Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (7 page)

It was useless blaming Jason Hunter for depriving her of her beloved Westlea House. It was all George’s fault. She walked in a daze to the window and gazed out sightlessly at a smart phaeton. Her trancelike state prevented her from noticing that a neighbour out walking had hesitated to peer inquisitively between the expensive equipage and her front
door. Suddenly Helen whirled about to launch some breathless questions. ‘Must we leave here immediately? Is that the real reason you have come today? To give us notice to quit?’

Having accepted the comfort of a chair for barely a few minutes, Jason was again on his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, tipping up his head, frowned at the ceiling. ‘No, that is not the reason I came here, Mrs Marlowe. I was actually speaking the truth when I said I wanted to tell you a merchant would be calling.’

Helen flushed beneath the tacit warning that he resented the implication he was a liar. But she was to anguished by the loss of Westlea House to offer an apology. All she would now deal in were hard facts. ‘When must we leave?’ she demanded to know, struggling to sound coolly polite.

‘You may stay here until your brother finds you suitable accommodation.’

Helen smothered a laugh with the back of a quivering hand. ‘You must be a patient man then, Sir Jason, for I will never find Rowan Walk suitable.’

‘Then George must rent another property. If he fails to do so, he will forfeit a sum of money. It is a condition of the sale, signed and witnessed, that you and your sister are housed somewhere that is acceptable to you.’

Helen’s fists tightened at her sides. ‘And that condition was your idea?’

Jason signalled a brief affirmative with a lazy hand and an expressive lift of his dark brows.

‘If you are expecting me to thank you, sir, I am afraid I cannot. If you withhold George’s money, he will use that as an excuse to continue to keep us short. Besides,
this
house is the one acceptable to us.’

‘If it is really what you want, you may stay here.’

Helen’s topaz eyes flew wide in astonishment. A moment later they had narrowed suspiciously. George’s theory on this man’s interest in Charlotte niggled mercilessly at her mind. Gentlemen did not offer shelter to young ladies unless they were relations … or the target of lustful intentions. ‘What do you mean … we may stay here?’ she enquired in a glacial tone.

‘I mean that your brother must rent you somewhere to live. This house is now mine and I would consider granting a tenancy on it.’

‘You would not when you discover how little my brother would be prepared to pay you,’ Helen said with a brittle laugh. ‘The property on Rowan Walk is taken for six months and he will not squander the expense of that. I told you he had committed to it when last we met. Perhaps you had forgotten what I said.’

‘I haven’t forgotten one thing you said to me, Mrs Marlowe. And, I repeat, if you want to remain here, I’m sure something can be arranged.’

Helen again felt an
alarming frisson
race through her. Had she misjudged and berated George unfairly? Her brother might think her too naïve, but unbeknown to him she had personal experience of the negotiations between rich men and poor women.

Two years ago she had received, and rebuffed, a proposition from a gentleman wanting to offer her his protection. Colin Bridgeman had written to her of his respectful admiration and of how he was confident that
something could be arranged
between them. Helen had felt at the time quite angry when Mr Bridgeman had ignored her curt note of refusal and written again, coaxingly, of the benefits she would receive. She had been on the point of telling George to speak to the insufferable lecher. Now, of course, she was glad she had kept the matter private—doubtless George would have insisted that she take up Mr Bridgeman’s kind offer.

Helen shot a wary glance at Jason’s face. He returned her regard with quite pleasant directness.

She had spoken to him once before in a blunt way that would guarantee her ostracism by polite society should they ever know of it. Taking a deep, inspiriting breath Helen blurted out, ‘I must beg your
pardon, sir, and your forbearance, but I find I must again speak to you in a way that will be considered shockingly improper.’

‘Please say what you must. I’d rather there was no misunderstanding between us.’

But having boldly got that far, even his gentle prompting could not bolster her courage. Looking up at his worryingly handsome face, she decided first to try and prise some clues from him. ‘When you arrived here today … I expect you overheard … that is … I’m sure you know George and I were arguing.’ Large amber eyes peeked up through a web of inky lashes to discern his reaction.

‘I admit I was aware of a heated exchange.’ Jason’s mouth tilted, but he seemed unwilling to elaborate.

‘I’m not sure how much you overheard …’ Helen probed.

Jason felt tempted to smooth back the lustrous strand of hair that clung stubbornly to her soot-smudged cheek. Instead he murmured, ‘Please don’t embarrass yourself by mentioning it further, Mrs Marlowe. Suffice to say that I was not disappointed on hearing your opinion of me.’

Helen felt fiery blood rush beneath her complexion.

