Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 23

‘If you’re looking for Mrs Marlowe, you’re wasting your time. She’s gone.’

Jason pivoted about to see his brother standing behind him with his hands plunged deep into his pockets. ‘What do you mean … gone?’ he demanded in frustration. His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Did she leave with Bridgeman?’

‘Helen went with her brother,’ Mark informed soothingly as he strolled closer. ‘She looked a little … strained, so I assume he has taken her home.’ Mark kept a tactful rein on his curiosity despite being keen to know what had caused Jason’s mistress to depart so abruptly. From the dark scowl and unguarded comment thrown at him, he guessed it was due to his heartthrob brother imagining he had a rival.

Mark suppressed a wry smile twitching at his lips. The idea of Sir Jason Hunter—rich as Croesus and devilishly handsome to boot—being jealous of the likes of Colin Bridgeman, who allowedly could boast he had plenty of money if little else, was ludicrous and unprecedented. But when a man was enamoured he acted very oddly. Mark had marvelled before when strong, confident gentlemen of his acquaintance had become enfeebled wretches whilst courting the women they loved.

He had no wish to see his distinguished brother reduced to that pitiful condition, so was ready to act as arbitrator if he could. Despite their fights and arguments, Jason and he were fond of one another.

Mark had never experienced such emotional delirium over a woman, and thanked his lucky stars for it! But then he knew there wasn’t a woman alive capable of bringing him down.

Oddly, had his attention for the best part of the evening not been concentrated on the infuriatingly alluring chit who happened to be Tarquin Beaumont’s sister, he might have noticed his brother pursue Helen and Bridgeman into the walkway.

It was through being captivated by Emily Beaumont that he had first sensed something was amiss between his brother and Helen. He had observed Emily flit gracefully through the crowds to gain Helen’s side as she emerged, alone, from the dark pathway. Within a moment of them coming together Emily had been discreetly comforting Helen, in the unmistakably tactile way women had. Shortly afterwards Mark had his suspicions confirmed that Helen was upset when a sheepish-looking George Kingston had accompanied his widowed sister to his carriage. Mark had seen Charlotte leaving a few minutes later with Philip and Anne Goode. That party had looked to be in good spirits, indicating they had been in ignorance of Helen’s distress.

Mark surfaced from his reflection and noticed Jason was still glaring at the road as though he might conjure up the carriage that had spirited Helen away.

That his brother was in love was indisputable, yet Mark sensed Jason was under the impression he was adequately concealing the strength of his feelings. Even a subtle interrogation was unlikely to extract anything from Jason whilst he was in this mood other than a few choice epithets.

‘I take it you’ll be leaving now.’ Mark was speaking to Jason, but had difficulty removing his gaze from Emily’s pensive profile. He heard a grunted affirmative, but it was a moment later that he realised his brother was already striding away towards the exit.

Mark sent a shrewd look at his old friend Tarquin. He hadn’t spoken to him yet this evening; it was high time he remedied that.

Tarquin greeted Mark with a thump on the shoulder and immediately drew him into the circle of young bucks. Some of them seemed to be attempting to impress his sister with tales of their prowess in tooling the ribbons. Despite an absent smile here and an abstracted murmur there, Emily still seemed to be locked within her own consciousness … until her brother mentioned the name Hunter.

Emily snapped from her reverie and ran her eyes coldly over the man who had joined them. Within a second her disgust was directed elsewhere, for a couple of young ladies close by had suddenly remembered to say hello to her.

Moira and Felicity Watson had virtually ignored her since they arrived despite their family group being just a few yards away. Tarquin’s incarceration had rendered her persona non grata to hypocrites she previously had classed as friends. Now, because Mark Hunter had graced her circle with his presence, the cousins remembered the Beaumonts existed and fluttered close with breathy enquiries of how they all did.

After a terse response Emily showed them an elevated shoulder. It was a manoeuvre that brought her about to again face Mark. She tipped up her proud, heart-shaped face to challenge his stare. Her head bobbed a curt acknowledgement, but her blue eyes were icy with dislike.

Mark absorbed her antipathy and forged a stoic smile. He was sure he didn’t give a damn if she liked him or not. He had come over to discover what the hell was going on between Jason and Helen. His brother had left Grosvenor Square earlier that evening in a good mood. The fact that Jason had been more than usually generous with his money and his property since he’d fallen in love was no inconsiderable incentive for Mark to try and smooth things over between the lovers. He had been about to ask to borrow Jason’s racing curricle to take him swiftly to Newhaven. A boxing bout with a new French fighter had been arranged and he had promised his cronies, who had arranged to bring over the foreign pugilist on a yacht, that he would put in an appearance on the coast and run the book.

He saw Emily was about to put distance between them, so said in a solemn murmur, ‘Forgive me for mentioning a rather delicate matter, but I noticed that you were talking privately to Mrs Marlowe. I have just been similarly occupied with my brother.’ A meaningful throb quietened his voice to little more than a murmur. He sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a pity when misunderstandings lead to rifts between people who care about one another.’ His frank gaze lingered on her face. He could tell she was torn between her loyalty to Helen and a desire to do what she could to restore her friend’s happiness.

