Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

Her brother might plead poverty and pretend to be an injured party but he lived well, far better than did Charlotte and she. He might not have ready cash, but he had assets to sell. The new landau in which his wife sashayed around town was just one such valuable item.

The cab drew up outside Westlea House and Helen handed over some coins to the jarvey. She gave his impassive wrinkled countenance a sharp look, wondering whether she ought to bring to his attention the fact that he had almost knocked down one of the ton’s most notable personages. She decided against it and, unusually, added a small tip to the fare.

Helen removed her grey velvet gown and carefully hung it on a hook. She had dressed with such care that morning in the few garments she possessed that were elegant, if dated in style. She had not wanted Sir Jason to see her looking like a waif and stray come abegging. A small smile twisted her lips; she might just as well have called on him dressed in her washed-out twill; all her painstaking toilette had been in vain.

Feeling chilled, she quickly donned her old day dress, then knotted a woollen shawl over it for warmth. She studied her reflection, lips tilting wryly at the incongruous sight of her faded blue gown hanging loosely from her slender hips whilst her hair was still primped to perfection. Briskly she removed the pins from her sleek coiffure and brushed through the silky coils. As she was about to loop it into a neat chignon, a loud noise startled her. She heard the doorknocker again being forcefully employed.

There was only one person she knew of who felt entitled to so imperiously announce himself: Mr Drover, of Drover’s Wares and Provisions in Monmouth Street. Helen had been expecting him to call for a week or more. She felt sure she knew what the grocer wanted, and was tempted to pretend nobody was home. But that would simply delay the inevitable and deny them further supplies. With a sigh she quickly went below, her mind foraging for plausible excuses for delaying payment of what they owed whilst inveigling for another delivery soon.

‘May I come in?’

Helen sensed her heart stop beating, then start to hammer in a rapid irregular rhythm. Obliquely she realised she had been terribly rude in instinctively pushing the door almost shut. She strove for self-control as she made wider the aperture by a few inches to blurt, ‘What do you want, sir?’

Jason tilted his head to try and see more of the petite woman stationed behind peeling green paint. Merely a tantalising sliver of her figure was now visible and her features were concealed behind a curtain of loose dark hair. ‘What do I want? I want to know what you want, Mrs Marlowe … apart from trying to assassinate me with a hackney cab….’

Helen jerked the door towards her and gazed at him with large astonished eyes. ‘I did not intend you harm! It was an accident! And had you been civil when I called on you earlier, you would by now know what I want.’

Jason found himself confronted by a fragile woman garbed in a dress that looked as though it had seen far better days … probably when it had fitted her. Now it was too large and as shabby as the shawl she was gripping tightly about her slender arms. His gaze returned to her face and lingered. She’d been bonny as a child. Now a hungry look had pared flesh from a heart-shaped face framed by hair as lustrous as black silk. But it was her eyes that mesmerised him and he realised that old Cedric’s sight must be failing too if he thought them yellow. They were the colour of fine cognac.

Helen felt herself flush beneath his silent, searing appraisal, certain that she knew what prompted it. He’s wondering whether I had the cheek to arrive at his grand house dressed like this. The thought brought slashes of colour to highlight her sharp cheekbones and for a long moment she simply met his slate-eyed gaze with haughty belligerence. Had he taken the trouble to see her, he would not need to speculate on how she’d been attired.

‘May I come in?’ Jason repeated. ‘It might be as well to have this conversation out of sight of prying eyes.’

Immediately Helen’s gaze darted past him; it certainly would give the neighbours something to gossip over should she be seen trading accusations on her doorstep with a distinguished gentleman of the ton. For barely a moment longer she dithered, undecided whether to send him away. But in truth she knew she ought make some sort of explanation for her unsolicited call on him. She also had been presented with a prime opportunity to do what she had really set out to do: to tell him that she and Charlotte were not willingly quitting their home, no matter what business he had hatched with her brother. Besides, now he was here, she had no intention of letting him go without taking a flea in his ear for treating her so vilely!

Helen crisply stepped back allowing him to enter the cold and gloomy interior of Westlea House.

