

“I do not enjoy spreading gossip, sir, but nor do I like to mislead my friends. Lord Beeston knows, of course, that Miss Cartwright did not appear to be wed as scheduled. He has not asked me for any further details. That does not, of course, mean that he never will.”

Mr Smythe nodded, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I understand. Yes, yes, I quite understand.”

“Perhaps we might arrange a visit with Miss Cartwright,” Sebastian suggested. He could not resist it. “When Lord Beeston sees how very unwell she is –”

“Impossible!” Mr Smythe snapped. The oily smile he gave seemed to cost him a great deal of effort. “Quite impossible. Miss Cartwright would be mortified. No, Lord Beeston cannot see her until she is fully recovered.”

“Which will be…?”

“Very soon, I am sure.” Mr Smythe cleared his throat. “I wonder, Captain, whether you have secured your next commission?”

Sebastian hesitated. He could not quite see the angle Mr Smythe was taking, and that made him uneasy. “I have no plans to depart again as yet,” he said carefully.

“How would you like command of the Fortitude , and a voyage to Malta?”

Now it was Sebastian’s turn to be thoroughly gobsmacked. Mr Smythe took in his amazement with a grunt of satisfaction. “A mission like that could be extremely lucrative, in the right hands. Pirates still abound in the Mediterranean, and there’s sure to be action aplenty over the war in Greece. Some of those Ottoman ships are laden with chests of gold, or so I understand from Admiral Walters. My personal friend, you see. He happens to owe me a favour.” Mr Smythe smiled again, narrow teeth on display. “I am not a greedy man, Captain Whitby. I have enjoyed a great deal of good fortune, and I love to share it with my friends. With men whom I can trust. If I can depend upon you, you can depend upon me, that’s what I say. Do you take my meaning?”

“Speak plainly,” said Sebastian, back ramrod-straight.

The Fortitude was one of the finest vessels in the Navy. Any officer would give his eye-teeth to receive the command Smythe described. The onset of peace had driven up brutal competition for the posts where one could hope to capture enemy vessels and make a fortune. Sebastian had no illusions of his abilities – he was no diplomat, able to gladhand his way to good fortune. But if such a post were to fall into his lap…

There he would shine. There, in the fury of sea battles and the sweet joy of victory. There were fortunes still to be made, galleons full of Turkish gold to be captured, and Sebastian had talent enough and experience enough to seize the opportunity with both hands.

“Speaking plainly,” said Mr Smythe, dropping his oily smile and holding up a letter, “I have here a letter to Admiral Walters pledging to forgive a certain debt of his if he offers you command of the Fortitude . I am a man of business, Captain Whitby, and I usually require material proof of commitment, but from you I ask only for your word, upon your honour, that you will forget everything you heard and saw in my household on the day Miss Cartwright was… taken ill.”

A week earlier, Sebastian would have torn up the letter and thrown it in his face.

He had always scorned the idea of accepting favours. Always been disgusted by the political machinations which saw lesser men rise to the top while talent was wasted beneath them. He’d rise on his own merit, or not at all.

But that sort of moral purity was easy to maintain when he had the comfort of his father’s money to fall back on, and when nobody but himself depended upon his fortunes. Suddenly, there were his sisters to consider, none of them able to go out and win their own fortune, no matter how talented or well-connected. Suddenly, there was the impending loss of Whitby Manor. There was Beeston, unable ever to fulfil his own potential, all so that Sebastian might make the best of his.

There was Jenny, who deserved a life of ease and comfort. Jenny, to whom he wanted to give all the world.

He could serve none of them with empty hands. He had but one chief talent, and that was commanding a vessel. Who was he to squander the opportunity to make use of it?

“I see now why you have been so successful in business, Mr Smythe,” he said. If only he could speak to Jenny before he made his decision. She would be able to help him see clearly. She could figure out in an instant whether he would be hurting anyone by accepting Mr Smythe’s offer.

His own mind was already six months ahead, sailing through the blue Mediterranean ocean, with Jenny comfortable in his captain’s quarters and Elspeth with her for company, and a note from his naval agent telling him his latest capture had brought him enough to secure Whitby Manor forever.

“When I called on you a week ago in Plymouth,” Sebastian said slowly, “the house was in a state of great confusion. Miss Cartwright had fallen ill, and I can only assume she had taken to her bed. I certainly did not enter her bedroom to see for myself. That would have been wholly inappropriate.”

Mr Smythe grinned like a shark. “Yes, indeed. That fits my recollection exactly.” He extended his hand. Sebastian steeled himself with thoughts of Jenny – Jenny dancing on the Fortitude’s polished deck, Jenny warm and happy and lit by the Mediterranean sun – and shook it.

He rose to his feet. “Lord Beeston will be very glad to hear that Miss Cartwright should make a full recovery. I shall encourage him not to lose hope.”

“Very good.” Mr Smythe rose too and bowed deeply as Sebastian left. “A pleasure doing business with you, Captain Whitby.”