Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

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.

Her brother might plead poverty and pretend to be an injured party but he lived well, far better than did Charlotte and she. He might not have ready cash, but he had assets to sell. The new landau in which his wife sashayed around town was just one such valuable item.

The cab drew up outside Westlea House and Helen handed over some coins to the jarvey. She gave his impassive wrinkled countenance a sharp look, wondering whether she ought to bring to his attention the fact that he had almost knocked down one of the ton’s most notable personages. She decided against it and, unusually, added a small tip to the fare.

Helen removed her grey velvet gown and carefully hung it on a hook. She had dressed with such care that morning in the few garments she possessed that were elegant, if dated in style. She had not wanted Sir Jason to see her looking like a waif and stray come abegging. A small smile twisted her lips; she might just as well have called on him dressed in her washed-out twill; all her painstaking toilette had been in vain.

Feeling chilled, she quickly donned her old day dress, then knotted a woollen shawl over it for warmth. She studied her reflection, lips tilting wryly at the incongruous sight of her faded blue gown hanging loosely from her slender hips whilst her hair was still primped to perfection. Briskly she removed the pins from her sleek coiffure and brushed through the silky coils. As she was about to loop it into a neat chignon, a loud noise startled her. She heard the doorknocker again being forcefully employed.

There was only one person she knew of who felt entitled to so imperiously announce himself: Mr Drover, of Drover’s Wares and Provisions in Monmouth Street. Helen had been expecting him to call for a week or more. She felt sure she knew what the grocer wanted, and was tempted to pretend nobody was home. But that would simply delay the inevitable and deny them further supplies. With a sigh she quickly went below, her mind foraging for plausible excuses for delaying payment of what they owed whilst inveigling for another delivery soon.

‘May I come in?’

Helen sensed her heart stop beating, then start to hammer in a rapid irregular rhythm. Obliquely she realised she had been terribly rude in instinctively pushing the door almost shut. She strove for self-control as she made wider the aperture by a few inches to blurt, ‘What do you want, sir?’

Jason tilted his head to try and see more of the petite woman stationed behind peeling green paint. Merely a tantalising sliver of her figure was now visible and her features were concealed behind a curtain of loose dark hair. ‘What do I want? I want to know what you want, Mrs Marlowe … apart from trying to assassinate me with a hackney cab….’

Helen jerked the door towards her and gazed at him with large astonished eyes. ‘I did not intend you harm! It was an accident! And had you been civil when I called on you earlier, you would by now know what I want.’

Jason found himself confronted by a fragile woman garbed in a dress that looked as though it had seen far better days … probably when it had fitted her. Now it was too large and as shabby as the shawl she was gripping tightly about her slender arms. His gaze returned to her face and lingered. She’d been bonny as a child. Now a hungry look had pared flesh from a heart-shaped face framed by hair as lustrous as black silk. But it was her eyes that mesmerised him and he realised that old Cedric’s sight must be failing too if he thought them yellow. They were the colour of fine cognac.

Helen felt herself flush beneath his silent, searing appraisal, certain that she knew what prompted it. He’s wondering whether I had the cheek to arrive at his grand house dressed like this. The thought brought slashes of colour to highlight her sharp cheekbones and for a long moment she simply met his slate-eyed gaze with haughty belligerence. Had he taken the trouble to see her, he would not need to speculate on how she’d been attired.

‘May I come in?’ Jason repeated. ‘It might be as well to have this conversation out of sight of prying eyes.’

Immediately Helen’s gaze darted past him; it certainly would give the neighbours something to gossip over should she be seen trading accusations on her doorstep with a distinguished gentleman of the ton. For barely a moment longer she dithered, undecided whether to send him away. But in truth she knew she ought make some sort of explanation for her unsolicited call on him. She also had been presented with a prime opportunity to do what she had really set out to do: to tell him that she and Charlotte were not willingly quitting their home, no matter what business he had hatched with her brother. Besides, now he was here, she had no intention of letting him go without taking a flea in his ear for treating her so vilely!

Helen crisply stepped back allowing him to enter the cold and gloomy interior of Westlea House.

In the parlour Helen indicated a chair by the unlit fire and then took the seat that faced it. She watched as Sir Jason Hunter perched his large frame, with effortless elegance, on the edge of the cracked hide.

After a tense moment in which Helen could think of nothing sensible to say because his eyes were so unnervingly fixed on her, she announced, ‘I would offer you some refreshment, sir, but my serving maid is out at present.’ It was true Betty was out; it was also true that only limp grouts, twice used already, were what she had to offer any visitor.

Jason moved a hand, dismissing the apology as unnecessary, then leaned back in his chair. From beneath subtle lids he considered Helen Marlowe and her intriguingly fragile beauty.

He had not spoken to her for ten years or so when he and her brother were still on good terms. He had heard she had married, and been widowed, but they no longer had any mutual friends who might bring them into proper contact. He racked his brain to try and recall the last occasion he had seen her at a distance and where that had been. He thought it had probably been in Hyde Park over two years ago. He wondered if she had then been as waif-like as she looked now.

Helen clasped her quivering fingers in her lap. She was sure she knew what he was thinking, for she was acutely aware of it, too: their status and social circles were now vastly different. Once he had been welcomed in to their home and she had been invited to Thorne Park to play with his sister, Beatrice.