In the parlour Helen indicated a chair by the unlit fire and then took the seat that faced it. She watched as Sir Jason Hunter perched his large frame, with effortless elegance, on the edge of the cracked hide.

After a tense moment in which Helen could think of nothing sensible to say because his eyes were so unnervingly fixed on her, she announced, ‘I would offer you some refreshment, sir, but my serving maid is out at present.’ It was true Betty was out; it was also true that only limp grouts, twice used already, were what she had to offer any visitor.

Jason moved a hand, dismissing the apology as unnecessary, then leaned back in his chair. From beneath subtle lids he considered Helen Marlowe and her intriguingly fragile beauty.

He had not spoken to her for ten years or so when he and her brother were still on good terms. He had heard she had married, and been widowed, but they no longer had any mutual friends who might bring them into proper contact. He racked his brain to try and recall the last occasion he had seen her at a distance and where that had been. He thought it had probably been in Hyde Park over two years ago. He wondered if she had then been as waif-like as she looked now.

Helen clasped her quivering fingers in her lap. She was sure she knew what he was thinking, for she was acutely aware of it, too: their status and social circles were now vastly different. Once he had been welcomed in to their home and she had been invited to Thorne Park to play with his sister, Beatrice.

Those past halcyon days were a world away from how she lived now. Now Charlotte and she socialised with people of their own station: people whose financial status limited their entertainment to simple at-homes. Outings to the theatre or exhibitions were treats that came rarely, for even the cost of travelling to such venues was beyond their means.

From the top of his glossy dark head to the toe of the gleaming leather boot in her line of vision, Sir Jason Hunter exuded an air of affluence and power that was stifling in its intensity. She had dared to go and see him, uninvited, to tell him he could not have this house. With wounding clarity she understood that, if he wanted it, he would take it. She raised her head and a flitting glance about her beloved, faded room encouraged her that he might decide Westlea House an unattractive investment after all. Her musings were brought abruptly to a close by a cultured baritone voice.

‘I must apologise for the poor welcome you received when you called on me. My butler was confused as to your identity.’

‘I’m not sure why,’ Helen returned coolly. ‘I gave my name.’

‘What name did you give?’ Jason asked. He leaned forward, linking his fingers and resting his forearms on his knees. He felt tempted to rub together his palms. The room was stone cold and a pale spring afternoon let little light into it. Nevertheless he could see her exquisite eyes watching him.

‘I said I was Mrs Marlowe, née Kingston,’ Helen answered him. ‘I fail to see what is confusing in that.’

Jason’s mouth took on a wry slant, for suddenly he understood how the sorry episode had come about. Helen Marlowe had a softly spoken, melodic quality to her voice. Marlowe, née had sounded to his deaf butler like Margo May. ‘Cedric announced you as Mrs Kingston.’

‘Why? Can he not hear?’

‘Not very well,’ Jason admitted with a ghost of a smile. ‘Nevertheless, that is no excuse for his bizarre interpretation of my instruction to show my visitor to a side room. The incident won’t go unpunished. I have long tolerated his eccentric ways. It is time, I think, to let him go.’

‘I would not have you do that on my account,’ Helen immediately objected. ‘He looks to be an aged gentleman. I doubt he would get another position, especially if afflicted with poor hearing.’ Helen knew too well the rigours of possessing little money; she didn’t want it on her conscience that she had robbed an old man of his wages in his twilight years. She gave Jason a trenchant look. ‘Besides, even if the draughty cloakroom was not your idea, I imagine the lengthy wait I endured was.’

Jason looked at the proud tilt to her sculpted little chin and felt utterly despicable to have subjected her to such discomfort and humiliation. ‘I’m afraid it was,’ he honestly said. ‘And I am hoping that in some way I can make amends. I won’t have you think I indulge in petty spitefulness because your brother and I don’t see eye to eye.’

Helen met his gaze challengingly.

‘That is what you think, isn’t it?’

‘It was,’ Helen replied, ‘until you clarified matters a moment ago.’

Jason’s grey eyes narrowed on her. ‘And what do you think now?’

‘I think you believed my sister-in-law had paid you a visit. I think you decided to punish her by keeping her waiting for you. Why? Had you had a lovers’ tiff?’

