by Mary Brendan
Charlotte was too blissfully ebullient to have taken much notice of Iris’s cattish remark. Her creamy cheeks were rimmed with excited colour. ‘I’m so happy, Helen, I feel fit to burst.’
‘Well, I beg you will not!’ Helen said with mock alarm. ‘Your guests are still arriving. Emily Beaumont is here … and Heavens! It looks to be her brother, Tarquin, accompanying her. I’m sure Emily will be dying to see your wonderful betrothal ring.’
Charlotte pivoted about, her auburn curls jaunty about her shoulders. With a parting smile for her sister, she was soon gliding serenely towards the newcomers, stationed just inside the doors of the drawing room, chatting to Philip and Anne Goode.
Iris peered that way too and a look of distaste puckered her face as she stared at Tarquin, a tall gentleman of about Helen’s age with a distinctive shock of flaxen hair. ‘I’m sure I have heard about that wastrel,’ Iris announced waspishly. ‘Is he not the fellow who was lately residing in the Fleet for unpaid debts?’
‘Yes,’ Helen succinctly confirmed. ‘But I do not consider him a wastrel. It is an affliction he has, for he desperately wants to curb his tendency to gamble.’
‘What very odd company you sisters do keep.’
‘Do you think so?’ Helen said. ‘Our relatives, then, are probably equally strange. I recall George fretting the duns would have him thrown in debtors’ prison. Perhaps he might have shared a cell with Tarquin. But I expect you would have pawned a bauble or two to keep your husband from such ignominy, Iris. Wouldn’t you?’
Iris’s lips formed a carmine bud. She flicked an encompassing glance about the faded appointments of the Goodes’s drawing room. ‘It is a nice house Philip has here. Such a pity the interior does not quite match the fine address. One can rarely estimate a person’s standards.’
‘Philip has done an admirable job in retaining the property and caring for his mother and sister since his father died.’ Iris seemed unwilling to let her escape and kept step with Helen as she tried to distance herself.
‘A betrothal ball would have been more befitting to people of our standing. This is rather a shabby little affair. But then nothing about this entire episode is comme il faut.’
‘I agree,’ Helen said coolly. ‘Were things comme il faut, George would have shared the cost of this celebration and not left the entire burden of it to Philip.’
Friends who had come to congratulate the newly betrothed couple were laughing and chatting, creating a buzz of good humour throughout the drawing room. Helen revelled in the atmosphere for a moment, then turned to her sour-faced sister-in-law. ‘In this instance, I think I’m grateful for George’s parsimony. I’m thoroughly enjoying this shabby little affair …’
Helen’s lavender skirts were given an ungentle twitch. ‘Ungrateful! George paid for this and for Charlotte’s new gown.’
‘He has certainly taken the credit for doing so, yet I think the sum involved is less than what we are owed in unpaid allowance.’
Iris’s complexion glowed beneath her powder. ‘And George has been unwisely generous in allowing Charlotte to marry beneath her,’ she snapped.
‘He has not, for Charlotte is not marrying beneath her,’ Helen returned icily. ‘Philip is of excellent family. He has had hard times, but his fortunes are now improving. Were they not, I doubt George would even have consented to listen to Philip’s suit.’ Helen turned to move swiftly on, but bumped straight into George. He immediately held aloft two glasses to prevent the drinks spilling. One was given to his wife and he sipped from the other. ‘I ought have fetched you a drink, Helen. Sorry …’ he absently remarked.
‘You are wasting any such consideration.’ Iris gave Helen a significant stare. ‘She was just complaining how meanly you treat her and Charlotte.’ Iris turned an elevated shoulder on Helen. ‘Surely we have done our duty and can now go,’ she muttered peevishly to her husband. ‘We have been here above an hour already. Sonia Lancaster is having a card party in Hertford Street. It starts late …’
‘I’ll fetch your cloak.’ George watched golden wine swirl in his glass, then speared a look at the doorway. ‘That is, if you’re sure you don’t want to stay and greet our future brother-in-law’s patron. It seems he has after all graced us with his presence.’ He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I suppose I should make a point of thanking him for easing my burden.’ He deliberately slid a look at Helen. ‘Perhaps I might yet lose it entirely,’ he added slyly. His next comment carried more volume. ‘I just hope Goode hasn’t frittered the whole of the salary Hunter advanced to him on those rubies.’
