Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (5 page)

Iris flinched from the ice in his voice, but was reluctant to relinquish the fantasy that he was really
here to see her. His brusqueness she explained away: he was uncomfortable with her knowing he longed for her company. And Heaven only knew it was folly to visit her at home when gossip about them was already going around. When they were in public together he could appear aloof but that, too, was a simple ruse to camouflage his tumultuous feelings … a tumult she provoked! She was sure he would soon succumb to those secret yearnings and discreetly proposition her. After all, he could not possibly prefer that common baggage.
Mrs Tucker!
The harlot had never been wed! Diana simply sought to protect her worthless reputation by claiming the status of a widow and everybody knew it.

Iris smoothed her jewelled fingers over the shimmering silk of her skirt, pleased that she had chosen to wear it. She knew the colour matched her eyes and the snug fit to the bodice enhanced her bosom.

‘What do you want, Hunter?’

George had been in his study and had just received his servant’s breathless message that Sir Jason Hunter requested an audience. George’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he noticed how close together were his entranced wife and his unwanted caller.

‘I want to speak to you,’ Jason returned in a voice that was low and clipped. He stepped past Iris without giving her another glance.

‘Can it not wait till tomorrow? We are about to dine.’

‘Your wife has invited me to stay and join you. Shall I do that, or shall we attend to business so I might leave you in peace?’

Iris’s lips tightened in annoyance for she knew full well George would rid them of Jason’s company as soon as he could.

‘Would you mind terribly leaving us, my dear?’ George drawled the request, but a significant stare had Iris blushing. ‘Ask Mrs Jones to delay dinner for a little while. This will not take long.’

After a twitched smile and a tiny bob Iris flounced away. Before disappearing below, she watched George show Jason to his study.

‘What the devil is this about, Hunter? We were just about to sit down. Have you no notion of proper behaviour?’

‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.’

‘Me?’ George choked an astonished laugh as he went to his desk and used the decanter. ‘Well, just to impress on you that
I
am a gentleman with certain standards … would you care for a drink?’ Without awaiting a reply he thrust a glass of brandy at Jason.

‘A gentleman with certain standards,’
Jason mimicked sarcastically. ‘Why is it, then, you allow your
sisters to exist in conditions more often found in Whitechapel than Mayfair?’

George gulped too quickly at his brandy and wheezed a cough. ‘Explain how you know … What do you mean?’ he hoarsely corrected himself.

‘This afternoon I went to Westlea House.’

George looked warily at him. ‘You ought to have made an appointment for that. You had no right to go there uninvited.’

‘You have sent me a contract to sign. I have every right to survey what I am buying.’

‘Perhaps; but you have no right to study my family. How my sisters live is my business and none of your concern.’ George sipped more sedately at his drink.

‘Is that right?’ Jason drawled. ‘I’ve recently been told that not only is their plight my concern, but my fault. What is it you really want to sell me, George? Your house or your sister?’

‘T
hat is an exceedingly strange thing to say. Am I to take it as a joke?’ George frowned in studied thoughtfulness.

‘If it were a joke, it would be in poor taste.’

‘I’ll take it as a joke, then,’ George drawled with heavy irony. ‘If I were to take it seriously, I should act as a good brother and defend Helen’s honour.’

‘How did you know to which sister I was referring?’ Jason’s teeth flashed in a silent laugh as George’s complexion became ruddy. ‘You’ve no need to answer.’ His tone was husky with mock sympathy. ‘Obviously I realise how you know, you sent Mrs Marlowe to see me.’

George snatched up his drink and took a swig before delivering a curt response. ‘That is another exceedingly strange thing to say, Hunter, and not at all
funny. It appears you have no notion of what is good taste.’

‘It appears you have no notion of how to act as a good brother.’

George’s mouth thinned. ‘So you have this afternoon been talking to my sister Helen,’ he snapped. ‘What of it?’

‘You sent her to see me. Why?’

