Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

‘Alternative arrangements for them have already been made,’ George said quickly.

Jason nodded and, just for a moment, felt tempted to comfortingly grip his erstwhile friend by the shoulder and tell him that Iris would be wasting her time wanting a simple flirtation with him. But he knew such a sensitive fellow would construe any reassurance on the subject as effrontery. He glanced away to notice a woman he did desire in the doorway of the room. Diana was bobbing her head this way and that as though searching for someone. As her blue eyes alighted on him she instinctively flicked her blonde curls and struck a dignified pose. Jason’s mouth tugged into a smile, for she had failed to convince him that she was careless of his presence.

‘I expect we might agree on a figure.’ He shoved away from the wall against which he had been propped.

George watched Jason saunter away. Inwardly he seethed at the cool confidence of the man, and the knowledge that, of course, he was right. He would sell to him.

‘Shall we find some more interesting diversion?’ Diana felt a thrill shiver through her as firm fingers brushed her arm. She swung about in a whisper of pink muslin to glance coyly up into a pair of eyes the colour of gunmetal. She pouted and exaggeratedly glanced about. ‘But, Jason, you might disappoint a certain person by leaving here so soon. Of course her husband would be delighted to see you go. He has a face like thunder.’ The peevish note to her voice put Jason’s teeth on edge. To subdue his sudden inclination to shrug and walk away, he allowed his gaze to linger on what about her was undeniably captivating.

Diana Tucker had a figure of exquisite proportions. She was of above average height for a woman, which suited him for he stood six feet tall. Her body had ample curves, yet retained a gracefulness that was often lacking in full-bodied females. She was blessed with a pretty face, too, and hair the colour of ripe wheat.

The stirring in his loins helped subdue his temper and he soothed her pique with a sensual stroke of a thumb. ‘Come, there are better games to be had between us than those on offer here….’

Diana adopted a look of indecision simply to prolong his wooing touch. Alert to his impatience, she soon coyly lowered her lashes and voiced a breathy agreement to leave.

A few moments later, as Mrs Tucker swayed from the room on her lover’s elegant arm, she made quite sure that Iris Kingston felt the full force of her bold-eyed triumph.

‘Thank you, Betty.’ Helen took the proffered letter and gave the serving maid a smile. Once the door had closed, she looked at the black script on the note’s address for an indication from whence it came. ‘It’s from George,’ Helen announced, then took another nibble at her breakfast toast before breaking the seal on the parchment. The toast, with so frugal an amount of butter spread on it, felt dry and scratchy in her mouth. Having moistened her throat with a sip of weak tea, she paraphrased, for Charlotte, the note’s contents.

‘It simply says that George would like me to visit today to discuss financial matters.’ Helen sent a smile to Charlotte, who was seated opposite her at their small breakfast table. ‘There! I knew he would come to his senses. He is ashamed at having squandered our funds on that selfish harridan he married.’

Charlotte picked up her tea and glumly watched the insipid liquid swirl in her cup. ‘I think he has the devil of a cheek making you go there. He has a carriage and ought to come here. Why should you walk a mile or more to see him?’

Helen looked thoughtful at that. It would indeed have been more convenient for her brother to come to Westlea House than for her to be summoned to travel halfway across Mayfair. She shrugged. ‘He probably thinks to make us work for our money. It doesn’t matter; it is a clement morning and I like a walk….’

Helen handed her umbrella to George’s servant, then carefully pushed back the drenched hood of her cloak. As she entered the small study in which her brother was lounging by the mantelpiece, she felt decidedly miffed. ‘Really, George! Would it have hurt you to come to Westlea House? I expected you would do so once it came on to rain.’ She shook out her damp skirts and heard one of her shoes squelch as she stepped towards the blazing fire to warm herself.

George frowned at the small puddle forming beneath the hem of his sister’s skirt. ‘Why in Heaven’s name did you not hail a hackney in such weather?’

Helen raked her slender fingers through her sleek black hair whilst glowering at her brother. ‘Would you have paid the fare when I arrived?’ She gave a grim smile as she saw George’s expression.

‘Oh, I see, you have no money … I did not think …’ George mumbled sheepishly.

‘You never do,’ his sister returned sourly.

George made a show of gallantly shifting away from the fire to usher Helen towards it.

