Regency Mistresses: A Practical MistressThe Wanton Bride

by Mary Brendan

  Iris sent Diana a scoffing smirk, then watched her flounce back towards the Pleasure Gardens. Iris guessed that the common baggage had looked indignant because she had been unsuccessful in luring Jason back to her. But the realisation that he might have spurned Diana because Helen still had her claws in him was irritating. Colin was also in Helen’s thrall. In fact, both the affluent gentlemen that Iris wanted at her beck and call were infatuated with her skinny black-haired sister-in-law and it greatly irked.

  Iris allowed her youthful escort to nudge her into a gap in the hedge and fumble with her clothes, but even as she murmured encouragement to him, her mind was investigating how she might bring Helen Marlowe down a peg or two.

  George Kingston was slumped, semi-conscious, in an armchair, but he raised his bleary eyes as his wife came into the sitting room. A brandy glass was waved at her as he slurred, ‘Ah, there you are, m’schweet. Home a’ lasht. Join m’in a drink?’

  Iris gave him an apathetic glance but did help herself to the decanter. Suddenly she shot a canny look at her husband. He divulged to her very little lately. But he was quite obviously drunk and might just let slip what had occurred to make Helen demand George take her immediately home.

  She strolled to the fire and held out her palms to the embers dying in the grate. ‘I saw Sir Jason just as we left the Gardens. He was in the Tucker woman’s embrace.’

  George snuffled a laugh. ‘I doan’ think so.’

  ‘He was, I tell you,’ Iris sweetly remonstrated and playfully tickled George’s cheek with a fingertip.

  Even intoxicated, George understood his wife well enough to send her a smile that was deeply cynical. He took a swig of brandy.

  ‘I watched that harlot kissing him in the street. Bold as you please!’

  George swished the amber liquid in his glass and shook his head at it. ‘Bridgeman’s the problem, not her, but Jay hates me still for Beatrice … so p’raps he used Helen …’

  Iris’s eyes narrowed in interest as she tried to decipher her husband’s drunken ramblings. ‘Beatrice?’ she repeated softly. ‘She is Jason’s sister, surely.’

  George nodded, a shock of dark hair falling lankly towards his nose. ‘Schweet Beatrice,’ he mumbled into his drink. ‘He’s never ever forgiven me for that.’

  ‘You seduced her? You seduced Beatrice Hunter?’ Iris whispered in astonishment.

  George looked up glassily. ‘No! An’ I din’t abduct her either. She came willingly.’ He swayed his head and nuzzled the rim of his tumbler. ‘Should have let us be. Would have married her … said I would. Made us turn back. Not even half-way to Gretna … Shame …’

  Iris stood for some minutes, digesting the information. When next she looked at her husband, she saw George’s chin was propped on his chest. She removed the glass from his limp fingers and deposited it on a table. With a slyly satisfied smile on her lips, she took herself off to bed.

  Mark Hunter found his older brother in much the same inebriated state as Iris Kingston had found her husband.

  Jason, however, being renowned for the ability to imbibe an astonishing amount before keeling over, was more lucid than George had been. Mark eyed the depleted decanter, precariously perched on the edge of the desk in Jason’s study. He then took another, deeply respectful, look at Jason. He had seen old Cedric fill to the top the large crystal bottle not an hour before they left the house earlier in the evening.

  Jason thrust himself back in his chair and eyed his brother from beneath a lowering brow. He then propped his head against the chair back. ‘What time is it?’ he asked on a sigh.

  ‘Time you went to bed,’ Mark returned easily.

  In response to that dictate Jason emptied what was left in the decanter into his glass. He despatched the brandy in a single swallow.

  ‘Not tired, eh?’ Mark said drolly. ‘In that case … there’s something about this evening’s fiasco you might like to hear. It concerns that weasel Bridgeman and how he managed to get Helen to go with him.’

  Jason snapped his head forward and silently studied his brother with eyes that resembled molten lead. ‘I’m listening …’

  Jason’s deceptively gentle tone of voice sent a frisson through Mark’s body. At that moment he almost pitied Bridgeman … George Kingston, too. For without a doubt Helen’s brother was up to his neck in it all, and a day of reckoning was fast approaching.

