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About the Author

MARY BRENDAN was born in North London but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.

Regency

Mistresses

Mary Brendan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Practical Mistress

Chapter One

‘How dare you even think to treat your sisters so abominably!’

‘Now, steady on, Helen, I don’t like your tone. You know I am not legally obliged to house you and Charlotte, or give either of you a penny piece.’

‘Not legally obliged, perhaps! Morally obliged indeed you are, and not simply to house us, but to keep us in comfort, and you cannot pretend you don’t know it.’

George Kingston seemed unaffected by the mixture of disgust and entreaty firing his sister’s tawny eyes. In fact, he lounged back in his chair and continued to probe his teeth with a little silver toothpick.

Helen Marlowe, née Kingston, felt her stomach churn with impotent rage as she observed her brother’s apathy. Tendrils of raven hair were angrily twitched back from a complexion that, customarily pale as porcelain, was flushed with righteous indignation. ‘I know you do not truly want to be mean to us, George, for I am certain you recall as well as I the undertaking you gave Papa. We are not asking for your money, all we want is the allowance to which we are entitled. And I need not remind you that Papa stipulated Westlea House was to be a home for Charlotte and me for as long as we needed its shelter.’ She paused to drag in breath to deliver a final conscience-pricking truth. ‘Our parents would be distraught to know you are planning to sell the roof from over your sisters’ heads.’

Helen’s small fingers curled into her palms as she realised that her brother was more irritated than swayed by her appealing to his principles. Abruptly she swished about in a rustle of lavender dimity and addressed her sister-in-law. ‘Have you nothing to say on the matter, Iris? Are you comfortable, knowing your husband seeks to eject us from our home?’

Iris briskly stepped to a gilt mirror to inspect her reflection. She tipped her hat this way and that on flaxen hair whilst making her snappish response. ‘Another house will be found for you both. George has already looked at one. I can’t understand why you and Charlotte would want to carry on so. You are comely enough to find a husband to support you, you know, Helen.’ It was said with a slight frown, as though already she doubted the value of her compliment. Dissatisfied with the floral embellishment on her new bonnet she tweaked it some more. ‘And Charlotte is quite a beauty. I’ll wager the girl could net herself a man with good prospects. Perhaps a banker or the like might take to her.’

‘Charlotte has a suitor. She and Philip are in love and want to announce their betrothal, as you well know.’

‘How sweet. But he has no money, and no prospects, as you well know,’ Iris countered acidly.

George Kingston plunged upright on noticing his sibling’s darkening expression. He was well aware that, dainty-built as she was, Helen could act the virago when protecting her own or Charlotte’s interests. As his wife and his sister locked combatant stares, he took the precaution of stepping across the rug between the two of them. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. ‘It’s not as though you and Charlotte will be homeless, Helen,’ he coaxed. ‘I’ve found somewhere for you actually. Just this afternoon I arranged a short lease on a property on Rowan Walk. Six months should be time enough for you both to make your own arrangements for the future.’

‘Rowan Walk?’ The tone of Helen’s voice was initially aghast. A moment later she repeated the address in a voice that had lowered threateningly.

‘Yes,’ George spluttered, conscious of the reason for his sister’s simmering fury.

Rowan Walk was not situated in an area where genteel women would choose to reside. In fact, he was aware that it housed a host of females kept in modest style by wealthy gentlemen of the ton. Such fellows might like a mistress conveniently close to home, but they baulked at paying exorbitant Mayfair rates. The eastern suburb in which Rowan Walk lay was within easy reach. A lengthy carriage ride would thus not take up time destined to be more pleasurably expended. The neat terraces of townhouses in the vicinity were of adequate size and quality and, because of their association with demimondaines, very good value, too.

‘If you think for one moment that Charlotte and I will move into such an area, you must be addled in the wits,’ Helen announced. A glance at her sister-in-law revealed her to be maliciously amused. ‘But perhaps you have not wasted your money, George. There might be someone you know who would appreciate an available house there.’

George tightened his lips—he understood the allusion to the latest gossip doing the rounds. He stabbed a low-lidded accusatory glance at his wife. Iris had the grace to flush and flounce about to primp some more at her appearance.

Iris had never used discretion in her quest for powerful and wealthy lovers. Helen often wondered if her sister-in-law relished the attention she got from being the butt of gossip. The fact that George quite obviously resented, yet regularly endured, being made to look a fool by his wife, was also intriguing to those, such as his sisters, who cared enough about him to ponder on it.

‘Good grief, Helen, you’re a widow, twenty-six years old, and it’s high time you found another fellow to look after you and ceased being a burden on me!’ George blasted out the reprimand, more in embarrassment than in anger. He had hoped his sisters might still be ignorant of the likelihood of him again being a cuckold.

A sour taste dried his mouth as he dwelled on his wife’s current prey. Iris might deny it, but he knew she was infatuated with a man he detested. The same man who had been his enemy for many years.

His sisters rarely socialised; if news of Iris’s latest infatuation had reached Helen’s ears, then gossip was rife. Abruptly he stalked back to his chair to slouch into it. ‘You may live on Rowan Walk or in the poorhouse, it makes no difference to me.’ He raised a moody glance to his sister’s tense features. ‘And it serves you right for choosing to marry a pauper when you might have married well.’

‘I thought we might come to that. It was exceedingly bad of me, was it not, to marry a man I loved when I might have married a man old enough to be my grandfather.’

‘Scoville was dead within two years of proposing to you. It would scarce have been hardship to be a sick man’s wife—a very rich sick man’s wife—for such a short time. Had you given the decrepit old fool the heir he wanted, your future at nineteen years old would have been fine indeed.’

‘I beg to differ. And I have no regrets that I married Harry. He was a gentleman who did not need money to recommend him. And I am not ashamed to demand again and again that you release to us what our father wanted us to have. If you resent me coming constantly to badger you for money, you have only yourself to blame.’ Helen glowered at her brother from beneath eyebrows as lush and black as sable. ‘If we are a burden on you, it is you who has made it so by withholding what is rightfully ours.’

George flushed beneath his sulk and snapped his head away from a pair of flaring golden eyes. Imperiously he said, ‘If you continue to recommend that our sister encourage Philip Goode, Charlotte will go the same way as did you. Sentiment is all very well, but it doesn’t pay the bills. The man has nothing to offer her.’

‘He has the most important things to offer her: his love and devotion. Apart from which he is pleasant, polite and totally charming.’

‘What a shame such a paragon cannot afford a wife,’ Iris murmured with a cattish smile. The bonnet with which she had been fiddling was tossed aside in irritation. Bluntly she informed her husband and sister-in-law that she was going out shopping.

George stared morosely at the closed door before sighing with such unconscious sadness that a little of Helen’s anger evaporated. It was ironic that George could, in all seriousness, criticise her for having wed unwisely when his own marriage was a mockery. At least she had been happy for the short time she and Harry had been man and wife.

Helen studied her brother in profile. He was a handsome man, his hair a similar shade of auburn to their sister Charlotte’s. Although in his mid-thirties, George’s complexion was unlined, yet his youthful demeanour was spoiled by a constant miserable droop to his mouth.

And little wonder he was miserable, for he had married a woman who seemed to relish making him look ridiculous. Yet Helen felt more exasperated than sympathetic. Despite Iris’s callous infidelities, George seemed to be in his wife’s thrall, for the baggage had no trouble twisting him about her finger.

But her brother was correct in one respect, Helen realised wryly. Sentimental memories were indeed an indulgence when one was struggling to persuade the butcher to extend credit so one might dine on offal. Harry had been kind and charming, but he had died leaving her with little more than her wedding ring and his outstanding army pay.

‘Marlowe’s been dead for seven years.’ George shattered Helen’s wistfulness with that harsh truth. ‘You’ve had plentiful time for mourning. Now it is time to be sensible.’ The toothpick was again between his teeth. Suddenly he pointed it at her. ‘Iris is right: you are passably pretty. Dark looks were the rage last season, you know. I recall when you were eighteen and made your come-out, you received more than one offer that year.’

‘My, what a fine memory you have, George!’ Helen drily exclaimed. ‘That was eight years ago and most of my suitors now have found wives. Besides, if you honour Papa’s wishes and the trust he had in you, there will be no need for me to chase a proposal. I am not going to release you from your duty to us. Release our money and have done with it.’

George flushed and flung the silver tool down on a table. ‘I have some unforeseen expenses at present and … and, besides, I am not legally obliged …’

‘Ah, we have done that bit, George.’ She sighed before saying reasonably, ‘I would understand your parsimony if I thought you were honestly in trouble, but I know your wife fritters the money we need for essentials on new Paris fashions.’ Helen’s eyes slid meaningfully to the abandoned bonnet.

George lurched out of his chair. ‘That’s enough!’ he roared. He strode two paces back and forth. ‘You know nothing of my life or my finances and I will not have you speak so of Iris.’

‘What would you have me say, then, George?’ Helen asked quietly. ‘That it is not her new clothes you cannot afford, but her fondness for the gaming tables? Or perhaps her new landau has taken Charlotte’s dowry?’

George swung about to stare grimly at his sister. His face now held the expression of a man resentful of unpalatable truths. ‘I think you ought go before I say or do something I should not.’

Helen recognised her brother’s torment and walked, head high to the door. ‘You can dismiss me now if you want. But if our cash is not forthcoming in the next few days, I shall be back. We have no more credit at the merchants and have little stocks left of food or fuel. It is early spring and still quite cold.’

‘If you are both determined to be leeches on me, then you and Charlotte can make a few blasted economies!’

Helen managed a smile tinged with bitterness. She glanced down at her waif-like body whilst recalling how plump had looked her sister-in-law’s figure. Iris’s arms and bosom had fair threatened to burst from the fine silk of her stylish gown. In fact, Helen thought acidly, if the woman did not curb her appetite she would be on the way to becoming fat.

‘Charlotte and I have long since cut marchpane from our diets …’ Helen noticed George’s lips angrily writhe at the reference to his wife’s liking for sweetmeats. ‘And mutton has become a once-a-week luxury,’ she truthfully added. ‘What economies would you have us make, George? Already we make do and mend. Shall we boil up potato broth for every meal and live in the cold and dark?’

‘A smaller property would cost less to heat and light. If you want to dine well, then it is sensible to move somewhere else.’ George’s reasoning was accompanied by an impatient whirl of a hand. ‘The two of you seem more concerned with pretending you can afford to live in a fine neighbourhood than attending to your comfort.’

‘That’s not true!’ Helen cried, outraged. ‘Westlea House is our home. You know it holds dear memories of our parents. How can you be so cruel as to imply we care to keep up appearances?’

George seemed about to speak, but abruptly closed his jaw and showed Helen his back. He was not hiding his face, ashamed of his outburst. Nor was he uncomfortable knowing how frugally they lived, Helen realised. He was simply trying to shield his expression whilst summoning up another excuse for why she and Charlotte ought go without.

Helen felt the fight drain out of her. She felt tired and hungry and keen to go home. George was still musing on a way to withhold their allowance when Helen quietly quit the room.

‘Is he to give us our money?’

Helen hesitated in the act of removing her hat and coat as her younger sister came into view. Wearily she shook her head.

Charlotte Kingston bit at her lower lip. ‘He won’t give us anything?’

It was whispered in a tiny trembling voice that immediately put the bellows to Helen’s smouldering anger. Casting her outer garments on to a hall chair, she gave her sister a smile although her teeth were grinding. ‘I think … hope he is considering how much he can afford,’ she eventually said in a controlled voice. ‘I have no doubt that he is embarrassed for funds: Iris was dressed from head to toe in new clothes. They looked French and expensive.’

