Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
is expecting me to call on him in Cheapside and after that I have to attend to pressing business in Holborn. Why do you not get Betty to fetch some tea, Helen? I expect Charlotte might soon be back and join you.’ He sauntered to collect his hat and gloves from the table before carrying on towards the door.
‘Perhaps Sir Jason might think you rather impolite,’ Helen sharply addressed her brother’s back. ‘Will you not stay just a short while, George, and keep us company?’
‘Of course I should like to, but I’m late already. Besides, I doubt Jason is come to see me. Anything in particular you must say to me, old chap?’ he asked with affable charm. ‘Not a thing.’
There was again an inflection to her visitor’s tone that made Helen sure the two men were tilting at one another. But her overriding desire was to get her brother to tarry long enough to give her an opportunity to slip away and tidy her appearance.
Having come and violently upset her, George was going to insouciantly depart and leave her to deal with the awkwardness of Jason Hunter’s untimely arrival. The slippery devil was also going to avoid a confrontation with Mr Drover this afternoon. George was once more about to wriggle free of providing the wherewithal for some provisions.
For some moments after George’s slick departure from Westlea House, the only sound in the cool parlour was the rhythmic tick of the mantel clock. Helen managed to subdue her anger at her sly brother for long enough to remember to offer what meagre hospitality was available. ‘Please do sit down if you wish, sir.’
Whilst her visitor was seating himself on the ancient leather chair he had used once before, Helen was finding another reason to despise George. His blithe assumption that she had refreshment to give a guest was a typical example of his careless ignorance over how his sisters existed at Westlea House.
Suddenly she pounced on a useful memory. In the dining room was a decanter half-full of Madeira. George kept it replenished in case he fancied a tipple when dropping in on them. Conscious of grey eyes steadily observing her profile, Helen announced with the aplomb of a competent hostess, ‘If you would like a drink, sir, my maid will be pleased to fetch you a glass of wine …’
‘I thank you, no,’ Jason said with a crooked smile. ‘I shall endeavour not to outstay my welcome.’
Helen again felt blood tingle beneath her cheeks. Perhaps his voice held no humour and she was simply too sensitive to being mocked.
She resisted the urge to press her fingertips to her face where skin felt singed by eyes like charcoal embers. She knew he had noticed the smudges on her face and the knowledge irked enough to make her prickly. ‘Is there a reason for your visit, sir?’
‘Indeed there is. I have come to advise you that I have arranged for a load of fuel to be delivered. Has the coalman already been? You look a little sooty …’
Helen inwardly winced, but nevertheless brought her mucky fingers into view and wiped them, very deliberately, with a handkerchief whipped from a pocket. ‘As you can see, sir, the delivery has indeed just arrived and, being unexpected, was inconvenient.’ She rolled the stained cloth into a ball and hid it in a fist. ‘Whilst not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, perhaps you would care to explain why you thought to interfere in something that is not your concern.’
‘But it is my concern, Mrs Marlowe,’ he softly corrected. He leaned back in his chair, lifting a boot to settle at an angle on the other leg. His long lashes screened the expression in his eyes as he said, ‘Maintaining this house is now my responsibility. The structure is damp and I have decided it would benefit from some warmth in the rooms.’
Slowly Helen absorbed the awful significance of what she had heard. ‘Westlea House is now your property?’
‘Yes.’
‘The deal is all done? It is finalised so soon?’ Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. As though the full force of the news had finally penetrated, Helen allowed a startled glance to flit about the parlour, as if trying to imprint every faded feature on her mind.
‘The sale was finalised a few days ago. I’m surprised that your brother has not already found an opportunity to tell you of it.’ Jason paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Has George said anything at all to you about the terms and conditions we agreed?’
Helen absently shook her head. She cared little for knowing the details of the deal. Besides, she could guess that the terms and conditions to which he referred centred on the speedy ejection from the premises of George’s sisters.
Suddenly she perceived exactly why her brother had been so eager to immediately leave when this man arrived. George had cravenly scampered away lest the news slip out and cause a bad atmosphere. He would not like his sister to harangue him, in front of such an influential acquaintance, over the indecently hasty sale of their childhood home. Helen grimly realised that, had her brother been still within range, she might have forgone a verbal assault in favour of a physical one. Her fingers unconsciously wrung the handkerchief until it loudly yielded. She looked down at the shredded linen, then carefully put it out of sight in a pocket.
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.