  ‘Mrs Kingston is here to see you, ma’am.’

  Helen looked up from the journal she had been idly flicking through. Her heart sank and just for a moment she considered sending Iris away. Obviously the rumour mill had already set to grinding over her hasty departure from Vauxhall Gardens and her sister-in-law had come to pry, or gloat, depending on how much she had managed to discover about what went on.

  Charlotte’s thoughts of pleading a migraine, or some similar ailment, to avoid seeing Iris were obviously in tune with Helen’s.

  ‘Oh, send her away, for Heaven’s sake!’ Charlotte dropped to the sofa the little handkerchief she had been embroidering and wrinkled her brow at Helen. ‘She is only here to quiz us over Bridgeman. Perhaps she saw you disappear with him at Vauxhall. Do you think George has told her he wants to marry me? She’s probably jealous. I know she has a fancy for the wretch.’

  ‘I’m sure George has said nothing,’ Helen soothed quietly. ‘He would not boast of his involvement in such sordid dealings …’ In her mind she concluded … but Bridgeman might….

  But it was too late for either sister to plead an indisposition, for Iris had grown impatient waiting to be admitted. She barged past Betty and sailed into the room.

  Charlotte gave Iris a mumbled greeting, then fidgeted on the sofa for a moment. ‘Oh … I recall I’ve a letter to finish. It’s upstairs.’ With that Charlotte sprang out of the chair and was soon making her escape.

  ‘Fetch some tea, please, Betty,’ Helen commanded from weary hospitality.

  Iris stripped off her gloves and removed her stylish bonnet from her neat coiffure. ‘You look washed out,’ she remarked with a hint of satisfaction. ‘And I’m not surprised at all!’

  Helen gave her sister-in-law a penetrating look. Iris obviously was hoping a show of faux sympathy might lead to a heart to heart between them. Helen had no intention of telling her a solitary thing, but she took note of the comment on her appearance and tidied the wisps of raven hair that had escaped their pins. She knew she looked pale and tired; it was a consequence of having wept instead of slept for most of the night. ‘Is George not with you?’ Helen asked simply for something to say. She resumed flicking over pages in the journal.

  ‘No, I didn’t want George to come with me. In truth, I’m glad Charlotte is from the room. I wanted to speak to you alone.’ Helen received a meaningful stare from blue eyes that watched her from beneath sooty lashes. ‘I have something important to tell you and there is no use in being mealy mouthed. First, I shall frankly say that I’m aware you and Jason Hunter are lovers. Or perhaps I should say I’m aware you were lovers …’ Iris cocked a knowing eyebrow at Helen.

  ‘You said you had something important to say …?’ Helen coolly returned, despite feeling her cheeks warming.

  Iris smiled. ‘It’s no use coming over prim now. Everybody has guessed you have been carrying on a liaison with him.’ Iris settled back into the sofa and smoothed her skirt. ‘I know we have not always seen eye to eye, but I have come to do you a service.’ She gazed pityingly at Helen. ‘He has treated you cruelly and you ought know why. I’m sure I would not like it at all if a gentleman slept with me simply to avenge a wrong done his sister.’

  With a deal of embellishment, if no actual lies, Iris recounted what George had said about his having compromised Beatrice Hunter. She added that George suspected Jason had long harboured a desire to wreak revenge for it.

  Whilst that bombshell was causing a stricken look to tauten her sister-in-law’s chalky complexion, Iris delivered her pièce de résistance. She solemnly recounted having quit Vauxhall ye
sterday evening only to see Diana Tucker brazenly kissing Sir Jason by his carriage, in full view of those passing by.

  ‘We know she is not a lady … but it was hardly the behaviour expected of a gentleman, either.’ Iris took advantage of Helen’s silence to add, ‘Why … you could not have been gone from him even an hour….’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘What in damnation are you doing here at this ungodly hour?’

  George had his head propped in both hands, his elbows resting on the table, but he had glanced up to deliver that testy remark. He had a hangover that made it seem a blacksmith had set up business inside his skull. A regular thump was affecting his vision and the oak panelling in the dining room seemed nauseatingly atilt. Having sheltered his throbbing brow a few moments longer in his cupped palms he managed to rouse himself sufficiently to bark at his hovering butler to be gone.