‘But it is our money!’ Charlotte shrieked, pushing away from her sister’s comforting embrace and stamping a small foot down. It made a hollow noise on the bare oak boards in the hallway of Westlea House. ‘I cannot have new gloves, yet she has new gowns! How dare she dress in Paris finery at our expense!’

‘She dares because our brother lets her,’ Helen succinctly answered.

‘George would never sell our home so he might settle with her dressmaker. It can’t be our Westlea House that is advertised for sale in the Gazette … can it?’

Charlotte’s 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 despised George, but the bitter incident that started it all had been mellowed by the passing of a decade. In an odd way, Jason felt pity that the man who once had been a good friend was saddled with a wife who acted like 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 from the sale of Westlea House.’

Helen sent her brother a challenging look. ‘Will you have a lawyer put that in writing? If I am to sacrifice my home, I will at the very least want to know that I have done so in order that Charlotte’s future is secure.’

‘A lawyer?’ George exploded. ‘Is my word on it not good enough?’

‘Indeed it is not,’ Helen said equably. ‘Were you true to your word, we would not be having this conversation.’

‘It is our sister’s duty to find a man who can adequately provide for her. If she would socialise properly, she would attract gentlemen like bees to a honey pot.’

‘She would also attract many cruel remarks. You know full well that she needs new clothes if she is to socialise in the circles you mean.’

‘I’d get her gowns … if I didn’t already owe a fortune to every blasted dressmaker in town.’ George’s features tightened in bitterness. ‘None of those damnable things were bought to please me. Iris is attempting to impress Hunter with her new finery.’

Helen rose from her chair and approached George to comfortingly take one of his hands. It was the first time he had openly spoken of Iris’s infatuation with Sir Jason Hunter. ‘You must put a stop to her avarice. We are all suffering because of it.’

George snatched back his fingers. ‘I don’t need your pity, or your counsel. We must find a way of clearing my debts or Westlea House is to be sold. I have received some interest in it and cannot prevaricate for long.’ George dragged a hand through his hair and snapped, ‘For two pins I’d present Hunter with Iris’s dressmakers’ bills.’

Helen looked shocked, then a hysterical giggle erupted. ‘Indeed, so would I if I thought he might pay them. But I’ve heard that he seems little interested in Iris.’

‘Well, you’ve heard wrong, I tell you! He was flirting with her at Almack’s earlier in the week. Anybody can tell that they’re lovers.’ George’s face mottled with mortification for the untruth had easily burst out. He had noticed, as had every other person present that evening, that Jason Hunter barely acknowledged Iris. It had been oddly humiliating for him to witness his wife being shunned in favour of a demi-rep.

‘Well, you ought to challenge him over it and take your dressmakers’ bills with you!’ Helen exclaimed in exasperation.

‘I would not give him the satisfaction! I’m sure he flaunts their relationship simply to rile me. Why don’t you speak to the arrogant bas—?’ George snapped together his teeth before the abuse was fully out.

‘Me?’ Helen choked a shocked laugh.

George dismissed the subject with a terse flick of a hand and stalked off to glare through the window.

Helen was aware that her brother and Jason Hunter had fallen out many years ago. She had been about fifteen at the time of the estrangement and shielded by her papa from knowing the sordid details. But she had heard whispers that they had fought over a woman. At the time she had felt sad that Jason no longer visited, for she had liked him. More honestly she had harboured a juvenile tendresse for him. But now all that was inconsequential. Over a decade had passed and there were far more vital matters at stake than two grown men sulking over past slights.

‘This is quite ridiculous.’ Helen sighed. ‘It is reprehensible of you not to have done your duty by us.’

‘And it is reprehensible of you not to have done your duty by me!’ George thundered. ‘Do you think that I would have promised our father to support you had I known that seven years later you would still be a burden on me? Father was under the impression that, after a decent mourning for Marlowe, you would remarry, and so was I.’

Helen’s face grew pallid. ‘Papa didn’t say that …’

‘Indeed he did.’ This time not a hint of shame betrayed the untruth that flew from George’s mouth. ‘He thought that by the time Charlotte had left the schoolroom, and was ready to make her début, you would have done the decent thing and removed yourself elsewhere. You accuse me of selfishness! You ought to look to your own behaviour.’

Helen stared, stricken, at her brother. ‘Papa never mentioned anything of the sort to me,’ she cried. ‘I was always welcome in his house …’

‘He probably thought he did not need to be blunt. He probably thought your conscience would guide you on it.’

George eyed his sister with calculation. ‘Hunter wants Westlea House, he told me so at Almack’s. I detest the man, but I shall sell it to him. I need cash quickly and he has a plentiful supply of the stuff.’

‘You can’t!’ Helen emphatically shook her brother’s arm.

‘Indeed I can! Philip Goode ought to swallow his damnable pride and beg his cousin for assistance. Hunter has connections in the city. There are lucrative positions to be had in banking and so on.’

Helen stared at her brother, silently entreating him to reconsider.

‘I can tell you think Goode too spineless a fellow to act. Believe me when I say Hunter is a different kettle of fish. He is a ruthless man and, once the deal is done, he would not hesitate in sending the bailiffs to evict you.’

Chapter Three

‘What?’

Jason Hunter turned his grey eyes on his aged servant. He wasn’t certain that he had correctly heard the message, for his visitors were creating a din that had smothered Cedric’s croak.

The old fellow whispered again, ‘A lady is here to see you, sir.’

‘Yes, that much I gathered. What name did you say?’

Mark Hunter’s second ribald anecdote caused the gentlemen congregating in Jason’s library to resume guffawing.

‘Mrs Kingston.’

Jason heard the husky sibilance through the noise and his mouth thinned before a low oath exploded through touching teeth. Enraged by the damnable audacity of the Kingston woman to bother him at home, he gave Cedric a curt nod and snapped, ‘Put her in a side room and tell her to wait.’

Cedric dipped his wispy head, understanding exactly why his master was so put out. His weary bones might not allow him to venture far from the house these days, and his deaf ear might prevent him getting all the gossip, but he knew that a woman named Kingston was making a fool of herself over Sir Jason. Brazen hussy she was, too, with her haughty look. All airs and graces! He’d known her station straight away. Ask her to wait, indeed! It wouldn’t have happened in the old master’s days. Cedric wagged his head to himself. Oh, he’d find the baggage a place to wait!

‘What was that all about?’ Mark demanded as he watched Cedric slowly amble from the room.

‘None of your business,’ his brother rebuffed bluntly. He refilled his glass from the decanter and asked Peter Wenham what price he wanted for his hunting lodge. The Wenham estate edged his own land at Thorne Park and the lodge and surrounding fields would be a fine addition to his Surrey acreage. A quizzical smile met the ambitious price his friend cited, but Jason gave that more charitable consideration than the accursed female waiting for him below.

He would see Iris … eventually. But he’d let her kick her heels. Perhaps a little blatant incivility would finally penetrate her vanity; she might come to understand that, far from finding her attractive, her behaviour disgusted him. If she could not take the hint, he would have to clearly tell her some truths. He was sick of being stalked and spied on when out; he certainly did not intend having her hound him at home. If she repeated to George what must, of necessity, be an unpleasant incident between them this afternoon, so be it.

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.

Those past halcyon days were a world away from how she lived now. Now Charlotte and she socialised with people of their own station: people whose financial status limited their entertainment to simple at-homes. Outings to the theatre or exhibitions were treats that came rarely, for even the cost of travelling to such venues was beyond their means.

From the top of his glossy dark head to the toe of the gleaming leather boot in her line of vision, Sir Jason Hunter exuded an air of affluence and power that was stifling in its intensity. She had dared to go and see him, uninvited, to tell him he could not have this house. With wounding clarity she understood that, if he wanted it, he would take it. She raised her head and a flitting glance about her beloved, faded room encouraged her that he might decide Westlea House an unattractive investment after all. Her musings were brought abruptly to a close by a cultured baritone voice.

‘I must apologise for the poor welcome you received when you called on me. My butler was confused as to your identity.’

‘I’m not sure why,’ Helen returned coolly. ‘I gave my name.’

‘What name did you give?’ Jason asked. He leaned forward, linking his fingers and resting his forearms on his knees. He felt tempted to rub together his palms. The room was stone cold and a pale spring afternoon let little light into it. Nevertheless he could see her exquisite eyes watching him.

‘I said I was Mrs Marlowe, née Kingston,’ Helen answered him. ‘I fail to see what is confusing in that.’

Jason’s mouth took on a wry slant, for suddenly he understood how the sorry episode had come about. Helen Marlowe had a softly spoken, melodic quality to her voice. Marlowe, née had sounded to his deaf butler like Margo May. ‘Cedric announced you as Mrs Kingston.’

‘Why? Can he not hear?’

‘Not very well,’ Jason admitted with a ghost of a smile. ‘Nevertheless, that is no excuse for his bizarre interpretation of my instruction to show my visitor to a side room. The incident won’t go unpunished. I have long tolerated his eccentric ways. It is time, I think, to let him go.’

‘I would not have you do that on my account,’ Helen immediately objected. ‘He looks to be an aged gentleman. I doubt he would get another position, especially if afflicted with poor hearing.’ Helen knew too well the rigours of possessing little money; she didn’t want it on her conscience that she had robbed an old man of his wages in his twilight years. She gave Jason a trenchant look. ‘Besides, even if the draughty cloakroom was not your idea, I imagine the lengthy wait I endured was.’

Jason looked at the proud tilt to her sculpted little chin and felt utterly despicable to have subjected her to such discomfort and humiliation. ‘I’m afraid it was,’ he honestly said. ‘And I am hoping that in some way I can make amends. I won’t have you think I indulge in petty spitefulness because your brother and I don’t see eye to eye.’

Helen met his gaze challengingly.

‘That is what you think, isn’t it?’

‘It was,’ Helen replied, ‘until you clarified matters a moment ago.’

Jason’s grey eyes narrowed on her. ‘And what do you think now?’

‘I think you believed my sister-in-law had paid you a visit. I think you decided to punish her by keeping her waiting for you. Why? Had you had a lovers’ tiff?’

Chapter Four

‘Lovers’ tiff?’

The query was mildly quizzical, yet Jason’s eyes resembled flint.

Helen felt her mouth become dry and her tongue trembled moisture to her lips. Moments ago he had said he would like to make amends for showing her such poor hospitality earlier that day. It was unexpected, but most welcome news. A favour from this man was exactly what she wanted, but ladies … even those of shabby gentility … did not speak of a gentleman’s amours. Such impertinence was hardly likely to cultivate his goodwill.

Since Helen learned she had been mistaken for Iris Kingston a single thought had dominated her mind and she fervently wished she had curbed her inclination to voice it. Sir Jason had believed George’s wife to be his visitor and his intention had been to eventually oblige her with his presence. Was Iris so besotted with the arrogant man that she would have allowed him to humble her in such a way?

Helen had good reason to dislike her sister-in-law, yet felt oddly piqued on her behalf. She was also a little indignant on her own account. How was she to know if, as Mrs Marlowe, she might have been turned away from his door?

The room was dim, his face in shadow; nevertheless, Helen winced on noticing a definite mocking slant to his lips. She feared he knew of her regret at having acted with such spontaneous vulgarity.

Iris had succeeded in her ambition to become his mistress. George had said they had been openly flirting earlier in the week … blatantly flaunting their affair. Such behaviour was sure to invite comment, thus Helen’s face was beautifully prim as she announced, ‘I am afraid I cannot pretend ignorance of your liaison with my sister-in-law. I have heard the rumours …’ A hideous idea made her falter and demand, ‘I hope you do not imagine I intentionally set out to impersonate Iris in the hope such a ruse would get me over your threshold.’