‘You will soon be dry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A little bit of rain never hurt a person.’

‘It is not a shower, but a downpour. If I catch a chill, I shall blame you,’ Helen muttered as she removed her cloak and draped it on a chair-back to dry. Having made herself more comfortable, she turned expectantly towards her brother.

George shuffled uneasily beneath Helen’s quizzical gaze. Abruptly he strode to the bell pull. ‘Let’s have some tea. I expect you could do with a nice hot drink.’

‘I could rather do with our money. You do have a draft to give me, don’t you?’

‘Umm … not exactly …’ George indicated that Helen should take a chair by the fire. ‘But I have some … suggestions to put to you that might ease our problems.’

Helen cast on her brother a deeply sceptical look. ‘What sort of suggestions?’ she demanded. ‘I have already said we have no more economies to make.’

‘No … it is not that.’ George passed a worrying hand over his jaw. ‘In truth, I would have come to Westlea House, you know, but I do not want Charlotte to hear what I have to say.’

‘Why ever not? She is nineteen. She is a woman in love … not a child.’

George nodded emphatically. ‘It is this woman in love that is our problem. It is ridiculous for a girl with her charms to marry a man who can give her nothing when she could have so much.’

‘It is as well that Charlotte is not in earshot!’ Despite yearning that Charlotte be allowed to follow her heart, as she had, Helen understood the logic in George’s words. Nothing was more certain to extinguish romantic love than relentless scrimping and scraping. Helen looked her brother squarely in the eye, hoping he was about to announce that he had managed to reinstate Charlotte’s dowry. Briskly she said, ‘Charlotte wants to marry Philip.’

‘I have been thinking about Philip Goode and how he might perhaps improve his prospects.’

‘And?’ Helen asked eagerly.

‘He is a cousin of Sir Jason Hunter, did you know that?’

Helen frowned her annoyance. ‘No, I did not, but what is that to do with anything at all?’

‘It is a very tenuous connection. A fourth or fifth cousin on his mother’s side, I believe, is his kinship to Hunter.’

‘This is ridiculous, George. What of it?’

‘Jason Hunter is a rich and powerful man.’

‘I hope you are not about to suggest that Philip goes to beg charity from his distant cousin. He is a man with pride and principles. He will refuse to do anything of the sort. But if you were to give Charlotte her dowry … even a lesser sum than the original, it would—’

George interrupted his sister by making an impatient noise. ‘Any fund for a dowry will only come from the sale of Westlea House.’

Helen sent her brother a challenging look. ‘Will you have a lawyer put that in writing? If I am to sacrifice my home, I will at the very least want to know that I have done so in order that Charlotte’s future is secure.’

‘A lawyer?’ George exploded. ‘Is my word on it not good enough?’

‘Indeed it is not,’ Helen said equably. ‘Were you true to your word, we would not be having this conversation.’

‘It is our sister’s duty to find a man who can adequately provide for her. If she would socialise properly, she would attract gentlemen like bees to a honey pot.’

‘She would also attract many cruel remarks. You know full well that she needs new clothes if she is to socialise in the circles you mean.’

‘I’d get her gowns … if I didn’t already owe a fortune to every blasted dressmaker in town.’ George’s features tightened in bitterness. ‘None of those damnable things were bought to please me. Iris is attempting to impress Hunter with her new finery.’

Helen rose from her chair and approached George to comfortingly take one of his hands. It was the first time he had openly spoken of Iris’s infatuation with Sir Jason Hunter. ‘You must put a stop to her avarice. We are all suffering because of it.’

George snatched back his fingers. ‘I don’t need your pity, or your counsel. We must find a way of clearing my debts or Westlea House is to be sold. I have received some interest in it and cannot prevaricate for long.’ George dragged a hand through his hair and snapped, ‘For two pins I’d present Hunter with Iris’s dressmakers’ bills.’

Helen looked shocked, then a hysterical giggle erupted. ‘Indeed, so would I if I thought he might pay them. But I’ve heard that he seems little interested in Iris.’

‘Well, you’ve heard wrong, I tell you! He was flirting with her at Almack’s earlier in the week. Anybody can tell that they’re lovers.’ George’s face mottled with mortification for the untruth had easily burst out. He had noticed, as had every other person present that evening, that Jason Hunter barely acknowledged Iris. It had been oddly humiliating for him to witness his wife being shunned in favour of a demi-rep.