  ‘Women or money? It must be one of the two to bring you here so confoundedly early.’

  ‘It’s both,’ Jason told him and, taking a chair opposite, sat down, uninvited, at the breakfast table.

  George wrapped himself tighter into his dressing gown and took a nibble at dry toast. The tasteless morsel did nothing to settle his queasy stomach. His unwelcome visitor was eerily quiet and that started him fidgeting. Silverware was pushed about on mahogany. ‘You’ve found out that I owe that bastard, Bridgeman, money and he’s threatening me with the duns. What of it?’

  ‘I found out that you’re not averse to pimping to clear your debts.’

  George felt fiery heat prickle beneath his silk collar. ‘Bridgeman wanted to marry Charlotte,’ he snapped, tossing a spoon in irritation. ‘If encouraging an eligible fellow makes me a pimp, then every fond mama with a chit to offload is a procuress.’

  ‘And Helen? Did he want to marry her, too?’

  George rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw and slanted a proper look at the man opposite. Jason had a similar drink-dissipated appearance to the one he’d seen reflected in his dressing mirror not an hour since. ‘You’re still too far in your cups … as I am,’ he mumbled. ‘Best leave this till another time….’

  ‘Did he want to marry Helen, too?’ Jason roared.

  George started and a hand sprang to his pounding head. ‘Of course not! He’s wanted her for years, but not as a wife.’ George felt the burning on his neck again but managed to sneer, ‘He just wanted to sleep with her … same as you….’

  Jason violently gained his feet. ‘Helen went with Bridgeman last night to try and persuade him to leave Charlotte alone.’

  ‘I know … she told me when I took her home.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘If you think I’ll repeat to you a private conversation and betray my sister’s trust …’ A burst of contemptuous laughter interrupted George.

  ‘You’ve been betraying your sister’s trust for years. Helen trusted you to do what your father asked, and care for her and Charlotte. She trusted you to let your sister marry the man she loved.’

  ‘Just as your sister trusted you to let her marry the man she loved,’ George spat and pushed himself upright. He stood unsteadily with his fists balled on the table as support. ‘But you couldn’t do it, could you? You had to spoil it for us.’

  Jason walked towards George, his face grimly set. ‘Is that what your spite and resentment is all about? You and Beatrice?’ he demanded to know.

  George’s eyes dropped away from the steel-grey stare. In resignation he flapped a hand before showing Jason his back.

  A vicious grip on George’s shoulder spun him around so they were again face to face. ‘My sister was sixteen when you persuaded her to run off. The consequences for her future would have been unspeakable had the scandal leaked out.’

  ‘I would have married her,’ George gritted in a voice that had lost none of its belligerent edge.

  ‘She was too young and too innocent and you knew it. But you were always too damned selfish … just as you are now.’

  ‘And you were always too damned horny … just as you are now. Iris told me she saw you kissing Diana last night. You went out for the evening with Helen, but soon found another woman to take her place. Yet you have the gall to come here and act noble on Helen’s account!’ George jeered.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t come here to act noble, George,’ Jason softly enunciated. ‘I came here to do this.’ A single punch knocked George down into his chair. It teetered on its back legs for a moment before crashing over on to the polished parquet and sending George sprawling. ‘That’s long overdue and not nearly enough. But it’ll do for now,’ Jason said before quitting the room.

  Cedric’s rheumy eyes flowed over the neatly dressed young woman. She looked more modish than when last she’d arrived, alone, demanding to see the master. But her haughty look was unchanged.

  ‘Sir Jason’s not here,’ he told her and started to shut the door.

  Helen stepped on to the threshold to prevent him dismissing her. ‘Is Sir Jason soon expected back?’ she asked firmly.

  ‘Eh?’ Cedric cocked his good ear at her.

  ‘Is your master soon expected home?’ Helen asked with more volume.

  ‘He might be …’ Cedric said unhelpfully. His infirm memory suddenly pounced on something important. He recalled getting a flea in his ear for having treated this chit impolitely last time she came asking for the master. Cedric belatedly dipped his wispy head and opened the door a little wider.

