Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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a harlot. It was not past enmity, but Iris Kingston and her pathetic ambition to be his mistress that would jeopardise any reconciliation between them. He returned to the business at hand and something niggling in his mind. ‘I recall that your sisters reside at Westlea House …’
‘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