‘Had you announced yourself simply as Mrs Marlowe, it would have guaranteed that you not only got over my threshold, but got my immediate attention.’

A cluck of disbelief dismissed that. ‘You would not have known who on earth Mrs Marlowe was. When last we conversed, I was Miss Kingston.’

‘Be assured, I would have known who you were.’

Helen’s eyes darted to his at that husky affirmation. But still he made no remark about her impropriety. No doubt he considered it beneath his dignity to do so. But she could tell the matter had affected him. His composure could not completely camouflage that he was annoyed.

A tense silence ensued and Helen was conscious that he might now take himself off without questioning her further. Perhaps he had deduced from her attitude that she had gone to his house with the intention of interfering in his affairs. Sibling loyalty—however inappropriate—could conceivably propel her to confront the man who was making a cuckold of her brother. He had apologised and soothed his conscience, something she had yet to achieve for her own.

She was alert to a slight movement he made, sure it meant he was making ready to leave. ‘I must say sorry, too,’ Helen blurted. ‘I was rude. I should not have been quite so explicit … that is … I accept that your association with George’s wife is none of my concern. My brother is able to fight his own battles.’

‘Is he? It occurs to me that perhaps he sent you to see me.’

Helen tensed at that observation and a surge of guilt stained her cheeks. It had indeed been her brother’s angry challenge—whether uttered in jest or not—that had prompted her visit.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Helen flicked a nervous gesture. ‘You would be hardly likely to pay attention to my opinion.’

‘I’m doing so now….’

Tawny eyes sought to read his expression in the half-light. He had not sounded sarcastic, but it was hard to tell. ‘If you are being sincere, sir, I must take advantage of the opportunity to … to …’ She faltered, frowned at her fingers with the strain of being diplomatic. Her opinion, should she honestly give it, was hardly likely to be well received. How much attention would he want to pay to the fact that Charlotte and she endured hardship because his mistress was avaricious and selfish?

The loss of their allowance, and Charlotte’s dowry, the imminent sale of Westlea House—all had come about since George took a gold-digger to wife. The thought that now she must petition the gold-digger’s lover in order that she and her sister could have some basic necessities made ire burn in her blood. But she would not again make mention of the dratted woman. Rather she would concentrate on keeping her home.

‘My brother is being dunned by his creditors and that is why he wants to sell this house. It is home to me and my sister Charlotte.’

Jason gained his feet in a lithe movement. ‘And you have heard that I want to buy it.’ It was a neutral statement.

‘Yes,’ Helen said, very conscious of the height and breadth of him as he passed her chair.

‘You don’t want me to have it?’

‘It is rather that I do not want to lose it,’ Helen said carefully.

Jason turned his back to the empty grate and cast up a glance at a ceiling meshed with cracks. ‘I expect you will prefer living elsewhere. The upkeep of a property such as this is high.’

‘It suits us to stay,’ Helen interrupted firmly.

‘George has arranged other accommodation for you and your sister, yet you’d rather stay here?’

‘Indeed I would.’ Helen breathed fiercely. So he knew that George wanted to locate them in a seedy neighbourhood. ‘Our home might be rather shabby, but I am afraid even a flash house on Rowan Walk would be unacceptable. In fact, I have no intention of being dispatched there.’

Jason moved closer to the petite figure that had jumped to its feet. He could tell from her raised chin and tight fists that she was furiously embarrassed. And he understood why. ‘Rowan Walk?’ he echoed in disbelief. ‘What the devil is he thinking of housing his sisters in such an area?’

‘He is thinking of what he can afford,’ Helen retorted immediately. ‘I am sure he would have chosen somewhere more salubrious had his wife not squandered so much on gowns and hats and other selfish whims in order to hook you—’ She abruptly bit at her lower lip to stem further angry complaints.

‘Go on …’ Jason quietly invited.

‘Very well, I shall.’ The declaration was child-like in its defiance. ‘My brother is being dunned and I am to lose my home because your mistress is a selfish spendthrift. Whether you know it or not, sir, indirectly you are a reason we suffer.’

It was too late to perhaps phrase things more tactfully, but there was less volume to Helen’s voice when she continued, ‘George has dressmakers’ accounts and so on that he simply cannot pay …’

‘And I am to blame?’

‘I have just said so.’

The impenitent statement elicited a mirthless laugh. ‘You are a very loyal sister, if blinkered to your brother’s faults.’

‘On the contrary, I have no illusions as to George’s character. He is weak and foolish to allow his wife to constantly manipulate and humiliate him. It is to my sister, Charlotte, that I owe my loyalty.’ Helen moved closer to him, hoping the blaze in her eyes and the tenor of her voice would impress on him the strength of her outrage.

She looked into a face of raw-boned masculinity. Even as she glared at him, prepared to continue her tirade, she could not block the thought that he was breathtakingly handsome. ‘You are aware that Westlea House has been owned by Kingstons for generations. It was Papa’s intention that it should be home to Charlotte and me for years to come. Even had we both settled elsewhere with husbands, my father would have expected George to keep it in the family. He would be distraught to know his son married a shameless adulteress and, as a consequence, the house his wife loved must be sold for a paltry sum.’

‘You think I intend to cheat you of its true worth?’

Helen was very aware of his grey gaze lowering to her face with that remark. ‘You are a businessman, and very successful I have heard. I can’t pretend to know much of commerce, but I’m sure you will want to negotiate terms favourable to you.’

‘I’ll pay a fair price for the property and George cannot withhold what is due to you and your sister from the proceeds.’

‘We have no pecuniary claim on this house.’ Tears of frustration sprung to Helen’s eyes at that awful truth and she swiftly swung her face away. The movement caused black tresses to fly out and momentarily skim silkily on his dark hand. ‘This property belongs in its entirety to George. We have nothing other than the memory of our father’s wishes with which to bargain. Already George has broken his undertaking to dispense our allowance.’ Helen turned to him, then held her breath as his eyes settled on her mouth. Abruptly she became aware of how close they now were. Barely a few inches separated her faded cambric bodice from the splendid wool of his jacket. She distanced herself with a small backwards step. And then took another.

In a moment of unguarded bitterness she had disclosed far too much that was private to a man she barely knew and certainly could not trust. He was her brother’s enemy … hers, too, perhaps. It niggled at the back of her mind that he might use the intelligence she had just provided to his advantage. She might lack business acumen, but she understood the rudiments. It was extremely foolish to disclose one’s desperation when negotiating a deal. Far from paying George what was fair for their property, perhaps she had just provided Jason Hunter with the ammunition he needed to haggle.

Helen sensed her spirit sapping. She felt like slumping into a chair to weep. She would not do that, of course, for Charlotte would fret to see her upset. Charlotte! She had forgotten about her sister’s imminent return.

Should her sister come in and find her in the company of an imposing stranger, it would be certain to provoke a host of questions, the answers to which could only be depressing. ‘I must ask you to leave, sir. My sister will soon be back from visiting her friends and … it is best no explanations are needed for your presence here.’ Without awaiting a response to that, Helen walked, with confident step, to the parlour door and opened it.

Jason dipped his head slightly, ruefully accepting his dismissal. In the hallway he turned and stared significantly at wallpaper drooping loose close to the coving. ‘You intend to stay here?’

‘Indeed, I do.’ Helen had bridled at his tacit disparagement. ‘This property holds very happy memories of my parents and my childhood.’

Jason nodded absently, glancing about. ‘I remember those days … I remember you …’ Abruptly his eyes swerved back to her.

The look he gave her was lingering and penetrative and caused her again to blush. He remembered her … A decade ago her face and figure would have been attractively rounded by sufficient food. Her clothes would have been new and stylish. At fifteen she had been beautiful.

His quiet acceptance of her wretched appearance now was hard to bear. Had he displayed surprise or distaste at her deterioration she might have preferred it.

Having been in his company for some while without worrying unduly that she looked a fright, she was suddenly acutely self-conscious. She was ashamed of her worn dress and her locks wild about her shoulders. Belatedly she inwardly railed at fate. Why had he not arrived on her doorstep just five minutes sooner, when her hair was in its pins and she had been still garbed in her good clothes?

She jolted her mind from pointless wishes to say, ‘I bid you good day, sir, and please take with you my apologies for the mishap on the road. The cab driver could not have seen you, I fear. Thankfully it seems no harm was done to you.’

A corner of his finely moulded mouth tilted, causing heat to return to her cheeks.

‘I appreciate your concern, Mrs Marlowe.’

For some minutes after the front door had closed Helen remained staring at its paint-peeling panels with the sound of his softly mocking voice echoing in her ears.

‘Mr and Mrs Kingston are about to dine, sir.’ The manservant whispered that with a concerned frown. One didn’t expect a caller at this hour, especially when it was a gentleman of such eminence. Robbins quickly deduced it must be a matter of some moment to bring Sir Jason Hunter here with an angry glitter in his eyes and his mouth clamped to a thin line.

Robbins had been in the Kingstons’ employ long enough to know of the hostility that existed between this man and his master. He also knew that, whereas Mr Kingston didn’t like Jason Hunter, Mrs Kingston did … rather too much, if gossip was to be believed. The idea that a pillar of polite society would flout etiquette and visit his mistress at her husband’s house caused Robbins to almost snort his disbelief. He transformed the noise into a cough. ‘Are you expected by Mr or Mrs Kingston, Sir Jason?’

‘No, but I will not keep Mr Kingston long from his dinner. Please tell him that I should like to see him on a pressing matter of business.’

Robbins still seemed thoughtful and immovable.

‘Tell him …’ Jason urged gently, but a terse flick of his head betrayed his impatience.

The manservant needed no further prompting; quickly he hurried away.

‘Have a care! Why are you haring about like that?’ Iris snapped tetchily as she stepped from her bedroom to almost collide with Robbins.

Breathlessly the servant gabbled, ‘There is a gentleman to see Mr Hunter … umm … I mean there is a gentleman to see Mr Kingston. Sir Jason Hunter is below.’

A wondrous look immediately lifted Iris’s sulky countenance. So explicit was her excitement that it caused a sardonic twitch to her servant’s lips. When the lady of the house inelegantly pushed past him to fly towards the top of the stairs, Robbins shook his head in disgust.

‘Sir Jason … such an agreeable surprise … I hope … no, I must insist … you stay and dine with us.’ It was coyly said and Iris posed with a white hand fondling the banister before swaying towards him in a whisper of sky blue silk. She kept her eyes lowered until close enough to coyly peep up at his face. What she read in his expression made a hand flutter to her pearly throat and a budding smile wither on her ruby lips.

‘Thank you for your hospitality, but I am not here on a social call, madam. Where is your husband?’

Iris flinched from the ice in his voice, but was reluctant to relinquish the fantasy that he was really here to see her. His brusqueness she explained away: he was uncomfortable with her knowing he longed for her company. And Heaven only knew it was folly to visit her at home when gossip about them was already going around. When they were in public together he could appear aloof but that, too, was a simple ruse to camouflage his tumultuous feelings … a tumult she provoked! She was sure he would soon succumb to those secret yearnings and discreetly proposition her. After all, he could not possibly prefer that common baggage. Mrs Tucker! The harlot had never been wed! Diana simply sought to protect her worthless reputation by claiming the status of a widow and everybody knew it.

Iris smoothed her jewelled fingers over the shimmering silk of her skirt, pleased that she had chosen to wear it. She knew the colour matched her eyes and the snug fit to the bodice enhanced her bosom.

‘What do you want, Hunter?’

George had been in his study and had just received his servant’s breathless message that Sir Jason Hunter requested an audience. George’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he noticed how close together were his entranced wife and his unwanted caller.

