Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 13

‘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.’