‘Well, you ought to challenge him over it and take your dressmakers’ bills with you!’ Helen exclaimed in exasperation.

‘I would not give him the satisfaction! I’m sure he flaunts their relationship simply to rile me. Why don’t you speak to the arrogant bas—?’ George snapped together his teeth before the abuse was fully out.

‘Me?’ Helen choked a shocked laugh.

George dismissed the subject with a terse flick of a hand and stalked off to glare through the window.

Helen was aware that her brother and Jason Hunter had fallen out many years ago. She had been about fifteen at the time of the estrangement and shielded by her papa from knowing the sordid details. But she had heard whispers that they had fought over a woman. At the time she had felt sad that Jason no longer visited, for she had liked him. More honestly she had harboured a juvenile tendresse for him. But now all that was inconsequential. Over a decade had passed and there were far more vital matters at stake than two grown men sulking over past slights.

‘This is quite ridiculous.’ Helen sighed. ‘It is reprehensible of you not to have done your duty by us.’

‘And it is reprehensible of you not to have done your duty by me!’ George thundered. ‘Do you think that I would have promised our father to support you had I known that seven years later you would still be a burden on me? Father was under the impression that, after a decent mourning for Marlowe, you would remarry, and so was I.’

Helen’s face grew pallid. ‘Papa didn’t say that …’

‘Indeed he did.’ This time not a hint of shame betrayed the untruth that flew from George’s mouth. ‘He thought that by the time Charlotte had left the schoolroom, and was ready to make her début, you would have done the decent thing and removed yourself elsewhere. You accuse me of selfishness! You ought to look to your own behaviour.’

Helen stared, stricken, at her brother. ‘Papa never mentioned anything of the sort to me,’ she cried. ‘I was always welcome in his house …’

‘He probably thought he did not need to be blunt. He probably thought your conscience would guide you on it.’

George eyed his sister with calculation. ‘Hunter wants Westlea House, he told me so at Almack’s. I detest the man, but I shall sell it to him. I need cash quickly and he has a plentiful supply of the stuff.’

‘You can’t!’ Helen emphatically shook her brother’s arm.

‘Indeed I can! Philip Goode ought to swallow his damnable pride and beg his cousin for assistance. Hunter has connections in the city. There are lucrative positions to be had in banking and so on.’

Helen stared at her brother, silently entreating him to reconsider.

‘I can tell you think Goode too spineless a fellow to act. Believe me when I say Hunter is a different kettle of fish. He is a ruthless man and, once the deal is done, he would not hesitate in sending the bailiffs to evict you.’

Chapter Three

‘What?’

Jason Hunter turned his grey eyes on his aged servant. He wasn’t certain that he had correctly heard the message, for his visitors were creating a din that had smothered Cedric’s croak.

The old fellow whispered again, ‘A lady is here to see you, sir.’

‘Yes, that much I gathered. What name did you say?’

Mark Hunter’s second ribald anecdote caused the gentlemen congregating in Jason’s library to resume guffawing.

‘Mrs Kingston.’

Jason heard the husky sibilance through the noise and his mouth thinned before a low oath exploded through touching teeth. Enraged by the damnable audacity of the Kingston woman to bother him at home, he gave Cedric a curt nod and snapped, ‘Put her in a side room and tell her to wait.’

Cedric dipped his wispy head, understanding exactly why his master was so put out. His weary bones might not allow him to venture far from the house these days, and his deaf ear might prevent him getting all the gossip, but he knew that a woman named Kingston was making a fool of herself over Sir Jason. Brazen hussy she was, too, with her haughty look. All airs and graces! He’d known her station straight away. Ask her to wait, indeed! It wouldn’t have happened in the old master’s days. Cedric wagged his head to himself. Oh, he’d find the baggage a place to wait!

‘What was that all about?’ Mark demanded as he watched Cedric slowly amble from the room.

‘None of your business,’ his brother rebuffed bluntly. He refilled his glass from the decanter and asked Peter Wenham what price he wanted for his hunting lodge. The Wenham estate edged his own land at Thorne Park and the lodge and surrounding fields would be a fine addition to his Surrey acreage. A quizzical smile met the ambitious price his friend cited, but Jason gave that more charitable consideration than the accursed female waiting for him below.

