Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, but I am not here on a social call, madam. Where is your husband?’
Iris flinched from the ice in his voice, but was reluctant