Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  His servant gave him a cheeky grin. “A blonde. With big brown eyes.”

  Chapter 9

  Charlotte sat in the late morning sun, Bay’s letters in her lap. He had not come to her last night, even though she had put on one of Deb’s provocative dresses and waited with a saucy, mistressy expression on her face. His valet, Frazier, a short red rooster of a man, had delivered Bay’s regrets in person, keeping his flinty gray eyes firmly on her face and not her bosom. He seemed to be checking her out anyway, then disappeared down to the kitchen to visit with Mrs. Kelly. By the time he was done, he’d know all about her ill-fated scheme to flee Jane Street. And how very wicked his employer was to tie her up and ravish her with raspberry fool.

  Charlotte felt an unfamiliar ache of desire. She knew she should not like this captivity, but it was growing on her. Just like a pimple on her arse, it was inflamed and uncomfortable, yet she could not remove it.

  So she had decided to torture herself further by reading Bay’s love letters to Deb. Well, they were not exactly love letters, more like lust letters. There were twelve of them, two for each week he’d spent away. She was saving the ruby necklace one for last, like the last sugared rose on a chocolate gâteau.

  She had arranged the letters in the order that they were written. Bay seemed methodical in dating each missive, his handwriting bold yet legible. She settled back on the iron garden bench and unfolded the paper, trying to block out the sound beyond the brick wall. A new garden was being put in next door, with workmen toting in almost full-grown trees and flowering bushes. Someone was spending a pretty penny to make the garden look as though it had been established for years. She had observed the activity from her balcony earlier, watching in appalled fascination as one of the laborers removed his shirt to reveal a large black cross tattooed on his brown shoulder. He made a total of two gentlemen she had seen shirtless in her whole life, and she’d only woken up on Jane Street for four mornings. Who knew what she’d see—and do—next? She blushed at her own daring and began to read.

  To the Divine Deborah,

  I arrived safe and sound at the old ancestral pile two days ago. I believe as a Dorset girl yourself you would be at home. The front lawn is the ocean, its sheep the whitecaps scattering on the beach below. It is always good to be back, although denying myself your company will take all my strength.

  My grandmama is very frail as you might expect. She is ninety-five but once claimed she didn’t look a day over eighty. The doctor has not given me reason to hope for her recovery, so I must warn you now to be patient. I am uncertain when I will return to Jane Street, but I hope you are settling in. Mrs. Kelly and Irene have been instructed to grant your every wish. Should you have need of a gentleman’s assistance, my old batman Angus Frazier can be counted upon. Simply tell Mrs. Kelly to send for him.

  I have been thinking about your mouth, Deb, your lips so full and plump. A blushing rose hue owing nothing to artifice, I believe. You have been cruel to me for weeks, forbidding even the most chaste of kisses. I assure you when you are in my arms at last, there will be nothing chaste about it.

  I remain your most obedient

  and ardent servant,

  Bay

  Charlotte wiped the tear from her cheek. Deb did not deserve this letter. Here was Bay at his poetic and practical best. She tucked the letter into the pocket of her gray dress. As a concession to the absent Bay, she had left her cap in the drawer. Her hair, still scented with his lime soap, fell down her back like a wanton’s. She picked up the next letter. It was shorter, but still managed to convey Bay’s desire through his worry.

  Dearest Deborah,

  Just the briefest of notes to let you know you are in my thoughts even in this difficult time. The situation remains unchanged. I know one night with you will help me forget the nights we spent apart. I look forward to seeing you in the blue negligee that matches your eyes. And then I look forward to seeing you out of it.

  Your obedient and hasty servant,

  Bay

  And Deborah had taken that negligee with her. Arthur Bannister was probably lifting its hem right now in some French coaching inn. For some reason that thought made her cry even harder. She bound all the letters up with a blue ribbon and shoved them into her pocket so as not to smudge the ink. She was bawling rather noisily now, oblivious to the sweating, swearing men next door.

  Charlotte was not much of a crier. Even when Robert abandoned her, she had steadfastly refused to join her mama in wailing and woe-ing. The next month her parents were dead, and she allowed herself a few discreet tears in the churchyard. Deborah, hanging off Harfield’s arm and looking perfectly beautiful in new mourning clothes paid for with Harfield’s reinstated allowance, was making enough fuss for both of them. There were very few people to see or hear her—the Fallon family had fallen as low as one could go without actually being convicted felons. The people of Bexington were happy to see the back of them all. Harfield’s father, the Earl of Trent, had purchased their house for a song and then flattened it, not that Charlotte would ever go back there.

  And now here she was, living on the most notorious street in London, falling in love with a man who wanted her sister, a man who would send her back to her temporary cats as soon as he got his hands on his necklace. Charlotte sobbed and sniveled into her hands.