Chapter Four

‘Lovers’ tiff?’

The query was mildly quizzical, yet Jason’s eyes resembled flint.

Helen felt her mouth become dry and her tongue trembled moisture to her lips. Moments ago he had said he would like to make amends for showing her such poor hospitality earlier that day. It was unexpected, but most welcome news. A favour from this man was exactly what she wanted, but ladies … even those of shabby gentility … did not speak of a gentleman’s amours. Such impertinence was hardly likely to cultivate his goodwill.

Since Helen learned she had been mistaken for Iris Kingston a single thought had dominated her mind and she fervently wished she had curbed her inclination to voice it. Sir Jason had believed George’s wife to be his visitor and his intention had been to eventually oblige her with his presence. Was Iris so besotted with the arrogant man that she would have allowed him to humble her in such a way?

Helen had good reason to dislike her sister-in-law, yet felt oddly piqued on her behalf. She was also a little indignant on her own account. How was she to know if, as Mrs Marlowe, she might have been turned away from his door?

The room was dim, his face in shadow; nevertheless, Helen winced on noticing a definite mocking slant to his lips. She feared he knew of her regret at having acted with such spontaneous vulgarity.

Iris had succeeded in her ambition to become his mistress. George had said they had been openly flirting earlier in the week … blatantly flaunting their affair. Such behaviour was sure to invite comment, thus Helen’s face was beautifully prim as she announced, ‘I am afraid I cannot pretend ignorance of your liaison with my sister-in-law. I have heard the rumours …’ A hideous idea made her falter and demand, ‘I hope you do not imagine I intentionally set out to impersonate Iris in the hope such a ruse would get me over your threshold.’

‘Had you announced yourself simply as Mrs Marlowe, it would have guaranteed that you not only got over my threshold, but got my immediate attention.’

A cluck of disbelief dismissed that. ‘You would not have known who on earth Mrs Marlowe was. When last we conversed, I was Miss Kingston.’

‘Be assured, I would have known who you were.’

Helen’s eyes darted to his at that husky affirmation. But still he made no remark about her impropriety. No doubt he considered it beneath his dignity to do so. But she could tell the matter had affected him. His composure could not completely camouflage that he was annoyed.

A tense silence ensued and Helen was conscious that he might now take himself off without questioning her further. Perhaps he had deduced from her attitude that she had gone to his house with the intention of interfering in his affairs. Sibling loyalty—however inappropriate—could conceivably propel her to confront the man who was making a cuckold of her brother. He had apologised and soothed his conscience, something she had yet to achieve for her own.

She was alert to a slight movement he made, sure it meant he was making ready to leave. ‘I must say sorry, too,’ Helen blurted. ‘I was rude. I should not have been quite so explicit … that is … I accept that your association with George’s wife is none of my concern. My brother is able to fight his own battles.’

‘Is he? It occurs to me that perhaps he sent you to see me.’

Helen tensed at that observation and a surge of guilt stained her cheeks. It had indeed been her brother’s angry challenge—whether uttered in jest or not—that had prompted her visit.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Helen flicked a nervous gesture. ‘You would be hardly likely to pay attention to my opinion.’

‘I’m doing so now….’

Tawny eyes sought to read his expression in the half-light. He had not sounded sarcastic, but it was hard to tell. ‘If you are being sincere, sir, I must take advantage of the opportunity to … to …’ She faltered, frowned at her fingers with the strain of being diplomatic. Her opinion, should she honestly give it, was hardly likely to be well received. How much attention would he want to pay to the fact that Charlotte and she endured hardship because his mistress was avaricious and selfish?

The loss of their allowance, and Charlotte’s dowry, the imminent sale of Westlea House—all had come about since George took a gold-digger to wife. The thought that now she must petition the gold-digger’s lover in order that she and her sister could have some basic necessities made ire burn in her blood. But she would not again make mention of the dratted woman. Rather she would concentrate on keeping her home.

‘My brother is being dunned by his creditors and that is why he wants to sell this house. It is home to me and my sister Charlotte.’

Jason gained his feet in a lithe movement. ‘And you have heard that I want to buy it.’ It was a neutral statement.

