Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

George looked startled at that question. ‘Charlotte’s nineteen. She’s quite a beauty …’

‘I’m sure,’ Jason said drily. He enjoyed a leisurely moment before allaying George’s anxiety. ‘No need to fret, George, you chose the right one to send to me.’

George stared at the door for some moments after it had closed. He did not immediately go to the dining room to partake of his dinner. He returned to the decanter and poured another brandy. With a frowning countenance and a hand plunged deep into a pocket, he ambled to the fireplace to contemplate the smouldering embers. He tipped up his head to stare into a mirror soaring above the mantelpiece. A corner of his mouth lifted before a huge grin displayed his triumph. He raised his glass, saluted his reflection then downed the cognac in one swallow.

‘He won’t go, Mrs Marlowe,’ Betty announced, with an air of resignation, from the parlour threshold.

Helen looked up from Mr Drover’s account, hand delivered that very morning and accompanied by a terse, if ill-spelled, demand for payment for provisions delivered to date. Her eyes were fleetingly drawn back to the postscript in bold print: he would be back for payment before close of business today. Helen doubted it was an empty threat.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Helen exclaimed in irritation. Pushing the papers away across the table, she jumped to her feet. She glanced over at Charlotte, who had raised her head from her embroidery on hearing her sister’s vexed imprecation.

Bored with her stitching, Charlotte tossed the sampler aside and followed her sister into the hallway. Diversion, even of the variety that might conclude in unpleasantness, was a relief from monotony and hunger pangs.

Helen marched towards a grimy face cocked about her front door—it was the sum of the fellow she could see on her step. With a yank the door was fully opened and she looked fully at the mucky, pungent person. ‘Look, my good man, my maid has already told you that we have not ordered a delivery. I’m afraid you are at the wrong house.’

‘No, I ain’t.’

‘You are, I tell you!’ Helen contested with strengthening volume and impatience. ‘I do not even hold an account with your company.

‘Bin paid for.’

‘Well, in that case those …’ a wagging finger indicated the coal sacks ‘ … are most certainly not mine. Go to your depot and check your records.’

A blackened hand dived into a pocket and the coalman thrust a paper at Helen. A tantalising redolence of dusty warmth wafted to Helen’s nostrils from his coarse fingers.

‘Wot’s that say?’ he demanded.

Helen tilted back her head to focus on a scrawled address. ‘There must be another Westlea House …’

‘Not in this square, there ain’t.’ He tapped black dust on to the scrap of paper. ‘That’s what it says … see.’

A glimmer of an idea … extraordinary as it was … entered Helen’s mind. She took the note and scanned it for clues. ‘Did Mr Kingston arrange for this delivery and pay for it through his account?’

‘Might ’ave bin ’im, but not on account. The yard clerk took cash.’ A white slash appeared in his dusky complexion as he grinned. ‘That’s more’n good enough. No questions needed to be arst. Where d’ya want this put? I got other places to go, y’know.’

‘Here is George now,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘He must have been feeling most generous. I expect he’s come to make sure the coal has arrived.’

Helen looked from the merchant’s surly countenance to the smart rig that had stopped behind a cart laden with oily-looking bags. ‘So it is,’ Helen muttered with an amazed little huff of a laugh. Never before had their brother taken it upon himself to order a stick of wood or a quarter of tea for them. Prising the money from him in order that she might do so was the routine they had invariably followed till now. ‘I suppose there is a first time for everything. Heavens! I hope he has not come to ask for his money back,’ Helen muttered, not wholly joking. ‘He might have been in his cups when the guilty feelings took hold of him.’ Stepping back from the door Helen instructed Betty to deal with the delivery while she and Charlotte went to the parlour to receive their brother.

George had barely stepped into the room, his hand hovering at his coat buttons, when Helen burst out, ‘Why have you done such a stupid thing, George? You have paid cash? Cash?’ she stressed angrily. ‘Did it not occur to you that half of what you have spent on fuel might have been used for food? Do you think we might eat coal? And I am quite capable … as ever I have been … of ordering in my own supplies. I know what we need better than do you. Had you given the money to me, I would have used it far more wisely and—’

‘What in God’s name are you going on about?’ George demanded. ‘If you think that coalman is my doing, you are very much mistaken.’

Helen looked amazed, then distraught. As the consequences of what she had heard penetrated her mind, she dashed to the door. ‘I knew it! It is the wrong house,’ she muttered, appalled at the knowledge that the merchant would be in no mood to want to remove his wares from her bunker.

George caught at her arm as she made to fly past him. ‘I doubt it is the wrong house and, if it is, it is that fellow’s error, not yours.’