‘I did no such thing,’ George angrily refuted. ‘If you knew Helen better, you’d realise that she does as she pleases. A fine day it would be, and no mistake, if she followed my dictates.’ He barked a laugh. ‘If she did what
I
told her, she would by now be remarried.’

‘And thus no financial burden on you.’

‘Indeed,’ George retorted without shame or remorse.

‘I gather you were entrusted with the care of your sisters after Colonel Kingston died. Yet they seem to be fending, not very successfully, for themselves.’

‘I’ll not discuss any of my family’s private business with you!’ George thundered and slammed down his glass on a table that became beaded with brandy. ‘How my sisters go on is none of your concern.’

‘But you’d like to make it so. You’re wasting your
time, Kingston. If you have a clear conscience over it, I don’t see why I should give a damn.’ Even as the callous words were uttered Jason flexed the hand that remembered her touch. A phantom caress from ebony hair was again on his skin and a faint redolence of lavender water teased his senses. He cursed beneath his breath as fingers curled about the brandy George had given him. The amber spirit reminded him of the same soulful-eyed woman. Abruptly he put down the drink and walked to the door, aiming a contemptuous stare at George as he passed him. He halted with a hand gripping the handle.

‘I’ve offered you a generous price for a property in need of extensive repair, and with tenants who are unwilling to leave.’

‘There is no need for you to fret over my sisters’ accommodation. I have already explained that I have made other arrangements for them.’

‘And the dilapidations? The house has obviously been neglected for many years.’

George’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. So that was what it was really all about! Money! Hunter had come to haggle over the price now he knew the condition of the property. George had expected to expediently conclude the sale confident that Jason would rely on a memory of Westlea House in its elegant heyday. ‘Are you about to renege on the deal?
If you have named a price beyond your means, please say so….’

‘I think you know I have not,’ Jason enunciated very quietly.

George fiddled nervously with the lawn knot at his throat, for Jason’s icy grey gaze was unrelenting. He already regretted having resorted to using scorn. George knew, as did most people, that little was beyond this man’s means. The knowledge was galling, yet he was wily enough to know when to retreat. ‘Westlea House might now appear a little drab, but it is basically sound and will be grand again. When I have payment you will have vacant possession.’

‘You think that your sisters will accept being moved to Rowan Walk?’

George made an exasperated gesture. ‘I’ve had enough of this! You are being damned inquisitive and impertinent over matters that are not for discussion. You are not the only party interested in such a prime piece of property.’ Smugly he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Bridgeman has made an offer on it.’

‘But not at the figure I gave you. Nobody will match the sum, and you know it.’

George’s smirk collapsed—his bluff had been immediately trumped. Colin Bridgeman’s offer was far lower and George had been hoping nobody but he was aware of it.

George glowered at his adversary from beneath heavy lids. Hunter hadn’t come here simply to complain that Westlea House was rundown. What was bothering him, George was sure, was his meeting with Helen. A crafty smile was imminent, but it withered as Jason stepped purposefully back into the room.

‘Before I leave, it is timely to comment on some gossip whilst we are discussing family affairs. It seems your sister is under the impression that I am conducting an illicit relationship with your wife. She has heard a rumour, she said.’

George turned pale, but made no other indication that the subject affected him.

‘I’m sorry to have to speak so bluntly, but this matter needs to be addressed,’ Jason continued levelly. ‘Let me make absolutely clear that I have no romantic interest in your wife. You and Mrs Kingston must deplore the nonsense that is being bandied about to the contrary.’ Jason waited, but a rapid tic at the corner of George’s compressed lips was all the response he received.

‘There has been enough bad blood between us, George. I will not be falsely accused of a dalliance with your wife.’