Seeing he had heightened her confusion, Jason
soothed softly, ‘My intention was
not
to embarrass you, Mrs Marlowe. Let’s say no more of it.’

Helen cleared her throat. ‘I find I cannot just dismiss it, sir, for I’m not now sure that George deserved the ticking off I gave him.’

‘And what has changed your mind?’

‘Something you have said …’

Jason twisted a slight smile. ‘Ah, I see. You no longer think me a principled rake … just a rake. Will you enlighten me as to how I have disgraced myself in such a short while?’

Helen nodded, but his mild mockery had made words again awkwardly clutter her throat.

Jason walked to the cold marble mantel and braced a lean hand against it. ‘Let me hazard a guess and save you the ordeal of telling me. You think that any benefits I have offered will be subject to unpleasant conditions. Let me reassure you. I do not need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with me.’

Helen’s beautiful eyes shot to his face as the awful truth registered. He thought she was hinting he found
her
attractive.

‘Me?’
Helen gasped in a voice that hovered between ridicule and outrage. ‘Oh, no! I don’t think you want me at all. I think it is Charlotte you’re after.’

‘C
harlotte? Your younger sister?’

Helen had to admit that his astonishment seemed genuine. His brow, visible beneath a fall of dark hair, had furrowed, and he looked ready to laugh. Feeling unaccountably nettled by his reaction, she gave a curt nod.

‘You think that I have designs on your sister’s virtue.’ It was a toneless statement and he now looked far from amused.

Helen felt her pique wilt beneath his latent anger. She chewed nervously at her lower lip and tried to avoid the ominous glitter in his eyes. But still she wanted to hear his denial. ‘Are you saying you didn’t intend to attach strings to your generosity?’

‘Is there any point in saying anything at all? It seems I’ve already been found guilty as charged.’

‘No! That’s not true. I told George I did not think you capable of callously seducing a chaste young woman.’ She had come closer to him in her agitation and a small hand raised as though she would clasp his forearm in emphasis.

Just for an instant their eyes coupled, travelled together to her outstretched fingers. Helen quickly curled the slender digits into her palm and the fist dropped to her side.

‘But you think my leniency extends only to untried maids,’ he stated quietly.

‘I do not think you a callous man at all,’ Helen briskly said with a crisp back-step. ‘I’m sorry if I have offended you, but I did warn you I had nothing pleasant to say. Charlotte is just nineteen and hoping soon to get engaged. A hint of scandal would ruin her reputation and her future.’ She hoped that her apologetic explanation had sweetened his temper, but received no such sign.

A finger fiddled a bothersome curl behind a small ear. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned any of it. It is just that … someone said you were showing an unusual interest in Charlotte.’

‘I wonder who it was?’

The question was soft, sardonic, and Helen knew that trying to shield George was pointless. Jason was
perfectly aware who had sown that particular poisonous seed in her mind.

The best form of defence is attack,
her papa would have counselled had he known her predicament. And she did have a grievance of her own to air! ‘I know you went to see my brother after you left here last week. He told me so this afternoon.’ She gave him a reproachful look. ‘I had already apologised to you for being impertinent that day. Perhaps if you had not gone off telling tales to him my sister’s name would not have arisen and thus no misunderstandings either.’

‘So I’m not only suspected of being a brute, but a tattler, too.’

Jason shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slanted a searing look at her from beneath curved black lashes. ‘Do you seriously think I would waste an hour of my time bleating to your brother about how horrid you had been to me?’

Helen winced at the dark irony in his voice. ‘I realise you had other matters to discuss with George, too,’ she tartly allowed.

‘Indeed, I did,’ Jason drawled. ‘Actually, I must thank you, Mrs Marlowe, for bringing something to my attention. It seems that a comment from me was long overdue on a slanderous rumour going around.
I have not cuckolded your brother and have no intention of doing so.’

Helen’s heart jumped a beat, then started an erratic tattoo beneath her ribs. She had certainly not expected
that
to be one of the topics he had discussed with George. ‘Be that as it may, sir,’ she breathed, ‘you have only yourself to blame that people have assumed differently. If you flirt outrageously with my sister-in-law, you ought know gossip will ensue.’

‘I abandoned flirting a decade or more ago, Mrs Marlowe. And you ought know that, where I am concerned, your brother is a regular mischief-maker. I suspect his wife is, too.’

He was correct, of course, in his assessment of her kin. Moreover, she believed he had been wrongly maligned, and thus could have made much more of a complaint than a taciturn observation on the devious natures of her brother and sister-in-law. Nevertheless, Helen instinctively bristled at receiving even a mild rebuke from him. She blinked and moistened her dry mouth by delicately tracing her lower lip with her tongue tip.