‘I want to speak to you,’ Jason returned in a voice that was low and clipped. He stepped past Iris without giving her another glance.

‘Can it not wait till tomorrow? We are about to dine.’

‘Your wife has invited me to stay and join you. Shall I do that, or shall we attend to business so I might leave you in peace?’

Iris’s lips tightened in annoyance for she knew full well George would rid them of Jason’s company as soon as he could.

‘Would you mind terribly leaving us, my dear?’ George drawled the request, but a significant stare had Iris blushing. ‘Ask Mrs Jones to delay dinner for a little while. This will not take long.’

After a twitched smile and a tiny bob Iris flounced away. Before disappearing below, she watched George show Jason to his study.

‘What the devil is this about, Hunter? We were just about to sit down. Have you no notion of proper behaviour?’

‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.’

‘Me?’ George choked an astonished laugh as he went to his desk and used the decanter. ‘Well, just to impress on you that I am a gentleman with certain standards … would you care for a drink?’ Without awaiting a reply he thrust a glass of brandy at Jason.

‘A gentleman with certain standards,’ Jason mimicked sarcastically. ‘Why is it, then, you allow your sisters to exist in conditions more often found in Whitechapel than Mayfair?’

George gulped too quickly at his brandy and wheezed a cough. ‘Explain how you know … What do you mean?’ he hoarsely corrected himself.

‘This afternoon I went to Westlea House.’

George looked warily at him. ‘You ought to have made an appointment for that. You had no right to go there uninvited.’

‘You have sent me a contract to sign. I have every right to survey what I am buying.’

‘Perhaps; but you have no right to study my family. How my sisters live is my business and none of your concern.’ George sipped more sedately at his drink.

‘Is that right?’ Jason drawled. ‘I’ve recently been told that not only is their plight my concern, but my fault. What is it you really want to sell me, George? Your house or your sister?’

Chapter Five

‘That is an exceedingly strange thing to say. Am I to take it as a joke?’ George frowned in studied thoughtfulness.

‘If it were a joke, it would be in poor taste.’

‘I’ll take it as a joke, then,’ George drawled with heavy irony. ‘If I were to take it seriously, I should act as a good brother and defend Helen’s honour.’

‘How did you know to which sister I was referring?’ Jason’s teeth flashed in a silent laugh as George’s complexion became ruddy. ‘You’ve no need to answer.’ His tone was husky with mock sympathy. ‘Obviously I realise how you know, you sent Mrs Marlowe to see me.’

George snatched up his drink and took a swig before delivering a curt response. ‘That is another exceedingly strange thing to say, Hunter, and not at all funny. It appears you have no notion of what is good taste.’

‘It appears you have no notion of how to act as a good brother.’

George’s mouth thinned. ‘So you have this afternoon been talking to my sister Helen,’ he snapped. ‘What of it?’

‘You sent her to see me. Why?’

‘I did no such thing,’ George angrily refuted. ‘If you knew Helen better, you’d realise that she does as she pleases. A fine day it would be, and no mistake, if she followed my dictates.’ He barked a laugh. ‘If she did what I told her, she would by now be remarried.’

‘And thus no financial burden on you.’

‘Indeed,’ George retorted without shame or remorse.

‘I gather you were entrusted with the care of your sisters after Colonel Kingston died. Yet they seem to be fending, not very successfully, for themselves.’

‘I’ll not discuss any of my family’s private business with you!’ George thundered and slammed down his glass on a table that became beaded with brandy. ‘How my sisters go on is none of your concern.’

‘But you’d like to make it so. You’re wasting your time, Kingston. If you have a clear conscience over it, I don’t see why I should give a damn.’ Even as the callous words were uttered Jason flexed the hand that remembered her touch. A phantom caress from ebony hair was again on his skin and a faint redolence of lavender water teased his senses. He cursed beneath his breath as fingers curled about the brandy George had given him. The amber spirit reminded him of the same soulful-eyed woman. Abruptly he put down the drink and walked to the door, aiming a contemptuous stare at George as he passed him. He halted with a hand gripping the handle.

‘I’ve offered you a generous price for a property in need of extensive repair, and with tenants who are unwilling to leave.’

‘There is no need for you to fret over my sisters’ accommodation. I have already explained that I have made other arrangements for them.’

‘And the dilapidations? The house has obviously been neglected for many years.’

George’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. So that was what it was really all about! Money! Hunter had come to haggle over the price now he knew the condition of the property. George had expected to expediently conclude the sale confident that Jason would rely on a memory of Westlea House in its elegant heyday. ‘Are you about to renege on the deal? If you have named a price beyond your means, please say so….’

‘I think you know I have not,’ Jason enunciated very quietly.

George fiddled nervously with the lawn knot at his throat, for Jason’s icy grey gaze was unrelenting. He already regretted having resorted to using scorn. George knew, as did most people, that little was beyond this man’s means. The knowledge was galling, yet he was wily enough to know when to retreat. ‘Westlea House might now appear a little drab, but it is basically sound and will be grand again. When I have payment you will have vacant possession.’

‘You think that your sisters will accept being moved to Rowan Walk?’

George made an exasperated gesture. ‘I’ve had enough of this! You are being damned inquisitive and impertinent over matters that are not for discussion. You are not the only party interested in such a prime piece of property.’ Smugly he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Bridgeman has made an offer on it.’

‘But not at the figure I gave you. Nobody will match the sum, and you know it.’

George’s smirk collapsed—his bluff had been immediately trumped. Colin Bridgeman’s offer was far lower and George had been hoping nobody but he was aware of it.

George glowered at his adversary from beneath heavy lids. Hunter hadn’t come here simply to complain that Westlea House was rundown. What was bothering him, George was sure, was his meeting with Helen. A crafty smile was imminent, but it withered as Jason stepped purposefully back into the room.

‘Before I leave, it is timely to comment on some gossip whilst we are discussing family affairs. It seems your sister is under the impression that I am conducting an illicit relationship with your wife. She has heard a rumour, she said.’

George turned pale, but made no other indication that the subject affected him.

‘I’m sorry to have to speak so bluntly, but this matter needs to be addressed,’ Jason continued levelly. ‘Let me make absolutely clear that I have no romantic interest in your wife. You and Mrs Kingston must deplore the nonsense that is being bandied about to the contrary.’ Jason waited, but a rapid tic at the corner of George’s compressed lips was all the response he received.

‘There has been enough bad blood between us, George. I will not be falsely accused of a dalliance with your wife.’

George turned his back on his visitor. So! Helen had not minced her words with him. He now sensed that sly smile tug at his lips as he wondered whether she had gone so far as to demand he settle with Iris’s confounded modistes. ‘I’m surprised you think a mention needs to be made of it,’ he slung over a disdainfully elevated shoulder. ‘I never comment on pathetic concoctions doing the rounds. What I will say is that my eldest sister at times forgets her breeding. She can be far too outspoken and act outside her role. I shall not apologise for her impertinence, if that is what you hoped.’

‘You have no need to do so, Mrs Marlowe apologised on her own account.’

‘When was that? When she called on you or when you paid a visit to her?’

George’s tone held an insinuation that made Jason’s eyes narrow to stony slits.

‘I was otherwise engaged when your sister paid me a call. I was thus not able to speak to her until I surveyed the house.’

‘I’m sure you took a thorough look at it all.’

‘I always do when someone is too keen to sell me something.’

The threat George saw in Jason’s countenance made him reconsider riling him further. He simply asked innocently, ‘Are we to renegotiate the price because of the dilapidations you saw or the insults you heard?’

‘I’ll honour the sum first agreed on one condition: you find decent accommodation for your sisters.’

George examined his fingernails. ‘What’s it to you where they live?’

Indeed, Jason wryly thought, what was it to him? But the memory of Helen Marlowe’s fragility cocooned by a threadbare dress was again in his mind. Despite her ugly clothing and unbound hair, despite her furious embarrassment when telling him she was to be sent to live on Rowan Walk, she had exuded a quiet pride … a stubborn grace. He recalled the feverish flush he had more than once brought to liven her marble-white complexion. There was meagre satisfaction in knowing that by discomfiting her he had momentarily kept her warm.

Helen Marlowe was neglected because her brother was weak and selfish and unable to control the grasping harlot he had married.

Jason wondered how Iris Kingston would like living in a freezing house, clothed in faded cotton. He wondered how she would withstand feeling hungry, for Helen had looked as though little nourishment passed her lips. He felt tempted to sneeringly voice his thoughts to her inept guardian. Instead he bit out glacially, ‘I’ll not have people think I’m in any way involved in putting two gentlewomen on Rowan Walk.’

‘In case it’s imagined you have a … shall we say, special interest in one of them? Both of them?’

Jason allowed that sneer to curl his lip. ‘I’ve never yet housed a paramour so poorly. The fact that you would consider settling your sisters in such surroundings disgusts me.’

‘I’m sure you know that your opinion of me counts for nought.’

Jason smiled his contempt on turning away. ‘I’ll let you get to your dinner … and your lady wife.’ In the corridor he halted to say, ‘Mrs Marlowe was alone when I visited. I didn’t see your younger sister Charlotte. How old is she now?’

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.’

‘I wish Charlotte had gained her majority and you no longer had power over her life.’

‘She is nineteen and I am her guardian. She can do far better than marry him. In fact, perhaps she has already done so.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean that I would hazard a guess that she has caught the eye of an extremely eligible gentleman. I would go so far as to say that it is to that particular wealthy gentleman you are obliged for that delivery of coal.’

Chapter Six

‘You are talking in riddles, George. Charlotte knows no extremely eligible gentleman. We do not frequent places where she might meet such a person.’

‘She has not needed to go anywhere. Recently a man came here, did he not?’ On observing Helen’s startled look, he added, ‘There’s no use in denying it, I’ve had the news firsthand.’

‘Has Sir Jason Hunter asked you if he may propose to Charlotte?’ Anticipating a dilatory response Helen came to her own scornful conclusion. ‘I know he has not; but you’d like to make me think differently, wouldn’t you? You might not like Philip, but this is truly absurd, George!’ Helen’s large golden eyes demanded a retraction from him, but a smug look was all she received. Helen sighed disappointedly. ‘Apart from the fact that a delivery of coal would be an extremely odd courtship gesture, Jason Hunter did not even see Charlotte earlier in the week. She was not at home when he called.’

‘I know she was not here. He mentioned that he missed seeing her … amongst other things.’

Helen stared at her brother, perplexity arching her dark brows. ‘What exactly did he say?’

‘That you were rude to him.’

‘I was not!’ she spluttered, but with guilty spots of colour seeping into her cheeks. ‘I simply told him some truths, and you cannot deny you didn’t want me to!’ She felt depressed from knowing Jason Hunter had immediately tittle-tattled about her to George. She had not believed him to be that sort of mean character. ‘In any case, it ill behoves a libertine to preach about good manners.’

‘Never mind about that now,’ George airily dismissed. ‘Whatever you said, I think it might have had a most beneficial result. Hunter came to see me within a short while of leaving here. He spoke of Charlotte in a way that makes me certain he finds our little sister … interesting.’

‘What did he say?’ Helen demanded.

‘I recall a mention was made of her beauty …’ It was a statement calculated by George to imply that the compliment had not been his. Briskly he continued, ‘Hunter made a point of asking her age. It is as well Charlotte has gone out for I wanted to speak to you in private. Do you think that he has recently spied her out walking with friends and taken a liking to her?’ George subdued a smile on noticing his sister’s deep concentration. ‘It might end in a family feud if Hunter takes her on. But at least Goode would be saved the indignity of going cap in hand to his cousin.’