George turned his back on his visitor. So! Helen had not minced her words with him. He now sensed
that sly smile tug at his lips as he wondered whether she had gone so far as to demand he settle with Iris’s confounded
modistes.
‘I’m surprised you think a mention needs to be made of it,’ he slung over a disdainfully elevated shoulder. ‘
I
never comment on pathetic concoctions doing the rounds. What I will say is that my eldest sister at times forgets her breeding. She can be far too outspoken and act outside her role. I shall not apologise for her impertinence, if that is what you hoped.’

‘You have no need to do so, Mrs Marlowe apologised on her own account.’

‘When was that? When she called on you or when you paid a visit to her?’

George’s tone held an insinuation that made Jason’s eyes narrow to stony slits.

‘I was otherwise engaged when your sister paid me a call. I was thus not able to speak to her until I surveyed the house.’

‘I’m sure you took a thorough look at it all.’

‘I always do when someone is too keen to sell me something.’

The threat George saw in Jason’s countenance made him reconsider riling him further. He simply asked innocently, ‘Are we to renegotiate the price because of the dilapidations you saw or the insults you heard?’

‘I’ll honour the sum first agreed on one condition: you find decent accommodation for your sisters.’

George examined his fingernails. ‘What’s it to you where they live?’

Indeed, Jason wryly thought, what was it to him? But the memory of Helen Marlowe’s fragility cocooned by a threadbare dress was again in his mind. Despite her ugly clothing and unbound hair, despite her furious embarrassment when telling him she was to be sent to live on Rowan Walk, she had exuded a quiet pride … a stubborn grace. He recalled the feverish flush he had more than once brought to liven her marble-white complexion. There was meagre satisfaction in knowing that by discomfiting her he had momentarily kept her warm.

Helen Marlowe was neglected because her brother was weak and selfish and unable to control the grasping harlot he had married.

Jason wondered how Iris Kingston would like living in a freezing house, clothed in faded cotton. He wondered how she would withstand feeling hungry, for Helen had looked as though little nourishment passed her lips. He felt tempted to sneeringly voice his thoughts to her inept guardian. Instead he bit out glacially, ‘I’ll not have people think I’m in any way involved in putting two gentlewomen on Rowan Walk.’

‘In case it’s imagined you have a … shall we say, special interest in one of them? Both of them?’

Jason allowed that sneer to curl his lip. ‘I’ve never yet housed a paramour so poorly. The fact that you would consider settling your sisters in such surroundings disgusts me.’

‘I’m sure you know that your opinion of me counts for nought.’

Jason smiled his contempt on turning away. ‘I’ll let you get to your dinner … and your lady wife.’ In the corridor he halted to say, ‘Mrs Marlowe was alone when I visited. I didn’t see your younger sister Charlotte. How old is she now?’

George looked startled at that question. ‘Charlotte’s nineteen. She’s quite a beauty …’

‘I’m sure,’ Jason said drily. He enjoyed a leisurely moment before allaying George’s anxiety. ‘No need to fret, George, you chose the right one to send to me.’

George stared at the door for some moments after it had closed. He did not immediately go to the dining room to partake of his dinner. He returned to the decanter and poured another brandy. With a frowning countenance and a hand plunged deep into a pocket, he ambled to the fireplace to contemplate the smouldering embers. He tipped up his head to stare into a mirror soaring above the mantelpiece. A corner
of his mouth lifted before a huge grin displayed his triumph. He raised his glass, saluted his reflection then downed the cognac in one swallow.

‘He won’t go, Mrs Marlowe,’ Betty announced, with an air of resignation, from the parlour threshold.

Helen looked up from Mr Drover’s account, hand delivered that very morning and accompanied by a terse, if ill-spelled, demand for payment for provisions delivered to date. Her eyes were fleetingly drawn back to the postscript in bold print: he would be back for payment before close of business today. Helen doubted it was an empty threat.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Helen exclaimed in irritation. Pushing the papers away across the table, she jumped to her feet. She glanced over at Charlotte, who had raised her head from her embroidery on hearing her sister’s vexed imprecation.

