Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (2 page)

A meagre glow in the grate drew her towards the high mantelpiece. Absently she held out her palms to warm them, then looked around. Oh, she could see why her brother wanted to sell Westlea House. It might be spartanly furnished, and in need of some wallpaper and paint, but it was a fine-proportioned property, well situated on the outskirts of Mayfair. Their neighbours included people who could boast an association with influence and aristocracy.

At one time, when their widowed papa had been alive, they had held just such a status, for Colonel Kingston was liked and respected by everyone with whom he came into contact. His friends included gentlemen of all classes: from peers of the realm to low-ranking army officers. It was through her father she had met Harry Marlowe. If Colonel Kingston was disappointed that his eldest daughter had chosen to accept a proposal from an army surgeon, who possessed little money but vast charm and kindness, he gave no indication. The marriage had taken place with his blessing, and a year later, when Harry was killed in action, his distress at losing his son-in-law had been genuine.

But her papa was no longer with them. He had succumbed to influenza within six months of Harry’s death. At first their brother had scrupulously adhered to their father’s arrangements for her and Charlotte. But then he had married Iris Granville and their lives had changed. Helen sighed and rubbed together her warmed fingers. She stepped to the window and looked out into the cold, bright afternoon. The baker’s boy caught her eye as he hurried past, carrying a tempting looking parcel. Her stomach grumbled as she imagined what sort of wonderful aromatic treats might be wrapped within.
She watched the lad cross the road and scamper down to the kitchen door of a house opposite theirs.

It would not have gone unnoticed by the other residents in the Square that tradesmen rarely called at Westlea House. There was no doubt that their straitened circumstances were whispered over, and an embarrassment to some of their neighbours. Helen put up her chin and felt her pride rally. Those people might wish, as George did, that they would remove themselves to a humbler abode, but Charlotte and she were staying put, in the home in which they had grown up.

Charlotte
was
a beauty, Iris was right about that. Given the wherewithal and opportunity to socialise in the proper circles, she would doubtless attract suitors with vastly more to offer than poor Philip Goode could boast.

As though reading her mind, Charlotte whispered, ‘If only Philip had some prospects, or an inheritance in the offing. Must I try and find a rich husband to help us?’

‘Of course not,’ Helen briskly said.

‘If we must move out, where shall we go?’ Charlotte asked in a quivering tone.

‘Our fond brother thinks to move us to Rowan Walk.’

Charlotte’s creamy complexion turned pink.
‘That’s where … where … certain women congregate … is it not?’

‘Indeed …’ Helen muttered. She chuckled. ‘I implied Iris might make better use of it than us.’

Charlotte’s eyes grew round. ‘You did not dare!’

‘Indeed I did!’ Helen corrected with some asperity, ‘And from the look that passed between them, I’d say that particular bit of gossip is true.’

‘She is after Sir Jason Hunter this time?’

‘Emily Beaumont said she made something of a fool of herself chasing after him at the Pleasure Gardens.’ Helen gave her sister a wry smile. ‘Apparently he seemed more interested in bestowing his time on another lady, of rather dubious reputation, too. Mrs Tucker is quite lovely, though. I believe I have seen her once or twice in the shops.’

Charlotte looked scandalized. ‘Poor George must feel so humiliated by it all.’

About to snap that their brother was a fool to tolerate his wife’s behaviour, Helen simply shrugged. They had their own predicament to worry over. George showed them scant sympathy; let him deal with his own problems. And if, by the end of this week, their allowance had not arrived, she would add to his problems by returning to Salisbury Street to badger him again.

‘G
ive the lady a smile or she’ll never go away.’

Sir Jason Hunter cast a withering look upon the gentleman who had made that ironic plea. He continued absently shuffling the pack of cards in his hands.

‘Perhaps I ought invite her to join us. While she’s fluttering her eyelashes at you she’ll not be concentrating on the game in hand. I might relieve Mrs Kingston of a tidy sum this evening.’