‘Oh, be quiet, George!’ Helen exploded, unimpressed by her brother’s drollery. ‘Now I think sensibly on it, I see it is just another deluded fancy of yours, concocted in the hope of securing someone rich to clear your debts. None of it alters the fact that Charlotte loves Philip.’

‘And Hunter won’t give a damn either way.’ George bestowed on his sister an extremely patronising smile. ‘I realise you were not married long, Helen; perhaps that explains why you often seem too naïve.’

A suspicion of to what her brother was alluding made Helen’s soft lips slacken in disbelief.

‘Jason won’t countenance getting leg-shackled to a woman with nothing to offer but her looks.’ George snorted a coarse laugh. ‘I know of several ambitious chits with good dowries who would forgo being a duke’s wife to marry that particular baronet. He’s planning to use his cash to lure a high-born filly and found a dynasty.’

Alarm and anger vied for precedence in Helen’s mind now she clearly understood what her brother meant. If Jason Hunter wanted to buy his heirs a nobler lineage, so be it. She was not interested in his aspirations. But the prospect of her sister’s ruination was very much a concern close to her heart.

For a few fraught moments Helen played over in her mind all that had passed between Jason Hunter and her when he had come to Westlea House. Had she been so obsessed with lambasting him over his relationship with Iris that she had missed vital clues that he was preying on someone far dearer to her? Her conclusion was that there had been no word or deed of his to make her suspect him a callous seducer of innocents. When she had asked him to leave because Charlotte would soon be home he had not attempted to find an excuse to loiter, and surely he would have done so if he were attracted to their young sister.

With shocking and depressing insight she realised it was not Jason Hunter she mistrusted, but her own brother. ‘I cannot believe you would accuse a gentleman of being capable of anything so despicable!’ She glared at George, but he simply returned her an impenitent smile. ‘Sir Jason might have a reputation as a rake, but I’m certain he leaves maids alone.’

Helen’s mounting outrage had made her slender body tense as a spring and her censure increasingly vociferous. In fact, so absorbed had she been in railing at George that for a moment she was unaware that his attention was riveted elsewhere.

What wounded Helen most was the knowledge that their brother—the person their father had trusted would protect and care for his sisters—considered Charlotte’s degradation would be a surprisingly beneficial result to recent dealings with Jason Hunter.

Helen whipped about to face her brother and was momentarily struck dumb. Betty was, once more, hovering awkwardly on the parlour’s threshold, her red countenance bearing testament to her having overheard rather too much of the contretemps between sister and brother.

‘There is a gentleman caller, Mrs Marlowe,’ Betty announced in a croak, her eyes gliding to the side to indicate the hallway.

Obviously the visitor had also heard Mrs Marlowe shouting like a fishwife. Helen took a steadying breath and submerged her regrets at having been caught out in such unladylike passion, beneath a soaring optimism. She offered up a silent prayer that Samuel Drover had returned to collect his payment and was in no mood to be fobbed off. Fervently she wished the grocer might today succeed in cornering George into settling his account.

But Betty’s next whispered words withered any such hope and sent icy fingers to momentarily squeeze still Helen’s racing heart.

‘The visitor … umm … he … it’s … Sir Jason Hunter, ma’am,’ Betty concluded.

Helen felt a strange mix of dread and defensiveness coiling cramps in her stomach. It was possible Sir Jason had not heard his name mentioned, or discerned the nature of their heated exchange. But certainly he had heard her sounding like a raucous harpy. She darted a glance at George; his expression betrayed a peculiar ruefulness. Jerking her faculties into action, Helen tilted up her chin and instructed clearly, ‘Please show him in, Betty.’

‘So, you think my theory absurd, do you? I wonder what brings him here?’ George peered closely at Helen. ‘Try and make yourself presentable, for Heaven’s sake. You have dirt on your cheek. Hunter will think you a slattern.’

Helen’s fingers spontaneously jumped towards her face. She gave a tut of dismay as she noticed that the very digits she had been about to employ to remove the spot bore evidence that they had caused it. It was likely the dust had come from the scrap of paper the coalman had given her.

Quickly she wiped her stained fingers on her skirt just as she heard George announce, ‘Hunter, fancy seeing you here….’

‘A pleasant surprise, I’m sure….’

It was a wry retaliation to her brother’s sarcasm and made Helen wince. She raised watchful eyes to Jason’s face and again marvelled at features that were both ruggedly masculine yet finely proportioned.

Perhaps aware of her regard, he turned to look at her. Helen proudly tilted her chin and quickly clasped her mucky hands behind her back.

If he was aware that he’d figured in the argument he’d overheard he gave no outward indication. He looked no less cool and composed than he had when last she had seen his sartorially splendid physique stationed in her shabby parlour. And she looked … only slightly better than she had on that occasion, she realised. The bulk of her thick hair was still in a chignon, and her serviceable brown skirt and crisp cotton bodice were an improvement on her faded blue cambric. But on that previous occasion at least her face had been clean. Whilst the two men exchanged a few words Helen casually brought the cuff of a sleeve to her cheek and scrubbed. Her hand dropped back to her side as she heard her name spoken in a husky male voice.

‘I trust I’ve not called at an inconvenient time, Mrs Marlowe.’

It sounded innocent enough, but there was a gleam of amusement in his grey eyes letting Helen know the nicety was ironic. Blood fizzed beneath her skin, but instinctively she sketched a bob in response to his greeting. ‘Unfortunately you have, sir,’ she boldly told him. ‘My brother and I were in the middle of discussing some important domestic issues. I’m sorry to seem inhospitable, but—’

‘Helen! Where are your manners?’ George interrupted with a reproachful tone and an easy smile. ‘There is nothing we were talking about that can’t wait for another time.’ Pulling out a heavy gold watch, he consulted it with a regretful sigh. ‘Look at the time! Much as I would like to tarry and be sociable, I must be on my way. My attorney is expecting me to call on him in Cheapside and after that I have to attend to pressing business in Holborn. Why do you not get Betty to fetch some tea, Helen? I expect Charlotte might soon be back and join you.’ He sauntered to collect his hat and gloves from the table before carrying on towards the door.

‘Perhaps Sir Jason might think you rather impolite,’ Helen sharply addressed her brother’s back. ‘Will you not stay just a short while, George, and keep us company?’

‘Of course I should like to, but I’m late already. Besides, I doubt Jason is come to see me. Anything in particular you must say to me, old chap?’ he asked with affable charm. ‘Not a thing.’

There was again an inflection to her visitor’s tone that made Helen sure the two men were tilting at one another. But her overriding desire was to get her brother to tarry long enough to give her an opportunity to slip away and tidy her appearance.

Having come and violently upset her, George was going to insouciantly depart and leave her to deal with the awkwardness of Jason Hunter’s untimely arrival. The slippery devil was also going to avoid a confrontation with Mr Drover this afternoon. George was once more about to wriggle free of providing the wherewithal for some provisions.

For some moments after George’s slick departure from Westlea House, the only sound in the cool parlour was the rhythmic tick of the mantel clock. Helen managed to subdue her anger at her sly brother for long enough to remember to offer what meagre hospitality was available. ‘Please do sit down if you wish, sir.’

Whilst her visitor was seating himself on the ancient leather chair he had used once before, Helen was finding another reason to despise George. His blithe assumption that she had refreshment to give a guest was a typical example of his careless ignorance over how his sisters existed at Westlea House.

Suddenly she pounced on a useful memory. In the dining room was a decanter half-full of Madeira. George kept it replenished in case he fancied a tipple when dropping in on them. Conscious of grey eyes steadily observing her profile, Helen announced with the aplomb of a competent hostess, ‘If you would like a drink, sir, my maid will be pleased to fetch you a glass of wine …’

‘I thank you, no,’ Jason said with a crooked smile. ‘I shall endeavour not to outstay my welcome.’

Helen again felt blood tingle beneath her cheeks. Perhaps his voice held no humour and she was simply too sensitive to being mocked.

She resisted the urge to press her fingertips to her face where skin felt singed by eyes like charcoal embers. She knew he had noticed the smudges on her face and the knowledge irked enough to make her prickly. ‘Is there a reason for your visit, sir?’

‘Indeed there is. I have come to advise you that I have arranged for a load of fuel to be delivered. Has the coalman already been? You look a little sooty …’

Helen inwardly winced, but nevertheless brought her mucky fingers into view and wiped them, very deliberately, with a handkerchief whipped from a pocket. ‘As you can see, sir, the delivery has indeed just arrived and, being unexpected, was inconvenient.’ She rolled the stained cloth into a ball and hid it in a fist. ‘Whilst not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, perhaps you would care to explain why you thought to interfere in something that is not your concern.’

‘But it is my concern, Mrs Marlowe,’ he softly corrected. He leaned back in his chair, lifting a boot to settle at an angle on the other leg. His long lashes screened the expression in his eyes as he said, ‘Maintaining this house is now my responsibility. The structure is damp and I have decided it would benefit from some warmth in the rooms.’

Slowly Helen absorbed the awful significance of what she had heard. ‘Westlea House is now your property?’

‘Yes.’

‘The deal is all done? It is finalised so soon?’ Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. As though the full force of the news had finally penetrated, Helen allowed a startled glance to flit about the parlour, as if trying to imprint every faded feature on her mind.

‘The sale was finalised a few days ago. I’m surprised that your brother has not already found an opportunity to tell you of it.’ Jason paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Has George said anything at all to you about the terms and conditions we agreed?’

Helen absently shook her head. She cared little for knowing the details of the deal. Besides, she could guess that the terms and conditions to which he referred centred on the speedy ejection from the premises of George’s sisters.

Suddenly she perceived exactly why her brother had been so eager to immediately leave when this man arrived. George had cravenly scampered away lest the news slip out and cause a bad atmosphere. He would not like his sister to harangue him, in front of such an influential acquaintance, over the indecently hasty sale of their childhood home. Helen grimly realised that, had her brother been still within range, she might have forgone a verbal assault in favour of a physical one. Her fingers unconsciously wrung the handkerchief until it loudly yielded. She looked down at the shredded linen, then carefully put it out of sight in a pocket.

It was useless blaming Jason Hunter for depriving her of her beloved Westlea House. It was all George’s fault. She walked in a daze to the window and gazed out sightlessly at a smart phaeton. Her trancelike state prevented her from noticing that a neighbour out walking had hesitated to peer inquisitively between the expensive equipage and her front door. Suddenly Helen whirled about to launch some breathless questions. ‘Must we leave here immediately? Is that the real reason you have come today? To give us notice to quit?’

Having accepted the comfort of a chair for barely a few minutes, Jason was again on his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, tipping up his head, frowned at the ceiling. ‘No, that is not the reason I came here, Mrs Marlowe. I was actually speaking the truth when I said I wanted to tell you a merchant would be calling.’

Helen flushed beneath the tacit warning that he resented the implication he was a liar. But she was to anguished by the loss of Westlea House to offer an apology. All she would now deal in were hard facts. ‘When must we leave?’ she demanded to know, struggling to sound coolly polite.

‘You may stay here until your brother finds you suitable accommodation.’

Helen smothered a laugh with the back of a quivering hand. ‘You must be a patient man then, Sir Jason, for I will never find Rowan Walk suitable.’

‘Then George must rent another property. If he fails to do so, he will forfeit a sum of money. It is a condition of the sale, signed and witnessed, that you and your sister are housed somewhere that is acceptable to you.’

Helen’s fists tightened at her sides. ‘And that condition was your idea?’

Jason signalled a brief affirmative with a lazy hand and an expressive lift of his dark brows.

‘If you are expecting me to thank you, sir, I am afraid I cannot. If you withhold George’s money, he will use that as an excuse to continue to keep us short. Besides, this house is the one acceptable to us.’