Bored with her stitching, Charlotte tossed the sampler aside and followed her sister into the hallway. Diversion, even of the variety that might conclude in unpleasantness, was a relief from monotony and hunger pangs.

Helen marched towards a grimy face cocked about her front door—it was the sum of the fellow she could see on her step. With a yank the door was
fully opened and she looked fully at the mucky, pungent person. ‘Look, my good man, my maid has already told you that we have not ordered a delivery. I’m afraid you are at the wrong house.’

‘No, I ain’t.’

‘You are, I tell you!’ Helen contested with strengthening volume and impatience. ‘I do not even hold an account with your company.

‘Bin paid for.’

‘Well, in that case those …’ a wagging finger indicated the coal sacks ‘ … are most certainly not mine. Go to your depot and check your records.’

A blackened hand dived into a pocket and the coalman thrust a paper at Helen. A tantalising redolence of dusty warmth wafted to Helen’s nostrils from his coarse fingers.

‘Wot’s that say?’ he demanded.

Helen tilted back her head to focus on a scrawled address. ‘There must be another Westlea House …’

‘Not in this square, there ain’t.’ He tapped black dust on to the scrap of paper. ‘That’s what it says … see.’

A glimmer of an idea … extraordinary as it was … entered Helen’s mind. She took the note and scanned it for clues. ‘Did Mr Kingston arrange for this delivery and pay for it through his account?’

‘Might ’ave bin ’im, but not on account. The yard
clerk took cash.’ A white slash appeared in his dusky complexion as he grinned. ‘That’s more’n good enough. No questions needed to be arst. Where d’ya want this put? I got other places to go, y’know.’

‘Here is George now,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘He must have been feeling most generous. I expect he’s come to make sure the coal has arrived.’

Helen looked from the merchant’s surly countenance to the smart rig that had stopped behind a cart laden with oily-looking bags. ‘So it is,’ Helen muttered with an amazed little huff of a laugh. Never before had their brother taken it upon himself to order a stick of wood or a quarter of tea for them. Prising the money from him in order that she might do so was the routine they had invariably followed till now. ‘I suppose there is a first time for everything. Heavens! I hope he has not come to ask for his money back,’ Helen muttered, not wholly joking. ‘He might have been in his cups when the guilty feelings took hold of him.’ Stepping back from the door Helen instructed Betty to deal with the delivery while she and Charlotte went to the parlour to receive their brother.

George had barely stepped into the room, his hand hovering at his coat buttons, when Helen burst out, ‘Why have you done such a stupid thing, George? You have paid cash?
Cash?’
she stressed angrily. ‘Did it not occur to you that half of what you
have spent on fuel might have been used for food? Do you think we might eat coal? And I am quite capable … as ever I have been … of ordering in my own supplies. I know what we need better than do you. Had you given the money to me, I would have used it far more wisely and—’

‘What in God’s name are you going on about?’ George demanded. ‘If you think that coalman is my doing, you are very much mistaken.’

Helen looked amazed, then distraught. As the consequences of what she had heard penetrated her mind, she dashed to the door. ‘I knew it! It
is
the wrong house,’ she muttered, appalled at the knowledge that the merchant would be in no mood to want to remove his wares from her bunker.

George caught at her arm as she made to fly past him. ‘I doubt it is the wrong house and, if it is, it is that fellow’s error, not yours.’

Helen saw in her brother’s eyes a gleam of something akin to amused satisfaction. She was further convinced he was pleased with himself when he gave her a bright smile. Helen chewed at her lip. Past experience had taught her that it boded ill when George looked smug.

‘Do you know more of this than you are letting on, George?’

George recommenced unbuttoning his coat and
seemed about to shrug it off. As though suddenly conscious of the chill in the room, he pulled the woollen lapels together to cover his chest. Dropping his hat and gloves on to the table, he informed her with a slanting glance, ‘Sir Jason Hunter came to see me earlier in the week.’