Iris immediately swivelled towards the doorway. Her blue eyes took on an excited gleam and she nipped her lower lip between her teeth.
‘You don’t seem quite so bored … or so keen to leave, my dear,’ her husband remarked cynically before strolling away.
Helen deserted Iris too, but walked swiftly in the opposite direction to her brother. Once by the wide doors that opened on to a small terrace she hesitated and let the cool evening air soothe her feverish skin.
Philip had mentioned that he had issued an invitation to his benefactor. Helen had imagined Jason would decline it due to the delicacy of the situation between them. He had made a point of telling her that there would be occasions when it would not be appropriate for them to socialise together. She knew he had been referring to times when their families would be present. Although news of their relationship was not yet out, she imagined he would start as he meant to go on. But not only had he come this evening, he had brought his brother with him, too. It had been a few weeks since she had propositioned him in Hyde Park and, although they had communicated by letter, she had not again seen him. They had parted, she thought, in an atmosphere of subdued harmony that sunny afternoon. After a few days she had received a letter from him enquiring whether she would like an advance on her allowance. Helen had considered that carefully before putting pen to paper to decline his premature generosity. The following week another missive arrived, asking if she desired choosing her own residence and staff or whether she would want him to deal with it. His mode of writing echoed his wry speech and she had managed a little chuckle on reading his assurance that she could trust him to spare her Rowan Walk. She had dashed off a note to him instructing him to please go ahead.
Certainly they had not exchanged billets-doux, but Helen had sensed a fragile amity burgeoning between them. She also had realised the clandestine nature of the prologue to their affair was piquantly thrilling. But, of course, it would not always be just a game, or a secret. At some time they would be lovers, sharing bed and board on occasion, and everybody would know it.
But when? As the weeks had passed, it had occurred to Helen that Jason might be purposely postponing because he was satisfied with things the way they were. He had made it woundingly apparent that Mrs Tucker’s services were not to be dispensed with. Had his current mistress got wind of developments and coaxed him to keep the status quo? Once or twice Helen had considered again writing him a note to probe for clues as to the delay, but her pride would not let her. She had humbled herself to proposition him—she certainly would not chivvy him to make a date to sleep with her.
‘Charlotte’s rubies are beautiful.’
Helen started from her introspection to swirl about in a rustle of lavender satin. Emily Beaumont’s eyes were on a level with her own for they were of similar height. She gave the pretty young woman a smile. ‘Indeed, it is a magnificent betrothal gift.’
‘I’m glad it came right for them both,’ Emily said. ‘And so expeditiously! Anne told me weeks ago that she feared your brother had taken against Philip and would never give his consent to the match.’
‘In truth, I did, too,’ Helen wryly admitted. ‘But as soon as George learned of Philip’s improved situation … well, suffice it to say he has undergone quite a wondrous change of heart. He is keen for them to set an early wedding date.’
Emily cocked her head in the direction of the two distinguished dark-haired gentle
men who stood beneath the room’s central chandelier, encircled by a group of people. ‘Tarquin tells me Sir Jason Hunter has taken his cousin under his wing and made all this possible. I had no idea that the Goodes were related to the Hunters.’
Helen glanced that way too and immediately noticed that her sister-in-law had lost no time in pressing close to their honoured guest who, she had to admit, exuded magnetism. His dark jacket was excellently tailored in fine raven cloth that enhanced his impressively broad shoulders. The tailcoat was significantly narrower where it skimmed over his lean waist and hips and complemented his grey trousers. He looked, Helen mused, as though his muscular physique owed a lot to strenuous masculine pursuits. An irrepressible image of certain nocturnal exercise had stolen into her mind, making her cheeks warm. She forced her thoughts to fencing and sparring whilst recalling how well toned George had once been when keen to participate in sporting bouts.
‘Did you know of the connection?’