‘If it is really what you want, you may stay here.’

Helen’s topaz eyes flew wide in astonishment. A moment later they had narrowed suspiciously. George’s theory on this man’s interest in Charlotte niggled mercilessly at her mind. Gentlemen did not offer shelter to young ladies unless they were relations … or the target of lustful intentions. ‘What do you mean … we may stay here?’ she enquired in a glacial tone.

‘I mean that your brother must rent you somewhere to live. This house is now mine and I would consider granting a tenancy on it.’

‘You would not when you discover how little my brother would be prepared to pay you,’ Helen said with a brittle laugh. ‘The property on Rowan Walk is taken for six months and he will not squander the expense of that. I told you he had committed to it when last we met. Perhaps you had forgotten what I said.’

‘I haven’t forgotten one thing you said to me, Mrs Marlowe. And, I repeat, if you want to remain here, I’m sure something can be arranged.’

Helen again felt an alarming frisson race through her. Had she misjudged and berated George unfairly? Her brother might think her too naïve, but unbeknown to him she had personal experience of the negotiations between rich men and poor women.

Two years ago she had received, and rebuffed, a proposition from a gentleman wanting to offer her his protection. Colin Bridgeman had written to her of his respectful admiration and of how he was confident that something could be arranged between them. Helen had felt at the time quite angry when Mr Bridgeman had ignored her curt note of refusal and written again, coaxingly, of the benefits she would receive. She had been on the point of telling George to speak to the insufferable lecher. Now, of course, she was glad she had kept the matter private—doubtless George would have insisted that she take up Mr Bridgeman’s kind offer.

Helen shot a wary glance at Jason’s face. He returned her regard with quite pleasant directness.

She had spoken to him once before in a blunt way that would guarantee her ostracism by polite society should they ever know of it. Taking a deep, inspiriting breath Helen blurted out, ‘I must beg your pardon, sir, and your forbearance, but I find I must again speak to you in a way that will be considered shockingly improper.’

‘Please say what you must. I’d rather there was no misunderstanding between us.’

But having boldly got that far, even his gentle prompting could not bolster her courage. Looking up at his worryingly handsome face, she decided first to try and prise some clues from him. ‘When you arrived here today … I expect you overheard … that is … I’m sure you know George and I were arguing.’ Large amber eyes peeked up through a web of inky lashes to discern his reaction.

‘I admit I was aware of a heated exchange.’ Jason’s mouth tilted, but he seemed unwilling to elaborate.

‘I’m not sure how much you overheard …’ Helen probed.

Jason felt tempted to smooth back the lustrous strand of hair that clung stubbornly to her soot-smudged cheek. Instead he murmured, ‘Please don’t embarrass yourself by mentioning it further, Mrs Marlowe. Suffice to say that I was not disappointed on hearing your opinion of me.’

Helen felt fiery blood rush beneath her complexion.

Seeing he had heightened her confusion, Jason soothed softly, ‘My intention was not to embarrass you, Mrs Marlowe. Let’s say no more of it.’

Helen cleared her throat. ‘I find I cannot just dismiss it, sir, for I’m not now sure that George deserved the ticking off I gave him.’

‘And what has changed your mind?’

‘Something you have said …’

Jason twisted a slight smile. ‘Ah, I see. You no longer think me a principled rake … just a rake. Will you enlighten me as to how I have disgraced myself in such a short while?’

Helen nodded, but his mild mockery had made words again awkwardly clutter her throat.

Jason walked to the cold marble mantel and braced a lean hand against it. ‘Let me hazard a guess and save you the ordeal of telling me. You think that any benefits I have offered will be subject to unpleasant conditions. Let me reassure you. I do not need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with me.’

Helen’s beautiful eyes shot to his face as the awful truth registered. He thought she was hinting he found her attractive.

‘Me?’ Helen gasped in a voice that hovered between ridicule and outrage. ‘Oh, no! I don’t think you want me at all. I think it is Charlotte you’re after.’

Chapter Seven

‘Charlotte? Your younger sister?’

Helen had to admit that his astonishment seemed genuine. His brow, visible beneath a fall of dark hair, had furrowed, and he looked ready to laugh. Feeling unaccountably nettled by his reaction, she gave a curt nod.

‘You think that I have designs on your sister’s virtue.’ It was a toneless statement and he now looked far from amused.

Helen felt her pique wilt beneath his latent anger. She chewed nervously at her lower lip and tried to avoid the ominous glitter in his eyes. But still she wanted to hear his denial. ‘Are you saying you didn’t intend to attach strings to your generosity?’

‘Is there any point in saying anything at all? It seems I’ve already been found guilty as charged.’

‘No! That’s not true. I told George I did not think you capable of callously seducing a chaste young woman.’ She had come closer to him in her agitation and a small hand raised as though she would clasp his forearm in emphasis.

Just for an instant their eyes coupled, travelled together to her outstretched fingers. Helen quickly curled the slender digits into her palm and the fist dropped to her side.

‘But you think my leniency extends only to untried maids,’ he stated quietly.

‘I do not think you a callous man at all,’ Helen briskly said with a crisp back-step. ‘I’m sorry if I have offended you, but I did warn you I had nothing pleasant to say. Charlotte is just nineteen and hoping soon to get engaged. A hint of scandal would ruin her reputation and her future.’ She hoped that her apologetic explanation had sweetened his temper, but received no such sign.

A finger fiddled a bothersome curl behind a small ear. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned any of it. It is just that … someone said you were showing an unusual interest in Charlotte.’

‘I wonder who it was?’

The question was soft, sardonic, and Helen knew that trying to shield George was pointless. Jason was perfectly aware who had sown that particular poisonous seed in her mind.

The best form of defence is attack, her papa would have counselled had he known her predicament. And she did have a grievance of her own to air! ‘I know you went to see my brother after you left here last week. He told me so this afternoon.’ She gave him a reproachful look. ‘I had already apologised to you for being impertinent that day. Perhaps if you had not gone off telling tales to him my sister’s name would not have arisen and thus no misunderstandings either.’

‘So I’m not only suspected of being a brute, but a tattler, too.’

Jason shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slanted a searing look at her from beneath curved black lashes. ‘Do you seriously think I would waste an hour of my time bleating to your brother about how horrid you had been to me?’

Helen winced at the dark irony in his voice. ‘I realise you had other matters to discuss with George, too,’ she tartly allowed.

‘Indeed, I did,’ Jason drawled. ‘Actually, I must thank you, Mrs Marlowe, for bringing something to my attention. It seems that a comment from me was long overdue on a slanderous rumour going around. I have not cuckolded your brother and have no intention of doing so.’

Helen’s heart jumped a beat, then started an erratic tattoo beneath her ribs. She had certainly not expected that to be one of the topics he had discussed with George. ‘Be that as it may, sir,’ she breathed, ‘you have only yourself to blame that people have assumed differently. If you flirt outrageously with my sister-in-law, you ought know gossip will ensue.’

‘I abandoned flirting a decade or more ago, Mrs Marlowe. And you ought know that, where I am concerned, your brother is a regular mischief-maker. I suspect his wife is, too.’

He was correct, of course, in his assessment of her kin. Moreover, she believed he had been wrongly maligned, and thus could have made much more of a complaint than a taciturn observation on the devious natures of her brother and sister-in-law. Nevertheless, Helen instinctively bristled at receiving even a mild rebuke from him. She blinked and moistened her dry mouth by delicately tracing her lower lip with her tongue tip.

His steady, penetrating appraisal flustered Helen and she fought to equal his calm demeanour. She wished he would go, yet, confusingly, was reluctant to lose his company. There was something about him that was daunting, yet very appealing. He seemed in no rush to leave despite 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 pity me! It was a silent, heartfelt demand that threatened to burst the sob swelling in her chest. Quickly she lowered her prickling eyes to her tightly laced fingers. Unaware that Jason had nudged the florid-faced grocer forward into the hallway, she managed an imperceptible nod at an empty doorway. ‘Yes … good day to you, sir….’

‘You look as though you’ve lost a sovereign and found a shilling.’

Jason scowled at his brother as he passed him. By the time Mark Hunter had turned on the sweeping staircase, peered at his brother’s flying heels, then hared after him, Jason had strode the length of a thickly carpeted corridor. He slammed into his study, downed two shots of whisky one after the other and was refilling his glass when Mark appeared.

‘Bad time at the tables?’ Mark’s tone was sympathetic as he speculated on a possible, if unlikely, cause of his brother’s dark disposition. He helped himself to Jason’s decanter and, after a couple of gulps from his glass, realised his commiserations remained unappreciated. He tried a blunter approach. ‘Devil take it, Jay, if you’ve not lost at cards, what’s up with you now? It’s too much, I tell you, having to continually look at your long face. You’ve been odd for weeks.’

Jason let his lean frame drop into the chair positioned behind a grand oak desk. Having settled himself with his boots resting on the table edge, he slanted his brother a stare over the rim of his glass. ‘When did my moods become your damned business? And why is it every time I come home, you’re here? I don’t remember inviting you to move in.’ His brother’s pained expression caused him to blow out his cheeks and gesture apology with a flick of a hand.

‘I know the old goat wants shooting for acting so blasted idiotic,’ Mark intoned with some indignation. ‘But, even if the two women are good friends, it don’t just affect your mistress, y’know. Every bachelor in town is cursing over it, so no need to take it out on me if Diana is being tricky.’

Jason grunted a laugh at his brother’s oblique and garbled reference to a rumour that he’d personally found amusing rather than irritating.

He had heard the talk that his paramour was jealous of her friend Mrs Bertram. That woman had, if gossip was to be believed, secured a promise from Lord Frobisher that he would make an honest woman of her before the year was out, thus making her a lady in name, if not in nature.

Jason carefully placed down his empty glass, feeling a little the worse for alcohol. On the way home he had called in at White’s and loitered, drinking, for an hour or more, hoping that George Kingston might turn up, simply so he could knock down the mean bastard.

‘It’s nothing to do with Diana or any foolish aspirations she might have,’ he told his brother.

‘Relieved to hear it,’ Mark replied with a grin. ‘So what has upset—?’

‘Mark … go away,’ Jason advised with guttural gentility.

Mark noticed a flare of threat in his brother’s eyes and shrugged. He knew from past experience when it was wise to retreat and leave Jason alone to brood. He strolled to the door, whistling.

Jason rested his dark head against the hide chair-back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His features were tensely set, but a muscle moving close to his mouth animated his mask-like visage.

His brother’s instinct that a woman was stoking his frustration was quite correct, even if he was ignorant of her identity.

Helen Marlow had unexpectedly come back into his life and he couldn’t chase from his mind the exquisite woman who had emerged from the bonny child he’d known. He wished now that he’d sought to renew their acquaintance sooner. He could have done so, for he’d spied her at a distance on odd occasions. It would have been simple enough to approach her and ask how she fared. But the feud with George had driven a wedge between them years ago when she was still a schoolgirl. Later, when she returned to town as a young widow to live with her father, it seemed too much time had passed and they had slipped back to being virtual strangers.

It had been more than ten years since he had come within touching distance of her. From the moment she had opened the door of Westlea House to him and tried to hide her dishevelled appearance behind the wood panels, he had been robbed of his peace of mind. In truth, he resented the loss.

Yet his thoughts continually revolved around finding excuses to go back and see her again. The urge to do so was not primarily altruistic and therein lay the root of his torment. He wanted to improve her lot in life, but he desired her, too, and she knew it.

