Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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having done his duty and advised her of the coal delivery. Perhaps he was allowing her an opportunity to raise objections to his criticism of George and Iris from consanguinity. But her selfish sister-in-law deserved no such championship, and she baulked at the level of hypocrisy required to defend her brother.
Unspoken words seemed to whisper between them in the tense silence. She sensed he was daring her to voice the thoughts haunting her mind. Persistent phrases crept again to teeter on her tongue-tip. Why do you stare? Is it me you want?
Helen compressed her shapely lips into a tight line as though forcibly preventing any such shameful utterances from escaping. Jason Hunter had told her earlier, with faint scorn, that he had no need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with him. But what if they needed no such persuasion?
Helen averted her face, hoping to conceal the blush she again felt staining her complexion. It was not his potent presence that caused her embarrassment, but her own unquiet mind. She had never before considered herself conceited, yet a silly fantasy that this gentleman might desire her would not quit her thoughts.
Helen knew, as did the rest of polite society, that Jason Hunter had selected Mrs Tucker to fill the role her sister-in-law coveted.
Some months ago, when she had been out walking with Charlotte and a friend of theirs, Emily Beaumont, she had observed a beautiful young woman alight gracefully from a shiny carriage drawn by a pair of splendid greys. Servants in smart black livery had been in attendance and the ensemble had drawn admiring glances, not only from Helen’s party, but from other people promenading, too. Emily had whispered that Sir Jason Hunter had provided the lady’s transport. It was at that point that Helen learned from Emily the identity of the favoured lady and why Sir Jason would be so generous.
Diana Tucker had soon made her way, with confident step, into a shop. Helen had pensively studied her stylish outfit, thinking that, with her superior air and elegant bearing, she might have been a nobleman’s daughter rather than a notorious courtesan.
In her mind’s eye Helen could again see blonde curls dancing over blue velvet shoulders and a pretty face shadowed by a plumed hat cocked to a jaunty angle. In her nostrils was a faint redolence of an exotic perfume that had wafted in Mrs Tucker’s wake on that particular afternoon.
An involuntary glance down at her appearance took in her drab skirt and frayed cuffs. Her critical eyes spotted the soot smudges on her hands and she absently rubbed her fingertips together. She recalled that her face was similarly grubby and her hair dishevelled. At that moment she was conscious of how very risible was her idea that she might attract a disturbingly rich and handsome baronet. It prompted her to stutter into the silence, ‘For … forgive me, sir, but it seems we have said all we must. My sister will soon be home, and …’
‘And you would like me to leave,’ he finished for her in a wry tone.
Helen nodded and managed a grateful smile. She was on the point of summoning Betty to show him out when the maid poked her head about the door. The housemaid was holding the handle close to her body with just her face and mobcap visible at an angle.
‘What is it, Betty?’ Helen asked quickly, alarmed by her servant’s odd appearance.
Betty took a nimble sideways step over the threshold and tried to immediately shut the door behind her. It was to no avail. She was suddenly sent flying as the door was shoved fully open and a stout gentleman barged in to the parlour. He was garbed in a brown wool coat and beneath a burly arm was squashed his hat.
‘Is this him?’ Samuel Drover loudly demanded, forgoing introduction or explanation for his outrageous intrusion. His balding pate was snapped down in the direction of Jason. ‘Is it him?’ he again insisted on knowing. His scalp remained low and pointing straight ahead, although his eyes had swivelled to bulge at Helen.
Helen blinked rapidly, momentarily shocked to speechlessness.
‘I told him you was prior engaged with company, ma’am,’ Betty mumbled, miserably aware of her mistress’s petrified consternation. ‘He don’t never listen. He just pushed past … uncouth he is …’
Samuel Drover was unaffected by that slur on his character. ‘Is this the poor fellow?’ he purred sarcastically. He eyed the imposing gentleman stationed by the mantelpiece, a dark hand braced on pale marble and a faintly bemused expression shaping his beautifully stern features. ‘I must say he don’t look to be on his uppers.’ Mr. Drover subjected Jason to a calculating inspection. ‘I reckon this person could find fifty-three pounds two shillings and five halfpenny in his pocket right now.’ With that he whipped a bill from somewhere inside his coat and begun to stride purposefully forward.
Having finally shaken herself from her daze, Helen said in a quaver, ‘Mr Drover, please wait in the hallway and I will—’ She broke off to skip over the oak boards as Samuel Drover continued his menacing advance towards Jason.
Helen deftly interposed her petite figure between the belligerent grocer and the muscular physique of her new landlord. She stood with her chin elevated and her back to Jason as though she would protect him from assault … or having his pockets picked. With her countenance alternating between shocked pallor and pink mortification, she announced, ‘Mr Drover! Listen to me! This gentleman is most definitely not my brother, I cannot impress on you strongly enough that I resent …’ Helen’s impassioned plea was curtailed as firm hands, gentle as a caress, enclosed her upper arms. Suddenly she was lifted a little way off the ground and then deposited carefully at Jason’s side.
Mr Drover tottered back a step as a broad hand suddenly shot towards him.
‘I don’t think we have been properly introduced. I am Sir Jason Hunter.’
Samuel Drover glared suspiciously at the five elegant digits extended towards him.
Having clapped his eyes on a gentleman with dark hair and a handsome visage, at his ease inside Westlea House, Samuel was impressed enough by the likeness between the couple to have decided this must be the tight-fist to whom Mrs Marlowe was related.
‘How can I be sure you’re not this lady’s brother?’ he queried whilst giving a single pump to Jason’s hand.
‘Should you demand proof, my mother, I think, would attest to my legitimacy, having first planted you a facer.’ It was no empty jest. The Dowager Lady Hunter was renowned for a fiery temperament that remained unabated despite her having recently reached the stately decade of a sexagenarian.
Samuel Drover’s eyes squinted upwards in consideration. Defeated, he muttered, ‘Well, whoever you say you are, I want my cash. And don’t try to pull a fast one and take your custom elsewhere. I’ll tell every other merchant hereabouts to avoid your business. Don’t think I won’t.’
Numb with humiliation Helen could only watch glassily as Jason suddenly took Mr Drover’s shoulder in what looked to be an exceedingly firm grip. Five fingers bit further into brown wool as the man tried to shrug him off.
‘I think you have made your point,’ Jason said.
‘If you’re not Kingston, where is he? Do you know?’ The grocer gave Helen a hard stare. ‘Mrs Marlowe thinks to keep that information from me. I’ll find out his direction and set the duns on him.’
‘I understand your predicament, sir,’ Jason said equably, steering Samuel about with one hand in quite a facile fashion. ‘However, as you can see, Mrs Marlowe’s brother is not here, so you appear to be wasting your time and your threats.’
‘I’ll take back the sack of potatoes, or what’s left of it, that my boy brought here last week.’ Mr Drover aimed that over his shoulder at Helen as Jason propelled him towards the door.
‘I’ll bid you good afternoon, Mrs Marlowe,’ Jason said as he paused for a moment on the threshold. His easy stance seemed in no way affected by the restriction he was imposing on the fidgeting merchant.
Helen fleetingly met his gaze and a flicker of gentleness in his eyes put a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach. Don’t