Emily’s sweet voice infiltrated her mind. She was looking curiously at her … probably to divine the reason for her blushing cheeks, Helen guessed.
‘Ah … indeed … I was aware of it,’ Helen quickly confirmed. ‘It is a distant kinship and one, I believe, that is not widely known, for it has been rather strained in the past.’ Her eyes darted again to Jason to see that he was now watching her.
An astute look from Emily veered between Sir Jason and Helen’s quickly averted face. ‘Sir Jason seems interested in you. Are you acquainted with the family?’
‘Our family lived by the Hunters’s estate of Thorne Park … many years ago now,’ Helen quickly answered, then neatly evaded answering any more of Emily’s questions by asking one of her own. ‘I think I ought ask whether you are acquainted with the Hunters.’ She gave Emily a teasing smile. Helen liked Miss Beaumont. Charlotte socialised more than Helen and so was more of a friend to Emily. But Emily was, at twenty-four, nearer Helen’s age. Helen had always thought her a personable and attractive young woman and had wondered why Emily was still single. ‘Philip’s sister told me that you hanker after Mark Hunter.’
‘Cheek! I do no such thing.’ Emily’s eyes had darkened in annoyance. ‘Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true. I do hanker after wringing his neck!’ Her fair head dipped towards Helen’s ebony tresses. ‘He is the gentleman who set the duns on Tarquin and landed him in the Fleet.’
Helen’s amber gaze flicked anxiously towards Tarquin. She certainly did not want her sister’s betrothal party ruined by any hostilities. ‘I expect Tarquin must feel quite bitter about that,’ Helen whispered back.
‘But he does not,’ Emily spluttered with a perplexed frown. ‘Tarquin said a gentleman is entitled to call in his vowels. I think he quite likes him. Heaven knows why! Last time I spoke to Mark Hunter I found him vastly arrogant and—’
‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’
That softly ironic query put space between blonde and black locks. Both young women had snapped their heads up to see a gentlemen smiling at them.
‘Mr Hunter … I … it is a very long time since last we met,’ Helen said quickly. She politely met his extended fingers. ‘And I believe you are acquainted with Miss Beaumont?’ Helen exchanged a subtle smile with Emily.
‘Of course … Tarquin’s sister. I’m pleased to see you again, Miss Beaumont,’ Mark said mildly.
Emily refused to touch his hand and slipped into a bob. ‘I’m afraid I cannot echo that sentiment, sir. It seems the pleasure is all yours.’ Her blonde ringlets rippled as she swung her head to the side. ‘Ah, I see Tarquin is beckoning me. I hope he does not already want to go. But his health was not improved by his odious incarceration in the Fleet. He probably feels unwell.’ With a smile for Helen and glaring insolence for Mark, Emily was soon on her way.
‘Tell me, Mrs Marlowe, am I being overly sensitive or did you also find Miss Beaumont’s attitude towards me a tad frosty?’
Helen bit her lip to quell her smile. He shared his brother’s sense of irony as well as his striking good looks. ‘I believe there is an icicle thawing above your head even as we speak, sir.’ More soberly Helen added, ‘Emily is very loyal to Tarquin and rightly or wrongly will defend him.’
‘I recall you and I dealt together quite well on those occasions you came over to Thorne Park to play with Beatrice. I expect you think I must now be a cruel miser to have had Tarquin imprisoned.’
‘I expect Mrs Marlowe is too polite to comment, but Miss Beaumont might have no qualms over giving you your answer.’
Helen turned to see Jason slightly to one side of her. Their eyes coupled for a long moment before he gave her a polite nod. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Marlowe, and at such a happy celebration.’
‘Indeed, it is a fine occasion, sir,’ Helen said rather breathlessly, for her heart had begun erratically pumping. Obliquely she wished she had noticed him approach—she felt silly and girlish to be so discomposed by his sudden closeness. As his eyes lingered momentarily on her mouth it began pulsing beneath phantom pressure. Simply for something to say she blurted on a bright smile, ‘But it will be finer still to see them married.’
‘Indeed it will,’ Jason said softly before his grey eyes were levelled at his observant brother. ‘Why do you not go and try to revise Miss Beaumont’s opinion of you?’