‘Indeed, it is a shame, sir,’ Emily breathed tartly. ‘But not surprising that such misunderstandings originate in male egotism.’

Mark relaxed a little. If he was careful, he might yet learn what the problem was. ‘My brother is proud, I’ll admit; but then no man likes being taken for a fool …’

‘And no woman likes being taken for a cheat, especially when she had done nothing but try to selflessly protect a sister,’ Emily hissed angrily. Suddenly aware that she had said too much she blinked rapidly at her dainty shoes. ‘I beg you will please forget that I told you that. I know you are aware, from your brother, what went on. But I would hate either Helen or Charlotte to think I had betrayed them with talking loosely to—’

‘To …?’ Mark prompted. ‘Who am I exactly, Miss Beaumont?’ he asked softly. ‘Lucifer? Sir Jason’s brother? A scoundrel to avoid?’

Emily swallowed. ‘You are the man who had my brother thrown in gaol,’ she retorted. ‘And I do not like you, nor ever will!’

Mark tactically shifted position so that he and Emily were slightly cut off from the rest of the group. ‘That is for another time,’ he said gently. ‘Helen Marlowe is your friend and Jason is my brother. We are simply trying to help reconcile two people. I guess from what you have said that Kingston is hoping to use one of his sisters to keep Bridgeman at bay. Is that it?’

Emily swiftly looked up. ‘Is that it? You did not know?’ Her small mouth slackened in shock. ‘Oh, you beast! You have tricked me into telling you what you did not know.’ She backed away from him a pace, her features contorted in anger, her complexion white as chalk. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised,’ she choked in a whisper, for her brother had turned about to look at her. ‘I always knew you for a blackguard. It was stupid of me to forget, even for a moment.’ With that she whipped past him and began to give the nearest of Tarquin’s friends her undivided attention.

It was whilst Jason was pacing to and fro on the pavement by his carriage, undecided whether to follow Helen to Westlea House and grovel an apology, or find Bridgeman and let him explain himself … before he knocked his teeth down his throat. that Diana Tucker emerged from the shadows. It was the distinctive perfume she used that first alerted him to her presence. Turning his head, he saw sinuous curls, pale as moonbeams, as she lifted the hood of her cloak.

Diana moved towards him, her hips undulating beneath the light silk of her clothing. She, more than any other, was convinced that Jason and Helen Marlowe were sleeping together. After all, it could be no coincidence that she had received a parting settlement from her wealthy lover just a few days before he was seen squiring Mrs Marlowe to the opera. The pique she had felt at being so efficiently discarded in favour of a woman older and, in her opinion, far less comely, was still uncontrollable.

But tonight she had realised, with great elation, that all was not well between the lovers. Her eyes had followed Jason most of the evening so she had seen him enter the dark walkway. Constantly watching for his return, she had thus observed Helen hasten out looking tearful. When Jason had stridden out a few minutes later, Diana had been relieved to see his face so grimly set. It had been the fateful incident she needed to approach him and renew their relationship. So, for some minutes, she had been stalking Jason here and there about the Gardens with the sole intention of getting him alone so she might seduce him into taking her back.

He had handsomely pensioned her off with a house and a generous sum of money, but she missed the prestige, and the envy of other women, that came with being mistress to one of the ton’s most desirable gentlemen.

‘Will you take me home, please, Jason?’ Diana huskily entreated. ‘I’ve got separated from my friends and they’ve left without me. You won’t make me hail a hackney, will you?’ She slanted up at him a coy smile. She was close to him now, her rounded hip pressing into the hard muscle of his thigh.

Jason leaned back against his carriage door. He nodded along the street to a smart coach fronted by two pairs of splendid thoroughbreds. ‘Frobisher’s vehicle,’ he said succinctly. ‘He might have found his senses and decided not to marry your friend, but I’m sure he still likes Mrs Bertram well enough to give her a ride home. If you ask nicely, I expect he’ll take you, too.’ Jason gave her a cynical smile. He hadn’t paid much attention to Diana this evening, but he was well aware that she had arrived with Lord Frobisher’s party and had her gallants with her.

Diana pouted up at him. ‘I’d rather ask you nicely to take me home, Jason. You haven’t so soon forgot how very nice I can be to you … have you?’ She suddenly went on to tiptoe and placed a moist kiss on his lips. His lack of enthusiasm was emphasised by a curse beneath his breath. Wounded by the careless rebuff, Diana nevertheless persisted with her seduction. Her tongue tip darted to tease the lobe of an ear before he forcibly held her away.

‘Good evening, Sir Jason. ‘

Jason recognised the voice that had called the sly greeting and he immediately choked a stronger oath. With a brief farewell to his former paramour, he strolled to give instructions to his driver to take him to Grosvenor Square. It was only then he turned to acknowledge Iris Kingston. She was arm in arm with a young fop who looked to be still wet behind the ears. They were given a nod and a curt, ‘Good evening,’ before he was swiftly in his coach and on his way home.

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 yesterday 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….’