He would see Iris … eventually. But he’d let her kick her heels. Perhaps a little blatant incivility would finally penetrate her vanity; she might come to understand that, far from finding her attractive, her behaviour disgusted him. If she could not take the hint, he would have to clearly tell her some truths. He was sick of being stalked and spied on when out; he certainly did not intend having her hound him at home. If she repeated to George what must, of necessity, be an unpleasant incident between them this afternoon, so be it.

One hour and five minutes later, when his brother and their friends had noisily departed, Jason descended the stairs of his opulent mansion in Grosvenor Square. He quite hoped his unwelcome visitor had tired of waiting for him and had removed herself. However, that would leave matters unresolved. He swore beneath his breath in exasperation. It would be as well if Mrs Kingston were still loitering about the place somewhere. Not by nature inhospitable, he nevertheless hoped that Cedric hadn’t been plying her with refreshment to wile away the time. Within one step of the marble-flagged hallway he halted, and watched curiously as Cedric emerged, shaking his head, from a cloakroom.

Cedric glanced up and, seeing his master’s bemused expression, hobbled across to glumly impart, ‘I am afraid she has gone, sir. Mrs Kingston can’t be found.’

‘Did you think she might be lurking in there?’

The mildly amused comment caused Cedric’s loose jowls to take on an unusual sanguinity.

Jason had hoped that Iris hadn’t been mollycoddled; from his butler’s guilty look it seemed he had little to fear on that score! ‘Where exactly did you show her to wait?’ he demanded to know.

Cedric’s withered lips puckered mutinously on understanding the reprimand in Sir Jason’s tone. He had been working for Hunters before this fellow was a twinkle in his sire’s eye. He was the old master’s servant, not this young pup’s. Sir Gordon Hunter had been happy to leave the welcome … or otherwise … of uninvited callers to his discretion. Had Sir Gordon been alive, the Kingston woman wouldn’t have put one foot over the threshold, let alone been given the courtesy of a seat. ‘Bold as brass and looking at me with those cat’s eyes …’ he mumbled out defensively. A watchful, watery eye slanted at his employer. He had been subjected to that scowl before, and caught the sharp side of the fellow’s tongue. Cedric now knew to quickly curb his insubordination, for he was aware the boy kept him on simply because his father had said he must.

‘Cat’s eyes?’ Jason echoed exceedingly quietly.

‘Eh?’ Cedric cocked his good ear towards his master.

‘You said she had cat’s eyes.’ Jason’s tone held much volume and scant patience.

‘Yellow … like a cat.’ It was a statement accompanied by a wag of Cedric’s head. He continued to mutter to himself. In his opinion he’d put the baggage where she belonged.

Jason frowned. He took little notice of Iris Kingston, avoided her when possible; nevertheless, he had been close enough at times to know her eyes were blue.

‘What else can you recall of her appearance?’

‘Thin … black hair … prim.’ Cedric listed out each trait as though it was a sin.

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he pondered on whom it could be the old fool had insulted. ‘And she gave her name as Mrs Kingston?’

‘Gave her name in full, she did. Mrs Margo May Kingston, she told me.’

The furrow in Jason’s brow deepened. He knew no other Mrs Kingston. If for some bizarre reason an impostor were masquerading as the Mrs Kingston he did know, she surely would introduce herself correctly. Noticing that Cedric was sliding wary glances at him, he dismissed him with a flick of a hand and a caution. ‘We’ll speak further about this.’

As Cedric trudged away Jason took out his watch. Diana was expecting him to traipse around the warehouses with her this afternoon and he was already late. If his tardiness provoked a fit of the sulks he might be sorely tempted to go instead to White’s and find some uncomplicated male company. He strode to the door, the question of his visitor’s identity now submerged beneath thoughts of another exasperating female. At times he doubted Diana’s delightful attributes were compensation enough for her juvenile nature.

‘Please accompany me inside, Jason. How am I to know if you would rather see me in blue satin or lemon silk …?’

Jason felt tempted to honestly say that he couldn’t care less in what Diana chose to garb herself. The only reason he paid for any woman’s finery was to see it in a crumpled heap on the floor. ‘If you can’t decide between them, buy both.’

Diana showed her pleasure at his generosity by sliding along the phaeton’s seat to rub her hip on his thigh.