Another quelling scowl met that teasing suggestion. Sir Jason did not appreciate his younger brother’s drollery for two reasons: firstly, he didn’t find Iris Kingston or her blatant interest in him attractive, and, secondly, his new mistress was becoming tiresome because she imagined she had a rival.

Mark Hunter lounged back in his chair and gave
Iris a glance. ‘She’s pretty enough, and so desperately eager you’d be a fool not to put yourself at her service….’

Jason dropped the cards onto green baize and shoved himself back in his chair, boredom etched into his features. ‘I need a drink,’ he bluntly stated on gaining his feet. ‘Have you seen Diana arrive?’

Mark retrieved the scattered cards with a swift sweep of a palm. He nodded towards a door that led out of Almack’s gaming room and into the corridor. ‘She flounced off that way some minutes ago. I’ll wager she spotted your admirer before you did yourself.’

Jason jammed his hands in his pockets and blew an irritated sigh through his teeth. Nevertheless, he set off in the direction in which his sulking paramour was said to have disappeared.

As he passed a throng of females, that included Mrs Kingston, he was obliquely aware that fans were being feverishly employed and whispers becoming more urgently sibilant. Despite his reluctance to acknowledge them, his breeding impelled him to nod curtly, to nobody in particular, as he passed by.

About to quit the room, he noticed that George Kingston had propped himself against the wall and was moodily watching him. He and Kingston were known to be openly hostile; nevertheless, Jason diverted
to where George was lounging—there was a matter of business that was on his mind. Following a perfunctory greeting, he launched straight away into, ‘I understand you are looking for a buyer for Westlea House.’

George found a firmer stance and drew himself up in his shoes to try and equal his rival’s height and breadth. Even with his chest fully expanded and his heels out of contact with the floor it was a futile task. ‘I’m looking for the
right
buyer for Westlea House.’

‘The right buyer or the right price?’ Jason enquired, amused.

‘What’s it to you?’ George snarled in response to that.

‘I buy freeholds at the right price, as you know.’

Indeed he did know that, George thought sourly. The man he hated, the same man his wife was eager to bed, had a portfolio of the most prestigious addresses in major cities throughout England. Rumour had it he also now owned prime land abroad. ‘A price named by you would never be the right price.’ It was a poor bluff. If this man offered him what he wanted, he would sell to him, they both knew that.

Jason acknowledged George’s petulance with a sardonic smile. It was no secret that the two men had once been friends, but now rarely spoke to one another.
A roving glance told him that their conversation was indeed drawing some inquisitive looks.

Most people had assumed that, when Jason gained his title and wealth, George had resented being the underdog. But it was not inequality of status that had stirred such antipathy between them.

Despite their estrangement, Jason was a businessman, not too fastidious to ignore a prime opportunity if it presented itself. Once he had despised George, but the bitter incident that started it all had been mellowed by the passing of a decade. In an odd way, Jason felt pity that the man who once had been a good friend was saddled with a wife who acted like a harlot. It was not past enmity, but Iris Kingston and her pathetic ambition to be his mistress that would jeopardise any reconciliation between them. He returned to the business at hand and something niggling in his mind. ‘I recall that your sisters reside at Westlea House …’

‘Alternative arrangements for them have already been made,’ George said quickly.

Jason nodded and, just for a moment, felt tempted to comfortingly grip his erstwhile friend by the shoulder and tell him that Iris would be wasting her time wanting a simple flirtation with him. But he knew such a sensitive fellow would construe any reassurance on the subject as effrontery. He glanced
away to notice a woman he did desire in the doorway of the room. Diana was bobbing her head this way and that as though searching for someone. As her blue eyes alighted on him she instinctively flicked her blonde curls and struck a dignified pose. Jason’s mouth tugged into a smile, for she had failed to convince him that she was careless of his presence.

‘I expect we might agree on a figure.’ He shoved away from the wall against which he had been propped.

George watched Jason saunter away. Inwardly he seethed at the cool confidence of the man, and the knowledge that, of course, he was right. He would sell to him.