  ‘I’ll wait, thank you.’ Helen slipped neatly past the old retainer and into the magnificent hallway of Jason’s Grosvenor Square residence.

  Her heart was beating energetically, deafening her with the roar of fast-flowing blood and rendering her oblivious to Cedric’s mutterings. Fearing he might again put her in the cupboard to wait, she swiftly stepped to a hallway chair and sat down. From under her bonnet brim she watched Cedric give her a stern stare, then move away on slow feet.

  Helen watched his shuffling retreat, then closed her eyes as the enormity of what she’d done overwhelmed her. She had again acted with a brazen contempt for etiquette by coming here alone and uninvited. But having found the temerity to act quickly to end their affair, she did not want her courage to ebb away.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that Jason might be so early abroad because he had gone to Westlea House to perform the same task as had brought her to see him.

  It was finished between them, she understood that, and wanted it that way, but her pride demanded that she be the one to formally conclude their relationship.

  Iris and Bridgeman were both spiteful people, but Helen instinctively knew that they had told her facts, not falsehoods. Undoubtedly some of what Iris had said had been intentionally exaggerated and hurtful, but oddly it had been enlightening, too. Pieces of a puzzle had slipped into place concerning the hatred that had sprung up between George and Jason a decade ago. George had compromised Beatrice and made Jason bitter and vengeful. As for Bridgeman exulting that Jason was not faithful to her, she had at the outset of their affair not expected he would be. Bridgeman had simply brought again into focus a wounding truth she had tried to ignore. Despite her boasts in Hyde Park, when she’d propositioned Jason, she had failed miserably to act with sophistication and accept she was to him simply a bed-partner.

  Jason had been generous to her, but then he was a wealthy man who could afford to pay well for his pleasure. He had been a clever lover but, of course, he had much experience with a variety of women to draw on. He was courteous and charming, but then he was with most people—it was in his breeding. With women he desired, he was essentially the hardhearted rake of his notoriety. And she was a perfect fool to have thought herself capable of tolerating loveless couplings with a man who simply wanted to slake his lust with a willing woman.

  Most of all, she was a fool for knowing it all and still loving him.

  Helen felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes and dashed them away with gloved fingers. She glanced about at her surroundings, apathetically
taking in the opulence. Every surface was polished, every crystal droplet gleaming and every second silent. The last time she’d been here she’d had no opportunity to ponder on elegant furnishings and wonderful architecture. But his mansion didn’t impress her. She would rather have the shabby comfort of her Westlea House than this beautiful shell that so well matched its owner.

  She collected her thoughts and forced her mind to practicalities. She ought to concentrate on securing her home and the cash she had been promised …

  ‘Helen?’

  Helen jumped to her feet at the sound of her name. So entrenched in her thoughts had she been that she had missed the noise of a key turning smoothly in the lock.

  They faced each other for a moment in tense quiet, then Jason closed the door and walked towards her.

  Helen desperately blinked away the mist in her eyes and moistened her lips. ‘I’m sorry to have come here, but it is too late to fret over gossip, and best that things are swiftly concluded.’ She tilted her chin and squarely met his eyes. Her golden glance flitted over his haggard features and crumpled clothes. He looked the worse for a night of roistering, yet was still heartbreakingly handsome. His dishevelment was out of character and made him look boyish and vulnerable. She felt tempted to touch back the knot of locks on his brow.

  It suddenly occurred to her that he might not have set out early this morning, but had rather come home late. Perhaps that kiss with Mrs Tucker had led to him spending the night with her. He certainly had the look of a man spent….

  Helen winced. And she had been foolish enough to think he might have bothered going out early to see her! Fingers that moments ago had been yearning to soothe him were clenched into fists at her side. She would not be sidetracked by petty jealousy into forgetting to claim what he had agreed to give her.

  ‘Come into the study where we can talk,’ Jason urged gently. He absently swiped a hand over the dusky growth on his chin, as though regretting his unkempt appearance.

  Helen gracefully glided away, evading his outstretched hand, then faced him again. The silence, the cool marble surroundings, lent her an air of composure. ‘There is no need for me to tarry,’ she quietly told him. ‘This is private enough and what I have to say will not take more than a moment.’ She noted the change in his demeanour as he felt the force of her frigidity.