Mark flicked a glance between Jason and Helen. Suddenly a look of enlightenment flickered over his features. ‘Could you not have set me a feasible task, Jay? Reforming Tarquin might be simpler.’
As Mark Hunter moved away Jason strolled closer to Helen, so close that she could sense his heat through the delicate fabric of her new gown.
He leaned back against the wall next to her and she saw him make a sweeping perusal of the company. She had, seconds ago, made a similar swift check to see if they were being observed so understood his scouting look. Only Iris seemed to be darting intermittent glances their way.
‘I … it is a long time since I have seen your brother.’ Helen made a little light conversation to attempt to curb the fluttering in her stomach. ‘I don’t think he has changed one bit in looks.’
‘Not in looks, perhaps.’
‘I remember Mark used to be quite a carefree character,’ Helen warmed to her theme and felt relaxed enough to broach the subject of Emily’s antagonism towards Mark. ‘He has apparently treated Tarquin quite harshly. Does he not like him?’
‘Actually, he is fond of him.’ Jason slanted Helen a rueful smile before explaining. ‘Gambling is like an opiate to Tarquin. Only a true friend would bother to have him forcibly removed from Almack’s before he brought himself to complete ruin.’ Jason stared off in the direction of where were Tarquin and his sister. ‘Mark took away his liberty, it’s true, but he also freed him from the tables for a while. Mark has brought a lot of opprobrium down on his head … not least from the Beaumonts. Perhaps they would prefer to watch Tarquin lose his dignity along with the shirt from his back.’
‘I hope, then, that it has not all been in vain. I did know of Tarquin’s problems, and that he tries to resist temptation.’
‘As do we all …’ Jason sighed out in a tone replete with irony.
Helen stole a glance at him. His eyes were kindling, making the butterflies in her stomach again take flight. She found another topic of conversation. ‘I … it would have been nice to have seen Beatrice this evening. I’m sure Philip intended the invitation be extended to your sister, and her husband, too.’
‘I believe they declined due to a prior engagement.’
Helen sensed that was an invalid excuse and suddenly her agile mind pounced on a reason for Beatrice’s absence. Immediately she knew she would voice her suspicions whilst they were alone, for there was an opportunity to discover what steps had been taken to make formal her role in his life.
‘Has Beatrice chosen to stay away because of … what we discussed in Hyde Park?’ It was a leading question she hoped might yield other answers, too.
‘As far as I am aw
are, nobody but us knows about it, unless you have mentioned—’
‘I would not!’ Helen interrupted in a fierce whisper. ‘It is hardly something that I am proud to boast of—’ She abruptly bit her lip and her lashes screened her eyes in regret. It was a very unguarded comment to have made.
‘Indeed … it’s something you’re ashamed of, isn’t it, Helen?’ Jason said softly. ‘Which reminds me that I’m still waiting to hear what has driven you to choose such a course of action.’
‘And I have said that I will tell you,’ Helen returned in an undertone. ‘But my sister’s betrothal party is perhaps not an appropriate place.’ Gathering her skirts in quivering fists, she tilted her head to squarely meet his eyes. ‘I think I ought to now circulate amongst the other guests.’ Helen managed one step towards the company before Jason moved, blocking from view her fragile form with his powerful height and breadth. He inclined a little towards her and held out his arm. ‘I think this guest deserves just a little more of your time, Mrs Marlowe. Come … accompany me to the terrace. I think we need a little fresh air.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I hope you have not simply brought me out here so we might bicker.’
‘You may rest assured that arguing with you was the last thing on my mind.’
‘Well, that is good news, at least,’ Helen said with constrained levity as they proceeded towards the railing enclosing a moon-dappled terrace. Her demeanour became again quite serious. ‘I beg you will let me first thank you for helping Philip. Had you not done so … well, I am aware that Charlotte’s marriage to him would still be a distant dream.’ She gazed up at Jason; although his expression was veiled by shadow, she was conscious of his potent allure. ‘Whatever happens between us,’ she said huskily, ‘I would just like you to know that I will always be grateful to you for that.’