Jason acknowledged the artful caress with a cynical twitch of the lips. He then tilted his head to watch a man beckoning him from across the street. ‘I’ll join you inside in a short while. Peter Wenham’s over there and I want to speak to him on a matter of business.’

Diana limited her pique to a pretty pout. A most pleasing aspect of having hooked such a distinguished and wealthy protector was being able to show him off to envious females. There was no better place to parade her triumph than in Baldwin’s Emporium, for women of every class were to be found browsing the sumptuous array of wares.

Diana’s sulky expression brightened when she spied an acquaintance of her own. Mrs Bertram was approaching with a servant trotting behind. Obviously the woman had started shopping early, for the poor maid was bearing evidence of numerous purchases.

Georgina Bertram was the mistress of Lord Frobisher and an erstwhile playmate of Diana’s. The two young women were of similar age and had been reared in rags in the shadow of the east London docks. Both had been blessed with abundant female charms and a most canny instinct on how to exploit such assets to escape the drudgery their mothers endured. They engaged in quite a good-natured rivalry when it came to finding rich gentlemen to keep them. With an affectionate squeeze for Jason’s arm, Diana nimbly alighted, with a groom’s help, from the smart phaeton. ‘Don’t be too long,’ she breathily nagged over a coquettish shoulder. Soon she was entering the shop arm in arm with Mrs Bertram.

Jason sprang down from his high-flyer and, with an instruction for his groom to handle the horses, made to cross the road. He’d barely taken two paces when a rickety vehicle pelted past, far too close. He fell back against his phaeton, aiming a voluble string of oaths at the cab driver’s head.

The jarvey seemed unaffected by being so eloquently damned and, with barely a look at his victim, continued blithely on his way. Obliquely it registered in Jason’s mind that a female passenger was within the contraption and that she seemed vaguely familiar. Suddenly she shifted closer to the window and from beneath a wide bonnet brim glared at him with large topaz eyes.

Helen sank back into the battered upholstery of the cab with her heart drumming wildly and a startled look on her face. She had not set eyes on Sir Jason Hunter for years, yet had recognised him instantly. Less than an hour ago the odious brute had snubbed her in an outrageous manner. He had allowed her into his house, then made her tarry in a cloakroom for an audience she was certain he had never intended bestowing. Hah! He’d been destined to see her after all! And be punished for treating her so abominably!

Now that the shock of the close shave had passed, she allowed a throaty chuckle. The Lord pays debts without money, her papa used to quote when some misfortune was visited on a deserving recipient. Sir Jason Hunter might have escaped being flattened by her conveyance, but he certainly looked as though his dignity had taken a knock.

On rare sightings in the past she had exchanged a nod with Jason Hunter. A feud might exist between him and her brother, he might now be rich and important, but he was gentleman enough to be polite. Or so she had previously thought when appreciating his good manners. Now she knew differently. He had become an arrogant boor since last they had acknowledged one another. It was a pity his uncouth character didn’t show in his appearance. She might have only had a brief look at him just now, but he was undeniably still a fine figure of a man. Suddenly a thought entered her head that made her squirm: she could understand why her sister-in-law was so smitten by him.

She quelled that thought by dwelling on the appalling incivility dealt to her less than an hour ago. When she had been shown to a seat in a cupboard filled with packing cases she had imagined that the butler had simply been confused, for he seemed a doddery old cove. When forty minutes later he put his head about the door and told her, with a crafty squint, that Sir Jason still wasn’t ready to receive her, Helen came to the wounding conclusion that she was being intentionally insulted. She had quickly deduced that Sir Jason was spiting her because he hated her brother. With her head held high, she had swiftly exited the house without leaving a message of any sort with the footman who showed her out.

She had dredged up every ounce of courage she possessed to go and visit the swine. She had set out without a cogent plan, only hoping he would listen sympathetically to her family’s predicament. She had considered requesting he delay buying their home, at least until her sister’s marriage to Philip Goode could be arranged. To persuade him at that point she might have made much of the fact that the prospective bridegroom was one of his own kin. Such a squandered effort that would have been! She doubted such a man would care a fig for the nuptials of an impoverished distant cousin. It would have been better to set out this morning to again do battle with George, for this ridiculous situation could no longer continue.