Helen saw in her brother’s eyes a gleam of something akin to amused satisfaction. She was further convinced he was pleased with himself when he gave her a bright smile. Helen chewed at her lip. Past experience had taught her that it boded ill when George looked smug.

‘Do you know more of this than you are letting on, George?’

George recommenced unbuttoning his coat and seemed about to shrug it off. As though suddenly conscious of the chill in the room, he pulled the woollen lapels together to cover his chest. Dropping his hat and gloves on to the table, he informed her with a slanting glance, ‘Sir Jason Hunter came to see me earlier in the week.’

Helen felt her complexion heating beneath her brother’s significant stare. Helen was aware of Charlotte’s mystified frown at their brother’s odd declaration. She had not mentioned to her sister anything about her meeting with Sir Jason. The opportunity to improve Philip’s prospects had been forgotten and she felt rather guilty about that.

‘Mr Goode and Miss Goode are arrived, ma’am.’ Betty had again appeared in the doorway.

Charlotte immediately smiled shy pleasure at that news, unaware that her brother had muttered disparagingly beneath his breath on learning who were the visitors.

Helen was well aware that George had little time for Philip. On the few occasions they had come together at Westlea House in the past, George had made little effort to be friendly.

Once ushered into the room, Philip bowed courteously to the ladies, then immediately strode towards George and extended a hand. ‘We have not met in some while, sir. It is good to see you.’

With scant enthusiasm in his greeting, George briefly shook hands before withdrawing and striding to take up position by the empty grate.

Undisturbed, Philip drew forward his sister, Anne, and introduced her to George. George managed an approximation of a bow to the plain young woman before drumming his fingers on the mantelshelf.

Anne Goode blinked rapidly, sensitive to the snub. Philip took his younger sister’s arm and patted it into place on his sleeve, his smile still present.

Helen felt her temper rising at her brother’s churlishness. Quickly she said, ‘How nice to see you both. I had no idea you were to call by.’ Helen slid a look at Charlotte to see her sister blush.

Philip might manage to appear impervious to George’s moods, but he was unable to ignore his beloved’s consternation. Quickly he said, ‘Oh it was not arranged. Anne and I just thought to call and ask if you would like to take a ride. It is a sunny day and quite warm too.’ He looked expectantly at Charlotte, who immediately gave a little nod. Gallantly Philip turned his attention to Helen. ‘And you, Mrs Marlowe?

‘I thank you, no,’ Helen said. ‘I have a few matters to attend to.’ She gave her boorish brother a sharp glance. ‘By all means get your coat and so on,’ she told Charlotte. ‘There is nothing much to keep you here this afternoon.’

Without further prompting, Charlotte quit the room.

Having watched her go, Philip cast a nervous glance at George. He suddenly took a deep, inspiriting breath and stepped away from his sister.

Helen drew Anne into a little chat, but was nevertheless more interested in hearing the intense speech to one side of her.

‘I wonder if I might beg leave to visit, sir,’ Philip began in a voice that shook slightly with emotion. ‘For some time I have been meaning to come and see you on a matter that is very dear to my heart …’

George shoved away from the mantel against which he had been lounging and interrupted Philip in a voice that was cold and clipped. ‘You can find me at my club, sir, most afternoons.’

This time Philip blushed to the roots of his fair hair at such an obvious rebuff. He managed a stiff bow before removing himself to hover close to the door. Within a moment Charlotte appeared. ‘I am ready … shall we go?’ she said quietly, having noticed from Philip’s bright complexion that all was not well.

Once the trio had departed, leaving Helen and George alone, Helen rounded on her brother. ‘I cannot believe that you acted so rudely.’

‘And I cannot believe that the man has the effrontery to want to bother me at home to ask for my sister’s hand in marriage. He has nothing. You only have to look at him to see that!’ He barked a laugh. ‘His shirt cuff! Did you see it? Frayed!’

‘Like this, you mean?’ Helen snapped and yanked down one of her own cotton sleeves for his inspection. ‘Philip’s sister cannot have offended you, yet you treated her with the same lack of manners.’

George tersely flicked away Helen’s furious accusations and turned his back on her.

‘I am ashamed of you, George. It is getting to the stage when I am loath to admit, even to myself, that we are related, for I am not sure that I like you.’

George pivoted back to glare at her. ‘I do not want Charlotte seeing him any more. Make that clear to her or I will make it clear to him. And, as you have just noticed, I shall not stand on ceremony when I do so.’ His face was livid when he added, ‘I am sick of the burden of two ungrateful sisters to support. I will never countenance being saddled with a good-for-nothing brother-in-law, too.’