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.’