He gave a lopsided smile at the ceiling as he recalled the way she had instinctively leaped to defend him when the grocer got belligerent. Feelings of tenderness had engulfed Jason as she’d stood before him like an intrepid waif prepared to do battle. He’d also felt a sense of relief, for she had proven—unintentionally, he imagined—that she was not completely set against him. She was indebted to him through no fault of her own and she sensed that made her vulnerable to his lust. In just a short while she had displayed wit and courage and dignity. She had also showed her selfish brother more loyalty than George would merit in his lifetime. But acknowledging Helen had fine qualities had not subdued the throb in his loins.

He had a perfectly adequate mistress. Why would he want the trouble of wooing into bed a well-bred woman who thought him a rake and seemed unwilling to trust him to act ethically? Something else was nettling him. Jason knew he was playing too easily into George Kingston’s hands. He was allowing George to manipulate him, yet seemed unable to put a stop to it. George wanted him to take over the financial burden of his sisters’ keep and he was achieving his aim with such ease that he had begun to dispense with the need to be subtle. Filling the empty grates and larders at Westlea House was not his responsibility. But he had taken on the task, just as George intended he should. George had gambled on a meeting between Helen and him paying spectacular dividends, and he had won. George was now basking in his victory. He was goading him, blatantly challenging him to choose between pride and lust.

Jason knew that soon he would have to make a decision before gossip started. Evicting Helen and her sister from Westlea House was out of the question, but it would not be long before it was common knowledge he owned the property. Risking a stain on Charlotte’s reputation was also out of the question. The obvious solution would be to establish a position in his life for Helen.

Wife or mistress? George Kingston would not care either way. If Mrs Marlowe became a kept woman, polite society would be provided with a tasty morsel of gossip for a week or two, but they would not ostracise her. Helen’s reputation was protected by the status conferred by her late husband.

Thus, it was his choice which role he offered to her after such a limited renewal of their acquaintance. Certainly she fascinated him and he was sure he liked her, but he had felt that way before about young women who now he could barely recall to mind.

Jason got to his feet, only half-aware that he had come to a decision as he stretched out his stiff muscles. A rueful smile tugged at a corner of his mouth as he realised that the only objections he was likely to receive to an offer of carte blanche was from the lady herself.

Chapter Eight

‘What on earth is the matter?’

Helen had been attempting to compose a letter of apology to Jason Hunter while Charlotte was out. The scuffed leather surface on the bureau was littered with crumpled scraps of paper, testament to the difficulty of the task she’d set herself.

But now Charlotte was back and looking very dejected. Pushing away pen and paper, Helen swivelled on her seat. Charlotte was plucking at her hat strings with vibrating fingers. Once free of her thick tresses, the bonnet was forcefully discarded on to the sofa. Charlotte sank down beside it, her red-rimmed eyes concealed by her palms.

‘What is it, dear?’ Helen immediately went to her. She crouched by the side of the chair with an anxious frown crinkling her ivory brow. Charlotte’s hands were gently eased from her face and Helen comforted them with her own. ‘What has happened? Is Philip not with you?’ Helen glanced at the door. Philip invariably came in for a short while when he brought Charlotte home from an outing. ‘Have you argued?’ It was a doubtfully tendered possibility. Charlotte and Philip usually seemed a very harmonious couple.

Charlotte raised her watery brown eyes to Helen’s face. ‘Philip won’t ever come here again. He won’t marry me now. Why would he when I have such a hateful brother?’ she gritted out through small pearly teeth. Charlotte again hid her freshly streaming eyes with her fingers.

Helen sank forward on to her knees as an inkling of what might be ailing her sister put a guilty sigh in her throat. So obsessed had she been with dwelling on her fraught encounter with Jason Hunter and Mr Drover that she had neglected to give any more thought to a worrying incident that had occurred before either of those gentleman had arrived.

Helen cast back her mind a few hours. Charlotte had been from the room, collecting her coat, when George had cruelly curtailed Philip’s attempt to make formal his suit. No doubt Philip had felt injured enough by George’s churlish rejection to tell Charlotte of it.

Helen remembered, too, with heavy heart, that George had not been content to leave it at that. Once their sister had quit the house with the Goodes, George had more doom to deliver on the subject of the courting couple. Or rather, he had anticipated that she would do his dirty work for him. His curt dictate echoed in her mind: 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.

‘Was Philip annoyed that George was short with him? He had every right to be …’

‘What did he say to Philip?’ Charlotte interrupted, scrubbing the heel of a hand across her eyes. ‘Tell me, please! I sensed something unpleasant had occurred while I was getting ready to go out. Philip is too agreeable to make a fuss, but I guessed something was wrong, even before George came over and was horrible to us in the park.’

‘You saw George whilst you were out?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘I’m sure George only turned up in Hyde Park because he guessed we had gone there. Why does he hate Philip? He has never taken the trouble to get to know him.’

Helen tightened her grip on Charlotte’s shivery hands. ‘I’m sure he does not hate him,’ she soothed. ‘It is just that our brother is …’ She struggled to find words that might mitigate George’s boorishness. ‘I know our brother has an unfortunate manner at times,’ she lamely concluded.

‘Unfortunate manner?’ Charlotte shrieked and stamped a foot to emphasise her outrage. ‘He is a swine! He deliberately humiliated Philip in front of his sister and me! The park was quite crowded too and a lot of people witnessed what went on. A horrible fellow started laughing at us.’ Charlotte’s voice wobbled as she recounted, ‘Poor Anne was so upset she started to cry, although she pretended she just had a speck in her eye.’

Helen’s wide eyes revealed her astonishment at what she’d heard. Usually George sought to keep his shameful behaviour out of public display. ‘What exactly did he do?’ she demanded to know.

‘We had stopped by the lake to watch the swans and George just appeared with one of his cronies. George got out of his carriage and stormed over to us. With no more ado he ordered me home. Philip was startled by his rudeness, but took it in good part, I thought. I’m sure he knew George was slighting him because he doesn’t deem him good enough for me.’ She paused to wipe a hand across her feverishly flushed cheeks. ‘Philip offered to immediately bring me back, but George stared at him as though he was dirt beneath his shoe. He snapped out that he would directly take me safely home himself.’ Charlotte pulled a scrap of linen from a pocket. She furiously applied it to her glistening dark eyes. ‘Philip was … he looked so mortified when George made me get out of the gig. That’s when I heard his friend laughing.’ She gurgled a sob, then wiped her dewy nose. ‘I tried to reassure Philip that I was disgusted too by George’s behaviour. I said I would be pleased to see him again later in the week. But he avoided my eye and said, in a strange voice, that he didn’t think that would be possible.’ Charlotte blinked away fresh tears. ‘He doesn’t want to see me again. It is finished between us, I know it is.’

Helen shot to her feet. ‘George brought you home? Where is he?’ she demanded and flew to the window to peer out into the street.

‘He is gone. The whole way home he wouldn’t speak to me, even when I shouted at him that he was overbearing. When we turned into the Square he cast on me one of his black looks.’ Charlotte pursed her lips mutinously. ‘He said he would never give his consent to a man of Goode’s standing and I might as well get used to it. That’s when I told him he was the vilest man alive and I would marry whomever I chose and he might as well get used to it. After that it was as much as he could do to help me down from the carriage. He was so rough with me I feared he might pull my arm from its socket. Before Betty had let me in he’d set off up the street.’

Helen observed Charlotte’s distress and her heart went out to her. It was difficult to comprehend why any decent person would deliberately make a spectacle of a gentleman as inoffensive as Philip Goode. But then George, she reluctantly admitted to herself, had not acted very decently in a long while. Despite knowing it, she still felt lurking within her a sibling’s sadness. A corrosive resentment of the contented, and a grasping wife, were destroying the personable brother who once had taught her how to ride her first pony and fish the streams in the Surrey countryside.

Helen retraced her steps to the sofa and sat down close to Charlotte. ‘From what you have said it seems George has made himself, rather than Philip, appear ridiculous. It is George who needs our pity,’ she added gravely. ‘Perhaps if he had made a successful marriage he might not be so sour at life.’ She enclosed her sister in a hug and planted a kiss on her luxuriant, auburn tangles. ‘We are the lucky ones, Charlotte. You and I both have known what bliss there is in being cherished by someone we love. Poor George! I think at times he knows what he misses and is bitterly jealous.’

Charlotte rested her head on Helen’s slender shoulder. ‘I wish Papa was here. He would have liked Philip. He would have given us his blessing … just as he did to you and Harry.’

‘Yes, he would. Philip is very like Harry. I expect that is why I took to him from the start.’ With a wistful smile she looked down at her young sister. ‘But our papa is not here. Neither is dearest Harry.’ She put Charlotte from her and said briskly, ‘So we must look after ourselves and not let our brother scare the fight out of us.’

‘I do love Philip, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. And that is why, somehow or other, you must marry him,’ Helen answered softly. She looked off into the distance with a slight frown drawing close her ebony brows. ‘I expect Philip wants very much to see you again, but fears sparking another ugly scene with George. And who could blame him for that?’ She gave Charlotte an encouraging smile. ‘The best thing will be for me to go alone and pay the Goodes a visit. I shall let them know that they are most welcome to call on us at any time. If George gets temperamental over it … well, he shall have me to contend with.’

‘Beg pardon, Mrs Marlowe, but he is back again.’

Helen peered over her sister’s tousled head at Betty. Her maidservant was, once more that day, stationed in the doorway with an apologetic look on her face. Helen sensed her heart falter and then a burst of terrified exhilaration made her feel quite lightheaded. In a breathy rush she demanded, ‘Who is it, Betty?’

‘Oh, not the gentleman, ma’am,’ Betty said with distinct disappointment. ‘It’s Mr Drover. He won’t say what he wants, so I’ve left him on the step this time.’

Within a moment Helen was briskly walking to the front door. ‘My brother is still not here, Mr Drover,’ she announced without preamble. ‘And I am not expecting him to arrive any time soon. I’m very sorry, but I cannot help you.’

‘I’ve not come about him.’ The grocer shifted on the stone step, fingering the brim of the hat that he was banging in rhythm against his knees. ‘I’m sorry for acting hot-headed earlier … end of tether, you understand.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The other gentleman settled my account.’ His tone was level, but a sly glance slanted up at her before he again meekly studied his shoes. ‘I’ve fetched over that order you sent with my boy earlier in the week.’

‘Sir Jason Hunter has settled the bill …’ Helen whispered. It was not really a question at all. Since Jason had been rudely petitioned to pay for her groceries, she had wondered if he might indeed do so.

Helen suddenly became conscious that Betty was hovering behind her. The young woman’s gaping mouth and bulging eyes indicated her great interest in the proceedings. Before Helen could dismiss her entranced maid, Samuel Drover supplied both women with another piece of riveting information.

‘The gentleman left cash on your account, too, so you’re not to fret on this load.’ He gave a sideways nod at his cart. After a silent few seconds he politely queried, ‘Shall I start to bring it in?’

‘Please do.’ It was a firm instruction from Helen, issued after only a tiny hesitation.

Mr Drover lowered his head and humbly backed away a step or two before setting about his task.

Helen proudly elevated her chin. ‘Please set fires in the parlour and the bedchambers. Then when the provisions are checked we will plan what to prepare for dinner.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Betty agreed in a buoyant tone.

Charlotte’s bright words, issued from the parlour’s doorway, reassured Helen that her sister had observed, if not heard, what went on. ‘Heavens! Do you think that George is feeling so guilty over his foul behaviour this afternoon that he has paid the bill at last and sent us some food?’

Helen subdued the sour laugh that scratched at her throat and limited her response to a wry smile. She did not intend to lie to her sister over the source of their improved fortune. But omitting to mention who was their benefactor might be wise until she had a notion of how to present it all to Charlotte.