‘Yes,’ Helen said, very conscious of the height and breadth of him as he passed her chair.

‘You don’t want me to have it?’

‘It is rather that I do not want to lose it,’ Helen said carefully.

Jason turned his back to the empty grate and cast up a glance at a ceiling meshed with cracks. ‘I expect you will prefer living elsewhere. The upkeep of a property such as this is high.’

‘It suits us to stay,’ Helen interrupted firmly.

‘George has arranged other accommodation for you and your sister, yet you’d rather stay here?’

‘Indeed I would.’ Helen breathed fiercely. So he knew that George wanted to locate them in a seedy neighbourhood. ‘Our home might be rather shabby, but I am afraid even a flash house on Rowan Walk would be unacceptable. In fact, I have no intention of being dispatched there.’

Jason moved closer to the petite figure that had jumped to its feet. He could tell from her raised chin and tight fists that she was furiously embarrassed. And he understood why. ‘Rowan Walk?’ he echoed in disbelief. ‘What the devil is he thinking of housing his sisters in such an area?’

‘He is thinking of what he can afford,’ Helen retorted immediately. ‘I am sure he would have chosen somewhere more salubrious had his wife not squandered so much on gowns and hats and other selfish whims in order to hook you—’ She abruptly bit at her lower lip to stem further angry complaints.

‘Go on …’ Jason quietly invited.

‘Very well, I shall.’ The declaration was child-like in its defiance. ‘My brother is being dunned and I am to lose my home because your mistress is a selfish spendthrift. Whether you know it or not, sir, indirectly you are a reason we suffer.’

It was too late to perhaps phrase things more tactfully, but there was less volume to Helen’s voice when she continued, ‘George has dressmakers’ accounts and so on that he simply cannot pay …’

‘And I am to blame?’

‘I have just said so.’

The impenitent statement elicited a mirthless laugh. ‘You are a very loyal sister, if blinkered to your brother’s faults.’

‘On the contrary, I have no illusions as to George’s character. He is weak and foolish to allow his wife to constantly manipulate and humiliate him. It is to my sister, Charlotte, that I owe my loyalty.’ Helen moved closer to him, hoping the blaze in her eyes and the tenor of her voice would impress on him the strength of her outrage.

She looked into a face of raw-boned masculinity. Even as she glared at him, prepared to continue her tirade, she could not block the thought that he was breathtakingly handsome. ‘You are aware that Westlea House has been owned by Kingstons for generations. It was Papa’s intention that it should be home to Charlotte and me for years to come. Even had we both settled elsewhere with husbands, my father would have expected George to keep it in the family. He would be distraught to know his son married a shameless adulteress and, as a consequence, the house his wife loved must be sold for a paltry sum.’

‘You think I intend to cheat you of its true worth?’

Helen was very aware of his grey gaze lowering to her face with that remark. ‘You are a businessman, and very successful I have heard. I can’t pretend to know much of commerce, but I’m sure you will want to negotiate terms favourable to you.’

‘I’ll pay a fair price for the property and George cannot withhold what is due to you and your sister from the proceeds.’

‘We have no pecuniary claim on this house.’ Tears of frustration sprung to Helen’s eyes at that awful truth and she swiftly swung her face away. The movement caused black tresses to fly out and momentarily skim silkily on his dark hand. ‘This property belongs in its entirety to George. We have nothing other than the memory of our father’s wishes with which to bargain. Already George has broken his undertaking to dispense our allowance.’ Helen turned to him, then held her breath as his eyes settled on her mouth. Abruptly she became aware of how close they now were. Barely a few inches separated her faded cambric bodice from the splendid wool of his jacket. She distanced herself with a small backwards step. And then took another.

In a moment of unguarded bitterness she had disclosed far too much that was private to a man she barely knew and certainly could not trust. He was her brother’s enemy … hers, too, perhaps. It niggled at the back of her mind that he might use the intelligence she had just provided to his advantage. She might lack business acumen, but she understood the rudiments. It was extremely foolish to disclose one’s desperation when negotiating a deal. Far from paying George what was fair for their property, perhaps she had just provided Jason Hunter with the ammunition he needed to haggle.