His steady, penetrating appraisal flustered Helen and she fought to equal his calm demeanour. She wished he would go, yet, confusingly, was reluctant to lose his company. There was something about
him that was daunting, yet very appealing. He seemed in no rush to leave despite having done his duty and advised her of the coal delivery. Perhaps he was allowing her an opportunity to raise objections to his criticism of George and Iris from consanguinity. But her selfish sister-in-law deserved no such championship, and she baulked at the level of hypocrisy required to defend her brother.

Unspoken words seemed to whisper between them in the tense silence. She sensed he was daring her to voice the thoughts haunting her mind. Persistent phrases crept again to teeter on her tongue-tip.
Why do you stare? Is it me you want?

Helen compressed her shapely lips into a tight line as though forcibly preventing any such shameful utterances from escaping. Jason Hunter had told her earlier, with faint scorn, that he had no need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with him. But what if they needed no such persuasion?

Helen averted her face, hoping to conceal the blush she again felt staining her complexion. It was not his potent presence that caused her embarrassment, but her own unquiet mind. She had never before considered herself conceited, yet a silly fantasy that this gentleman might desire her would not quit her thoughts.

Helen knew, as did the rest of polite society, that Jason Hunter had selected Mrs Tucker to fill the role her sister-in-law coveted.

Some months ago, when she had been out walking with Charlotte and a friend of theirs, Emily Beaumont, she had observed a beautiful young woman alight gracefully from a shiny carriage drawn by a pair of splendid greys. Servants in smart black livery had been in attendance and the ensemble had drawn admiring glances, not only from Helen’s party, but from other people promenading, too. Emily had whispered that Sir Jason Hunter had provided the lady’s transport. It was at that point that Helen learned from Emily the identity of the favoured lady and why Sir Jason would be so generous.

Diana Tucker had soon made her way, with confident step, into a shop. Helen had pensively studied her stylish outfit, thinking that, with her superior air and elegant bearing, she might have been a nobleman’s daughter rather than a notorious courtesan.

In her mind’s eye Helen could again see blonde curls dancing over blue velvet shoulders and a pretty face shadowed by a plumed hat cocked to a jaunty angle. In her nostrils was a faint redolence of an exotic perfume that had wafted in Mrs Tucker’s wake on that particular afternoon.

An involuntary glance down at her appearance took in her drab skirt and frayed cuffs. Her critical eyes spotted the soot smudges on her hands and she absently rubbed her fingertips together. She recalled that her face was similarly grubby and her hair dishevelled. At that moment she was conscious of how very risible was her idea that she might attract a disturbingly rich and handsome baronet. It prompted her to stutter into the silence, ‘For … forgive me, sir, but it seems we have said all we must. My sister will soon be home, and …’

‘And you would like me to leave,’ he finished for her in a wry tone.

Helen nodded and managed a grateful smile. She was on the point of summoning Betty to show him out when the maid poked her head about the door. The housemaid was holding the handle close to her body with just her face and mobcap visible at an angle.

‘What is it, Betty?’ Helen asked quickly, alarmed by her servant’s odd appearance.

Betty took a nimble sideways step over the threshold and tried to immediately shut the door behind her. It was to no avail. She was suddenly sent flying as the door was shoved fully open and a stout gentleman barged in to the parlour. He was garbed in a brown wool coat and beneath a burly arm was squashed his hat.

‘Is this him?’ Samuel Drover loudly demanded, forgoing introduction or explanation for his outrageous intrusion. His balding pate was snapped down in the direction of Jason. ‘Is it him?’ he again insisted on knowing. His scalp remained low and pointing straight ahead, although his eyes had swivelled to bulge at Helen.

Helen blinked rapidly, momentarily shocked to speechlessness.

‘I told him you was prior engaged with company, ma’am,’ Betty mumbled, miserably aware of her mistress’s petrified consternation. ‘He don’t never listen. He just pushed past … uncouth he is …’

Samuel Drover was unaffected by that slur on his character. ‘Is this the poor fellow?’ he purred sarcastically. He eyed the imposing gentleman stationed by the mantelpiece, a dark hand braced on pale marble and a faintly bemused expression shaping his beautifully stern features. ‘I must say he don’t look to be on his uppers.’ Mr. Drover subjected Jason to a calculating inspection. ‘I reckon this person could find fifty-three pounds two shillings and five halfpenny in his pocket right now.’ With that he whipped a bill from somewhere inside his coat and begun to stride purposefully forward.

Having finally shaken herself from her daze, Helen said in a quaver, ‘Mr Drover, please wait in
the hallway and I will—’ She broke off to skip over the oak boards as Samuel Drover continued his menacing advance towards Jason.