‘Shall we find some more interesting diversion?’ Diana felt a thrill shiver through her as firm fingers brushed her arm. She swung about in a whisper of pink muslin to glance coyly up into a pair of eyes the colour of gunmetal. She pouted and exaggeratedly glanced about. ‘But, Jason, you might disappoint a certain person by leaving here so soon. Of course her husband would be delighted to see you go. He has a face like thunder.’ The peevish note to her voice put Jason’s teeth on edge. To subdue his sudden inclination to shrug and walk away, he allowed
his gaze to linger on what about her was undeniably captivating.

Diana Tucker had a figure of exquisite proportions. She was of above average height for a woman, which suited him for he stood six feet tall. Her body had ample curves, yet retained a gracefulness that was often lacking in full-bodied females. She was blessed with a pretty face, too, and hair the colour of ripe wheat.

The stirring in his loins helped subdue his temper and he soothed her pique with a sensual stroke of a thumb. ‘Come, there are better games to be had between us than those on offer here….’

Diana adopted a look of indecision simply to prolong his wooing touch. Alert to his impatience, she soon coyly lowered her lashes and voiced a breathy agreement to leave.

A few moments later, as Mrs Tucker swayed from the room on her lover’s elegant arm, she made quite sure that Iris Kingston felt the full force of her bold-eyed triumph.

‘Thank you, Betty.’ Helen took the proffered letter and gave the serving maid a smile. Once the door had closed, she looked at the black script on the note’s address for an indication from whence it came. ‘It’s from George,’ Helen announced, then
took another nibble at her breakfast toast before breaking the seal on the parchment. The toast, with so frugal an amount of butter spread on it, felt dry and scratchy in her mouth. Having moistened her throat with a sip of weak tea, she paraphrased, for Charlotte, the note’s contents.

‘It simply says that George would like me to visit today to discuss financial matters.’ Helen sent a smile to Charlotte, who was seated opposite her at their small breakfast table. ‘There! I knew he would come to his senses. He is ashamed at having squandered our funds on that selfish harridan he married.’

Charlotte picked up her tea and glumly watched the insipid liquid swirl in her cup. ‘I think he has the devil of a cheek making you go there. He has a carriage and ought to come here. Why should you walk a mile or more to see him?’

Helen looked thoughtful at that. It would indeed have been more convenient for her brother to come to Westlea House than for her to be summoned to travel halfway across Mayfair. She shrugged. ‘He probably thinks to make us work for our money. It doesn’t matter; it is a clement morning and I like a walk….’

Helen handed her umbrella to George’s servant, then carefully pushed back the drenched hood of
her cloak. As she entered the small study in which her brother was lounging by the mantelpiece, she felt decidedly miffed. ‘Really, George! Would it have hurt you to come to Westlea House? I expected you would do so once it came on to rain.’ She shook out her damp skirts and heard one of her shoes squelch as she stepped towards the blazing fire to warm herself.

George frowned at the small puddle forming beneath the hem of his sister’s skirt. ‘Why in Heaven’s name did you not hail a hackney in such weather?’

Helen raked her slender fingers through her sleek black hair whilst glowering at her brother. ‘Would you have paid the fare when I arrived?’ She gave a grim smile as she saw George’s expression.

‘Oh, I see, you have no money … I did not think …’ George mumbled sheepishly.

‘You never do,’ his sister returned sourly.

George made a show of gallantly shifting away from the fire to usher Helen towards it.

‘You will soon be dry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A little bit of rain never hurt a person.’

‘It is not a shower, but a downpour. If I catch a chill, I shall blame you,’ Helen muttered as she removed her cloak and draped it on a chair-back to dry. Having made herself more comfortable, she turned expectantly towards her brother.

George shuffled uneasily beneath Helen’s quizzical gaze. Abruptly he strode to the bell pull. ‘Let’s have some tea. I expect you could do with a nice hot drink.’

‘I could rather do with our money. You do have a draft to give me, don’t you?’

‘Umm … not exactly …’ George indicated that Helen should take a chair by the fire. ‘But I have some … suggestions to put to you that might ease our problems.’

