Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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nervous smile beseeched from Helen a reassurance, but she could not in honesty give it. Her bad news was conveyed in a hopeless shrug as she preceded Charlotte into the sitting room.
A meagre glow in the grate drew her towards the high mantelpiece. Absently she held out her palms to warm them, then looked around. Oh, she could see why her brother wanted to sell Westlea House. It might be spartanly furnished, and in need of some wallpaper and paint, but it was a fine-proportioned property, well situated on the outskirts of Mayfair. Their neighbours included people who could boast an association with influence and aristocracy.
At one time, when their widowed papa had been alive, they had held just such a status, for Colonel Kingston was liked and respected by everyone with whom he came into contact. His friends included gentlemen of all classes: from peers of the realm to low-ranking army officers. It was through her father she had met Harry Marlowe. If Colonel Kingston was disappointed that his eldest daughter had chosen to accept a proposal from an army surgeon, who possessed little money but vast charm and kindness, he gave no indication. The marriage had taken place with his blessing, and a year later, when Harry was killed in action, his distress at losing his son-in-law had been genuine.
But her papa was no longer with them. He had succumbed to influenza within six months of Harry’s death. At first their brother had scrupulously adhered to their father’s arrangements for her and Charlotte. But then he had married Iris Granville and their lives had changed. Helen sighed and rubbed together her warmed fingers. She stepped to the window and looked out into the cold, bright afternoon. The baker’s boy caught her eye as he hurried past, carrying a tempting looking parcel. Her stomach grumbled as she imagined what sort of wonderful aromatic treats might be wrapped within. She watched the lad cross the road and scamper down to the kitchen door of a house opposite theirs.
It would not have gone unnoticed by the other residents in the Square that tradesmen rarely called at Westlea House. There was no doubt that their straitened circumstances were whispered over, and an embarrassment to some of their neighbours. Helen put up her chin and felt her pride rally. Those people might wish, as George did, that they would remove themselves to a humbler abode, but Charlotte and she were staying put, in the home in which they had grown up.
Charlotte was a beauty, Iris was right about that. Given the wherewithal and opportunity to socialise in the proper circles, she would doubtless attract suitors with vastly more to offer than poor Philip Goode could boast.
As though reading her mind, Charlotte whispered, ‘If only Philip had some prospects, or an inheritance in the offing. Must I try and find a rich husband to help us?’
‘Of course not,’ Helen briskly said.
‘If we must move out, where shall we go?’ Charlotte asked in a quivering tone.
‘Our fond brother thinks to move us to Rowan Walk.’
Charlotte’s creamy complexion turned pink. ‘That’s where … where … certain women congregate … is it not?’
‘Indeed …’ Helen muttered. She chuckled. ‘I implied Iris might make better use of it than us.’
Charlotte’s eyes grew round. ‘You did not dare!’
‘Indeed I did!’ Helen corrected with some asperity, ‘And from the look that passed between them, I’d say that particular bit of gossip is true.’
‘She is after Sir Jason Hunter this time?’
‘Emily Beaumont said she made something of a fool of herself chasing after him at the Pleasure Gardens.’ Helen gave her sister a wry smile. ‘Apparently he seemed more interested in bestowing his time on another lady, of rather dubious reputation, too. Mrs Tucker is quite lovely, though. I believe I have seen her once or twice in the shops.’
Charlotte looked scandalized. ‘Poor George must feel so humiliated by it all.’
About to snap that their brother was a fool to tolerate his wife’s behaviour, Helen simply shrugged. They had their own predicament to worry over. George showed them scant sympathy; let him deal with his own problems. And if, by the end of this week, their allowance had not arrived, she would add to his problems by returning to Salisbury Street to badger him again.
Chapter Two
‘Give the lady a smile or she’ll never go away.’
Sir Jason Hunter cast a withering look upon the gentleman who had made that ironic plea. He continued absently shuffling the pack of cards in his hands.
‘Perhaps I ought invite her to join us. While she’s fluttering her eyelashes at you she’ll not be concentrating on the game in hand. I might relieve Mrs Kingston of a tidy sum this evening.’
Another quelling scowl met that teasing suggestion. Sir Jason did not appreciate his younger brother’s drollery for two reasons: firstly, he didn’t find Iris Kingston or her blatant interest in him attractive, and, secondly, his new mistress was becoming tiresome because she imagined she had a rival.
Mark Hunter lounged back in his chair and gave Iris a glance. ‘She’s pretty enough, and so desperately eager you’d be a fool not to put yourself at her service….’
Jason dropped the cards onto green baize and shoved himself back in his chair, boredom etched into his features. ‘I need a drink,’ he bluntly stated on gaining his feet. ‘Have you seen Diana arrive?’
Mark retrieved the scattered cards with a swift sweep of a palm. He nodded towards a door that led out of Almack’s gaming room and into the corridor. ‘She flounced off that way some minutes ago. I’ll wager she spotted your admirer before you did yourself.’
Jason jammed his hands in his pockets and blew an irritated sigh through his teeth. Nevertheless, he set off in the direction in which his sulking paramour was said to have disappeared.
As he passed a throng of females, that included Mrs Kingston, he was obliquely aware that fans were being feverishly employed and whispers becoming more urgently sibilant. Despite his reluctance to acknowledge them, his breeding impelled him to nod curtly, to nobody in particular, as he passed by.
About to quit the room, he noticed that George Kingston had propped himself against the wall and was moodily watching him. He and Kingston were known to be openly hostile; nevertheless, Jason diverted to where George was lounging—there was a matter of business that was on his mind. Following a perfunctory greeting, he launched straight away into, ‘I understand you are looking for a buyer for Westlea House.’
George found a firmer stance and drew himself up in his shoes to try and equal his rival’s height and breadth. Even with his chest fully expanded and his heels out of contact with the floor it was a futile task. ‘I’m looking for the right buyer for Westlea House.’
‘The right buyer or the right price?’ Jason enquired, amused.
‘What’s it to you?’ George snarled in response to that.
‘I buy freeholds at the right price, as you know.’
Indeed he did know that, George thought sourly. The man he hated, the same man his wife was eager to bed, had a portfolio of the most prestigious addresses in major cities throughout England. Rumour had it he also now owned prime land abroad. ‘A price named by you would never be the right price.’ It was a poor bluff. If this man offered him what he wanted, he would sell to him, they both knew that.
Jason acknowledged George’s petulance with a sardonic smile. It was no secret that the two men had once been friends, but now rarely spoke to one another. A roving glance told him that their conversation was indeed drawing some inquisitive looks.
Most people had assumed that, when Jason gained his title and wealth, George had resented being the underdog. But it was not inequality of status that had stirred such antipathy between them.
Despite their estrangement, Jason was a businessman, not too fastidious to ignore a prime opportunity if it presented itself. Once he had