Helen deftly interposed her petite figure between the belligerent grocer and the muscular physique of her new landlord. She stood with her chin elevated and her back to Jason as though she would protect him from assault … or having his pockets picked. With her countenance alternating between shocked pallor and pink mortification, she announced, ‘Mr Drover! Listen to me! This gentleman is most definitely
not
my brother, I cannot impress on you strongly enough that I resent …’ Helen’s impassioned plea was curtailed as firm hands, gentle as a caress, enclosed her upper arms. Suddenly she was lifted a little way off the ground and then deposited carefully at Jason’s side.

Mr Drover tottered back a step as a broad hand suddenly shot towards him.

‘I don’t think we have been properly introduced. I am Sir Jason Hunter.’

Samuel Drover glared suspiciously at the five elegant digits extended towards him.

Having clapped his eyes on a gentleman with dark hair and a handsome visage, at his ease inside Westlea House, Samuel was impressed enough by the likeness between the couple to have decided this must be the tight-fist to whom Mrs Marlowe was related.

‘How can I be sure you’re not this lady’s brother?’ he queried whilst giving a single pump to Jason’s hand.

‘Should you demand proof, my mother, I think, would attest to my legitimacy, having first planted you a facer.’ It was no empty jest. The Dowager Lady Hunter was renowned for a fiery temperament that remained unabated despite her having recently reached the stately decade of a sexagenarian.

Samuel Drover’s eyes squinted upwards in consideration. Defeated, he muttered, ‘Well, whoever you say you are, I want my cash. And don’t try to pull a fast one and take your custom elsewhere. I’ll tell every other merchant hereabouts to avoid your business. Don’t think I won’t.’

Numb with humiliation Helen could only watch glassily as Jason suddenly took Mr Drover’s shoulder in what looked to be an exceedingly firm grip. Five fingers bit further into brown wool as the man tried to shrug him off.

‘I think you have made your point,’ Jason said.

‘If you’re not Kingston, where is he? Do you know?’ The grocer gave Helen a hard stare. ‘Mrs Marlowe thinks to keep that information from me. I’ll find out his direction and set the duns on him.’

‘I understand your predicament, sir,’ Jason said equably, steering Samuel about with one hand in
quite a facile fashion. ‘However, as you can see, Mrs Marlowe’s brother is not here, so you appear to be wasting your time and your threats.’

‘I’ll take back the sack of potatoes, or what’s left of it, that my boy brought here last week.’ Mr Drover aimed that over his shoulder at Helen as Jason propelled him towards the door.

‘I’ll bid you good afternoon, Mrs Marlowe,’ Jason said as he paused for a moment on the threshold. His easy stance seemed in no way affected by the restriction he was imposing on the fidgeting merchant.

Helen fleetingly met his gaze and a flicker of gentleness in his eyes put a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Don’t pity me!
It was a silent, heartfelt demand that threatened to burst the sob swelling in her chest. Quickly she lowered her prickling eyes to her tightly laced fingers. Unaware that Jason had nudged the florid-faced grocer forward into the hallway, she managed an imperceptible nod at an empty doorway. ‘Yes … good day to you, sir….’

‘You look as though you’ve lost a sovereign and found a shilling.’

Jason scowled at his brother as he passed him. By the time Mark Hunter had turned on the sweeping staircase, peered at his brother’s flying heels, then hared after him, Jason had strode the length of a
thickly carpeted corridor. He slammed into his study, downed two shots of whisky one after the other and was refilling his glass when Mark appeared.

‘Bad time at the tables?’ Mark’s tone was sympathetic as he speculated on a possible, if unlikely, cause of his brother’s dark disposition. He helped himself to Jason’s decanter and, after a couple of gulps from his glass, realised his commiserations remained unappreciated. He tried a blunter approach. ‘Devil take it, Jay, if you’ve not lost at cards, what’s up with you now? It’s too much, I tell you, having to continually look at your long face. You’ve been odd for weeks.’

Jason let his lean frame drop into the chair positioned behind a grand oak desk. Having settled himself with his boots resting on the table edge, he slanted his brother a stare over the rim of his glass. ‘When did my moods become your damned business? And why is it every time I come home, you’re here? I don’t remember inviting you to move in.’ His brother’s pained expression caused him to blow out his cheeks and gesture apology with a flick of a hand.

‘I know the old goat wants shooting for acting so blasted idiotic,’ Mark intoned with some indignation. ‘But, even if the two women are good friends, it don’t just affect
your
mistress, y’know. Every bachelor
in town is cursing over it, so no need to take it out on me if Diana is being tricky.’