Helen cast on her brother a deeply sceptical look. ‘What sort of suggestions?’ she demanded. ‘I have already said we have no more economies to make.’

‘No … it is not that.’ George passed a worrying hand over his jaw. ‘In truth, I
would
have come to Westlea House, you know, but I do not want Charlotte to hear what I have to say.’

‘Why ever not? She is nineteen. She is a woman in love … not a child.’

George nodded emphatically. ‘It is this
woman in love
that is our problem. It is ridiculous for a girl with her charms to marry a man who can give her nothing when she could have so much.’

‘It is as well that Charlotte is
not
in earshot!’ Despite yearning that Charlotte be allowed to follow her heart, as she had, Helen understood the logic in George’s words. Nothing was more certain to extinguish
romantic love than relentless scrimping and scraping. Helen looked her brother squarely in the eye, hoping he was about to announce that he had managed to reinstate Charlotte’s dowry. Briskly she said, ‘Charlotte wants to marry Philip.’

‘I have been thinking about Philip Goode and how he might perhaps improve his prospects.’

‘And?’ Helen asked eagerly.

‘He is a cousin of Sir Jason Hunter, did you know that?’

Helen frowned her annoyance. ‘No, I did not, but what is that to do with anything at all?’

‘It is a very tenuous connection. A fourth or fifth cousin on his mother’s side, I believe, is his kinship to Hunter.’

‘This is ridiculous, George. What of it?’

‘Jason Hunter is a rich and powerful man.’

‘I hope you are not about to suggest that Philip goes to beg charity from his distant cousin. He is a man with pride and principles. He will refuse to do anything of the sort. But if you were to give Charlotte her dowry … even a lesser sum than the original, it would—’

George interrupted his sister by making an impatient noise. ‘Any fund for a dowry will only come from the sale of Westlea House.’

Helen sent her brother a challenging look. ‘Will
you have a lawyer put that in writing? If I am to sacrifice my home, I will at the very least want to know that I have done so in order that Charlotte’s future is secure.’

‘A lawyer?’ George exploded. ‘Is my word on it not good enough?’

‘Indeed it is not,’ Helen said equably. ‘Were you true to your word, we would not be having this conversation.’

‘It is our sister’s duty to find a man who can adequately provide for her. If she would socialise properly, she would attract gentlemen like bees to a honey pot.’

‘She would also attract many cruel remarks. You know full well that she needs new clothes if she is to socialise in the circles you mean.’

‘I’d get her gowns … if I didn’t already owe a fortune to every blasted dressmaker in town.’ George’s features tightened in bitterness. ‘None of those damnable things were bought to please
me.
Iris is attempting to impress Hunter with her new finery.’

Helen rose from her chair and approached George to comfortingly take one of his hands. It was the first time he had openly spoken of Iris’s infatuation with Sir Jason Hunter. ‘You must put a stop to her avarice. We are all suffering because of it.’

George snatched back his fingers. ‘I don’t need
your pity, or your counsel. We must find a way of clearing my debts or Westlea House is to be sold. I have received some interest in it and cannot prevaricate for long.’ George dragged a hand through his hair and snapped, ‘For two pins I’d present Hunter with Iris’s dressmakers’ bills.’

Helen looked shocked, then a hysterical giggle erupted. ‘Indeed, so would I if I thought he might pay them. But I’ve heard that he seems little interested in Iris.’

‘Well, you’ve heard wrong, I tell you! He was flirting with her at Almack’s earlier in the week. Anybody can tell that they’re lovers.’ George’s face mottled with mortification for the untruth had easily burst out. He had noticed, as had every other person present that evening, that Jason Hunter barely acknowledged Iris. It had been oddly humiliating for him to witness his wife being shunned in favour of a demi-rep.

‘Well, you ought to challenge him over it and take your dressmakers’ bills with you!’ Helen exclaimed in exasperation.

‘I would not give him the satisfaction! I’m sure he flaunts their relationship simply to rile me. Why don’t you speak to the arrogant bas—?’ George snapped together his teeth before the abuse was fully out.