Helen sensed her spirit sapping. She felt like slumping into a chair to weep. She would not do that, of course, for Charlotte would fret to see her upset. Charlotte! She had forgotten about her sister’s imminent return.

Should her sister come in and find her in the company of an imposing stranger, it would be certain to provoke a host of questions, the answers to which could only be depressing. ‘I must ask you to leave, sir. My sister will soon be back from visiting her friends and … it is best no explanations are needed for your presence here.’ Without awaiting a response to that, Helen walked, with confident step, to the parlour door and opened it.

Jason dipped his head slightly, ruefully accepting his dismissal. In the hallway he turned and stared significantly at wallpaper drooping loose close to the coving. ‘You intend to stay here?’

‘Indeed, I do.’ Helen had bridled at his tacit disparagement. ‘This property holds very happy memories of my parents and my childhood.’

Jason nodded absently, glancing about. ‘I remember those days … I remember you …’ Abruptly his eyes swerved back to her.

The look he gave her was lingering and penetrative and caused her again to blush. He remembered her … A decade ago her face and figure would have been attractively rounded by sufficient food. Her clothes would have been new and stylish. At fifteen she had been beautiful.

His quiet acceptance of her wretched appearance now was hard to bear. Had he displayed surprise or distaste at her deterioration she might have preferred it.

Having been in his company for some while without worrying unduly that she looked a fright, she was suddenly acutely self-conscious. She was ashamed of her worn dress and her locks wild about her shoulders. Belatedly she inwardly railed at fate. Why had he not arrived on her doorstep just five minutes sooner, when her hair was in its pins and she had been still garbed in her good clothes?

She jolted her mind from pointless wishes to say, ‘I bid you good day, sir, and please take with you my apologies for the mishap on the road. The cab driver could not have seen you, I fear. Thankfully it seems no harm was done to you.’

A corner of his finely moulded mouth tilted, causing heat to return to her cheeks.

‘I appreciate your concern, Mrs Marlowe.’

For some minutes after the front door had closed Helen remained staring at its paint-peeling panels with the sound of his softly mocking voice echoing in her ears.

‘Mr and Mrs Kingston are about to dine, sir.’ The manservant whispered that with a concerned frown. One didn’t expect a caller at this hour, especially when it was a gentleman of such eminence. Robbins quickly deduced it must be a matter of some moment to bring Sir Jason Hunter here with an angry glitter in his eyes and his mouth clamped to a thin line.

Robbins had been in the Kingstons’ employ long enough to know of the hostility that existed between this man and his master. He also knew that, whereas Mr Kingston didn’t like Jason Hunter, Mrs Kingston did … rather too much, if gossip was to be believed. The idea that a pillar of polite society would flout etiquette and visit his mistress at her husband’s house caused Robbins to almost snort his disbelief. He transformed the noise into a cough. ‘Are you expected by Mr or Mrs Kingston, Sir Jason?’

‘No, but I will not keep Mr Kingston long from his dinner. Please tell him that I should like to see him on a pressing matter of business.’

Robbins still seemed thoughtful and immovable.

‘Tell him …’ Jason urged gently, but a terse flick of his head betrayed his impatience.

The manservant needed no further prompting; quickly he hurried away.

‘Have a care! Why are you haring about like that?’ Iris snapped tetchily as she stepped from her bedroom to almost collide with Robbins.

Breathlessly the servant gabbled, ‘There is a gentleman to see Mr Hunter … umm … I mean there is a gentleman to see Mr Kingston. Sir Jason Hunter is below.’

A wondrous look immediately lifted Iris’s sulky countenance. So explicit was her excitement that it caused a sardonic twitch to her servant’s lips. When the lady of the house inelegantly pushed past him to fly towards the top of the stairs, Robbins shook his head in disgust.

‘Sir Jason … such an agreeable surprise … I hope … no, I must insist … you stay and dine with us.’ It was coyly said and Iris posed with a white hand fondling the banister before swaying towards him in a whisper of sky blue silk. She kept her eyes lowered until close enough to coyly peep up at his face. What she read in his expression made a hand flutter to her pearly throat and a budding smile wither on her ruby lips.