Besides, Charlotte now seemed too embroiled in her own tribulations to bother with mundane domesticity even if a tasty meal and a warm bedchamber were finally in the offing. Helen could tell that her sister was again lost in her own thoughts as she fiddled with her hat ribbons and sighed loudly. ‘Why do you not go and freshen yourself, Charlotte? Put a brush through your hair and wash your teary cheeks before we dine.’

Charlotte sucked in a rejuvenating breath. With a little nod she turned towards the stairs. Halfway up the flight she pivoted towards Helen with a plea that proved her thoughts were indeed fixed on her beloved. ‘Will you promise me that very soon you will go and see Philip? Please tell him that I am so sorry and that—’

‘Hush!’ Helen interrupted Charlotte, but she gave her an indulgent smile. ‘I have said I will go there and so I shall.’

In a moment Charlotte had skipped out of sight and Betty had bustled into view with the coal scuttle.

Helen quite expected to hear the sounds of Mr Drover whistling and Betty humming a tune. She felt heat flood her complexion as she imagined what occupied their minds as they happily went about their business. The grocer and her servant had come to the same conclusion about what prompted the gentleman’s intervention in her domestic affairs. It had improved their attitudes enormously to think that she was paying in kind for her keep. Helen didn’t for one moment blame either of them for suspecting such an arrangement existed. Had she not already challenged Jason Hunter to clarify what motivated his benevolence? She had received no proper answer from him and was still unsure what prompted him to be generous. But the thought of accepting his charity or his pity was anathema to her.

She could, of course, leave the food on the cart and the coal in the bunker. Charlotte and she could swallow their pride and scrape an existence on Rowan Walk instead of in Westlea House.

Helen felt tranquillity trickle through her as an inner battle ebbed. In her mind it was settled, and there was nothing new or daring about her plan. A host of women before her had resorted to a discreet liaison to keep themselves and their families clothed and fed. He seemed honest and generous and there was nothing about his person that revolted her … quite the reverse … As to her part, she was sure that she could adopt a brazen attitude and willingness. She glanced at her dowdy appearance and gave a wry smile. Perhaps a little artifice with a needle and a rouge pot might not go amiss either.

A little breath caught in her throat as she contemplated the decision she’d made. She might try to be rational and practical, but there was no denying Sir Jason was a powerful and exciting man. What if her proposition was rebuffed, or worse, mocked? Helen felt a fluttering in her abdomen as she imagined dealing with the humiliation of his rejection. The feeling strengthened as she imagined dealing with his agreement to her suggestion! She felt heat seep into her complexion at the haunting memory of making love with Harry. Would she want to again have the sensation of a man’s hot skin welded to hers when, perhaps, he might not even like her very much? She quickly concentrated on Jason’s kindness to her, the intensity of his grey gaze when he looked at her. He liked her at the very least, she was sure of it!

‘It looks as though Bridgeman has forgiven George for not selling him Westlea House.’

Mark Hunter’s cynical observation drew his brother’s interest. Jason dropped the opera glasses from his eyes and turned to look to his left.

Colin Bridgeman and George Kingston were indeed looking very cosy together in one of the boxes. Bridgeman had his head tipped back and was guffawing. Of Iris Kingston there was no sign, although Jason had seen George and his wife arrive together. Jason’s coach had drawn up outside the opera house at the same time as had George’s. The gentlemen had coolly acknowledged one another with a nod. The ladies had exchanged disdainful summarising stares. Diana’s audible aside that a far superior harlot would be needed to put her in her place had made Jason inwardly smile as they proceeded to the stairs in the King’s Theatre.

The house had been scintillating with light and laughter as Jason and Diana took their seats in one of the green boxes just before the performance started.

Now the curtain had fallen on the first act and a buzz of conversation was again growing louder in the auditorium. The performance had been pleasing, but now the main entertainment had begun as people flitted from place to place to pose with friends and gossip over the latest on dits. Mark Hunter had moments ago ambled in to speak to his brother, leaving behind in his own box his current amour. The abandoned actress was with her gallants, yet her soulful eyes were constantly straying to Mark despite the fact that he appeared oblivious to her attention.

Soon after Mark had arrived in Jason’s box, Diana had left it. Jason had made no objection when one of his mistress’s young admirers had entered his domain. The fresh-faced boy had politely asked if he might escort Mrs Tucker to Lord Frobisher’s box where her friend Mrs Bertram was holding court.

The appearance of the eager young buck hovering behind him had started Jason reminiscing on his own youth. For the past few minutes he had been idly training his glasses on the pit to watch the boisterous gentlemen congregating there. Fifteen or more years ago it would have been he and his friends—George Kingston included—laughing and joking whilst fixing a lascivious eye on the elegant females up in the boxes. It had been a game amongst young bloods then, as he imagined it was now, to compete for a lady’s signal. Wagers had regularly been laid on who would be first to be beckoned by a society beauty to indulge in a little flirtation … perhaps more than that before the night was out.

Jason had been following, with some lazy interest, the interaction between Michael Langham and Lady Corbin. The ageing countess had finally given up on subtlety. Her bosom was spilling from her gown as she hung over the edge of her box, frantically jiggling her fan at the object of her desire.

But now Jason lounged back in his chair, bored with the mating rituals of the beau monde. His eyes narrowed on the two gentlemen to one side of him, still deep in conversation.

‘I’d not be surprised if George were negotiating some sort of deal with Bridgeman,’ Mark suggested with a quirk of a dark eyebrow. ‘Can’t be selling him his wife, though.’ He gave a coarse chuckle. ‘I hear Bridgeman’s had Iris for free.’

‘As have above half the gentlemen here tonight,’ Jason murmured on extending his muscular legs comfortably in front of him.

‘I saw those two together in Hyde Park yesterday. Kingston made quite a spectacle of his youngest sister, and the people she was with, much to Bridgeman’s amusement.’

Jason slowly drew himself up in his chair again and rested his elbows on his knees. He turned his face to Mark and gave him his full attention. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

Mark shrugged. ‘At a guess I’d say George was casting aspersions on the worth of the young gentleman taking his sister for a drive. I don’t know why, he seemed mannerly, and there was another lady present so the niceties seemed to be in order.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I was ready to intervene when I eventually recognised the poor fellow’s identity, but it would have simply prolonged the hubbub. We may not be close, but there is a family connection. Goode looked ready to explode with embarrassment and his sister, Anne seemed to be crying. Kingston can be damned insensitive.’

Jason stared at his linked fingers, then slanted a steady gaze at his brother. ‘Philip Goode was taking Charlotte Kingston for a drive?’

Mark gave a nod. ‘For the last time, I’d say, judging by Kingston’s reaction. If the lad had ideas above his station where George’s sister was concerned, I’d say he’s been knocked severely back into place.’

‘Which means that Kingston must have another candidate in mind or he wouldn’t stir himself to bother,’ Jason muttered. He took a thoughtful look at George Kingston’s box.

Mark read his brother’s mind. ‘I’ve heard that Bridgeman is in the market for a wife.’

At that point Diana swept into Jason’s box in a haze of cream muslin and gardenias. She pouted her thanks at her ardent gallant for safely returning her whilst keeping an eye on Jason to detect a reaction. The fact that there was none, and Jason continued conversing in a low voice with his brother, made spots of colour burn in her cheeks. She settled herself in her chair with much rustling and sighing.

The curtain began to open on the second act and Mark took his leave to return to his own seat.

Jason looked at Diana; she rewarded his indolent attention with an extremely seductive smile.

‘Mrs Bertram and I were just saying that the soprano sounds shrill tonight.’

‘Do you want to go?’ Jason suggested bluntly.

Diana’s lashes lowered to screen a sudden brightness in her blue eyes. ‘I’m not bothered if we do leave. I know you’ll always find us something pleasing to do. Are you bored? Have you something nice in mind?’ She whispered huskily.

Jason straightened his spine against the chair-back, then lithely gained his feet. Courteously he extended a hand to Diana. ‘Nothing in particular,’ he said lazily, his eyes on the dim outline of George Kingston’s box. ‘But I’ve seen enough….’

Chapter Nine

It had been some months since Helen had set foot in this house, but she saw straight away that the broken hallway chair was still propped against the wall. An air of faded elegance imbued the vestibule of the Goodes’ residence much as it did the interior of Westlea House. Walters, the family’s old retainer, closed the front door behind Helen before turning to give her a stump-toothed smile.

‘Miss Anne will be pleased to see you, Mrs Marlowe.’

‘I … actually, is Mr Philip Goode at home?’ Helen asked. ‘It would be nice to see him too whilst I am here.’

‘He is at home, Mrs Marlowe but he has an important gentleman with him at present.’ The information was imparted with a hint of confidentiality and a twinkle in the eye. Walters was plainly impressed by the fellow’s identity if not about to reveal it.

‘Helen! It is good to see you. Is Charlotte not with you?’

Helen twisted about to see Anne Goode flitting down the stairs. ‘Charlotte is indisposed … a slight headache, but nothing to worry about,’ Helen quickly added as Anne showed concern. ‘Perhaps I ought come back another time as you have company.’

‘No, please stay!’ Anne urged. ‘Come to the drawing room. Philip will like to see you.’ She linked arms with Helen. ‘I had just slipped away from there for a second to change into my best shawl when I thought I recognised your voice.’ Anne gave an absent stroke to the lustrous silk swathing arms that were lightly freckled. ‘I think our distinguished visitor is only planning to stay a short time. Do come and say hello for it might delay him. I’ll wager he is too mannerly to take his leave soon after someone new is introduced.’ Anne gave a little giggle. ‘It is hard to credit that we are related to such a grand family. In fact, it is so long since Goodes socialised with Hunters that I had quite forgot our connection.’

‘Hunters?’ Helen’s tone held sharp enquiry.

Helen abruptly halted and Anne was jerked about to face her, for their arms were still entwined as they took a promenade along the hallway. Being so close Anne spontaneously hugged Helen in excitement.

‘Sir Jason Hunter is visiting us. We are distant cousins, you know,’ she proudly informed her.

A startled tenseness shaped Helen’s features on discovering the identity of the eminent guest.

‘Do you know the Hunters?’ Anne asked on a frown.

Helen managed to execute a jerky nod. ‘Sir Jason and my brother, George, were friends when younger. When we lived in Surrey our house was quite close to Thorne Park.’ The explanation was brief and abstracted—already Helen’s mind was attending to the consequences of what she’d heard.

She had promised Charlotte that she would relay a message to Philip today, but she needed an opportunity to be alone with him. With Jason Hunter present there would be even less chance to engineer a private conversation and discover if her sister was to have her heart broken.

But there were other issues besides Charlotte’s happiness rotating dizzily in her mind. When she had left Westlea House this afternoon her first task had been to take to the post a letter for Jason Hunter. In it she conveyed her regrets at Mr Drover’s conduct, but its proper purpose was to ask him to again visit her. She was reasonably confident that her phrasing and his sophistication would ensure he understood her objective.

Infuriatingly, the two gentlemen with whom she had pressing business were in the immediate vicinity, yet nothing would be gained by seeing either of them now.

It seemed an odd coincidence that Jason Hunter should have recently renewed his acquaintance with her and also with distant cousins he had not seen in an age. Helen felt inclined to ponder if it was connected to the association between Charlotte and Philip.

Charlotte had defiantly told their brother that she would marry Philip despite his objections. George did not like to be thwarted and could bear ferocious grudges. The roses, put in Helen’s cheeks by her brisk walk, faded away. Her reasoning veered between possibility and probability. Had George stooped to enrol Jason’s help in ensuring Philip stayed away? There was no love lost between her brother and Jason Hunter, but she had bitter proof that they could successfully deal together in business.

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