“Please apologise to your sister on my mother’s behalf. She suffered from a sickness of the mind and was consumed by regular bouts of melancholy.” She had slept for hours each day, and simple tasks seemed impossible. “Perhaps that was the cause of their disagreement.”
Hatton shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. “I fear it was more complicated than that.” His pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I believe they had a disagreement about money. Esther came here on the first day of every month to repay her debt to my sister.”
“Her debt? My mother never borrowed money. Had she done so, my father would have paid the balance in full.” Unless he hadn’t known about the debt.
Hatton shrugged. “She came here for years and paid thirty pounds each month. I presumed she’d borrowed an exorbitant sum from Captain Russell, and Marjorie acted as the intermediary.”
“How many years?” Nicholas snapped.
Hatton sighed and scratched behind his ear. “I’d have to check my records, but I think from 1798 until she died in 1820. I’m afraid Esther spent the best part of twenty-two years honouring her obligation to Captain Russell.”
* * *
“Twenty-two years?” Nicholas settled into the carriage seat and shouted for the coachman to proceed to Bedford. His nerves were frayed. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth. “That means she paid almost eight thousand pounds to Captain Russell. What the hell for?”
Helen leant forward and placed a reassuring hand on his knee. “Perhaps Captain Russell knew she’d had a child out of wedlock and blackmailed your mother.”
“It would certainly explain the regular payments.”
“Yes, blackmail seems to be a common theme in this case.” Her fingers moved back and forth in soothing strokes, the caress a means to comfort him, not seduce him. “We must visit Marjorie Russell in Windsor once we’ve finished our investigation in Bedford.”
He didn’t want to think about that now. And the teasing movements of her hand turned his mind to the sleeping arrangements tonight.
“We’ve a long journey ahead of us and must decide whether to stay in the coaching inn Aaron Chance mentioned or choose the safer, less comfortable option and sleep in the carriage.”
She glanced around the small space and turned up her nose. “I know this is all Mr Chance could find at short notice, but the musty smell is off-putting, and there’s something hard stuck to the seat.”
Nicholas smiled. Aaron didn’t care about the quality of the furnishings. He cared only that the hired coachman was capable.
“Then you would prefer we hire a room at an inn?” he said, feeling the first stirrings of lust despite her drawing her hand away.
“Yes, though it’s my turn to sleep on the floor tonight.”
Like hell it was. “One wonders who you’ve been admiring for seven years, Miss Langley. It cannot be me, else you’d know I could never be so selfish.”
He had pleasured her last night and taken nothing for himself.
The memory of her coming hard against his mouth warmed his blood. It had taken a saint’s restraint not to lower her down to the floor, push deep inside her body, and bury himself to the hilt.
A blush touched her cheeks. Was she remembering the feel of his tongue sliding over her sex? “If you knew anything about me, Mr St Clair, you’d know I champion women’s rights and seek fairness for all.”
Yes, she’d developed a streak of independence he found intriguing.
He decided to tease her. “Despite our intimate interactions, perhaps I don’t know enough about you. We should begin as if we’d just met in the ballroom. I shall ask about your hobbies, and you might ask about the quality of my stables.”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Very well. Ask me a question.”
He pondered all the possibilities. Masculine pride had him thinking of ways he might arouse her with innuendo.
“Do you paint, Miss Langley?”
“A little, sir.”
“Based on your drawings, you have an eye for detail. And your fingers look flexible enough to produce the perfect stroke.” Indeed, he could imagine them massaging the knots in his shoulders, sliding up and down the hard length of his cock.
She eyed him narrowly. “While I consider myself a novice in most arts, you must admit, I am quite a fast learner. As a man six years my senior, perhaps you may have some advice on how to approach new tasks.”
From the rich tone of her voice, it was evident she spoke about something other than her skill with a paintbrush. When it came to understanding men, Helen Langley was not as naive as she appeared.