  “My goodness. Whatever is the matter, my dear?”

  Charlotte gulped, then quickly wiped her nose. The wooden door in the wall was open, not the side where the crew was hard at work, but the other. An elegantly dressed woman stood in the doorway, a basket with cuttings on her arm. She wore a spotless white pinafore over a teal silk dress. Her dark red hair was twisted up with aquamarine combs that caught the sunlight, and her gray eyes were wide with concern.

  “Oh! I do beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

  “Nonsense. I hope you don’t mind that I am disturbing you. Angelique and Helena kept the door unlocked so we could visit on occasion. I’m afraid I didn’t have the opportunity to meet the other young woman who was here before you. I’ve been away for a few weeks. Sir Michael isn’t cruel, is he? I have ways of dealing with that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Oh, no. No, he’s not cruel at all.” Only if you counted the way he had completely coerced her body to do his bidding so that she was a mindless puddle. Charlotte wiped her snot-covered hands on her skirt. “How do you do? I am Charlotte Fallon.”

  “Ah. You must be the Divine Deborah’s sister. I never met her, but I did see her in passing. Now that I look at you, you are very like her, are you not? You might almost be twins.”

  “I am the elder by four years.” Charlotte was finding this conversation terribly awkward. But really, this stranger was in the same boat as she was. Charlotte shoved her mortification in her other pocket.

  “You have no idea who I am, do you, Miss Fallon?”

  Charlotte tried to laugh. “You live on Jane Street, so I imagine I know part of your story.”

  “Ah. There you would be wrong. I am the Baroness Christie, but please call me Caroline. My husband, Edward, is Baron Christie.”

  “L-Lady Christie?” And she had a living husband?

  “Quite. May I sit down on your bench? I’m afraid when I bent to pull up a few weeds I did something to my back.”

  Charlotte knew her mouth was still hanging open. “Of course!” she said hastily, scooting to one end. Bay’s letters crackled in her pocket.

  Caroline set her basket between them, the heavy scent of peonies wafting through the air. Charlotte fingered a warm silky dark pink petal. They were her favorite flower. The ones at her cottage must be in bloom too, only they were ivory. And drooping their heavy heads right now since she was not there to cut them.

  Caroline rubbed the small of her back. “I’m most vexed with my gardener. A total case of while the cat’s away the mouse will play. The flower beds are in a shocking state without my supervision. It’s not as though the man has to take care of Christie Park, for heaven’
s sake, just a tiny city patch.” She removed her gardening gloves. On her wedding ring finger were an enormous diamond set with smaller stones and a matching diamond wedding band. Charlotte tried very hard not to gape. “Anyway, a bit of history. My husband and I separated five years ago after an unfortunate misunderstanding. Unfortunate for me, at any rate. He purchased my accommodations without my consent, naturally. I have tried to make the best of things. Of course in the eyes of society I am quite ruined, but there’s no reason for me to waste my time or tears, although I can tell you I once did. What has upset you so much, Charlotte?”

  “I—I don’t really know. I’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding, too. My sister, the infamous Divine Deborah, ran off to get married. She is married. She left me here to explain the situation to Sir Michael, but somehow things have gotten a trifle out of hand.”

  “The old bait and switch. I once knew a pair of sisters—the Condon girls—who were forever doing that to their beaux. Men never knew which one of them they were kissing.”

  “I assure you I never meant to even kiss him. I most certainly didn’t intend to take Deborah’s place in Sir Michael’s bed. It just—happened. I am—I was—a respectable woman. Mostly.” But not lately.

  Caroline laughed. “Aren’t we all? If you need a friend, I’m right next door. I receive every Thursday afternoon. Most of the girls stop by if they are not busy with their gentlemen. You should come and meet your new neighbors.”

  Charlotte felt her world tilt a little. The baroness was a most unconventional woman. She watched as Caroline rose from the bench with a wince. “It’s a hot brick in bed for me this afternoon. And that is all that’s been in my bed for five years except my cat Harold, in case you were wondering.”

  Charlotte stuttered over her good-byes. There was a crash and a curse on the other side of the wall. “The Marquess of Conover,” Caroline whispered. “Known as the Mad Marquess. They say he lost his soul in the desert.”

  “Does he have a tattoo?” Charlotte whispered back.

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Thursday, then. Anytime between three and five. I look forward to seeing you.”

  Dear Lord. She had just been invited to sip tea with Cyprians. Her mama would have fainted—gracefully—dead away.

  Chapter 10

  Bay was beginning to think his luck was finally running out. He stood in front of his shaving mirror, blotting up the blood that coursed under his chin to his bare throat. He was clumsy this morning—a sleepless night lubricated with a bottle of whisky accounted for the tremor in his hands. His black eyes looked even blacker than usual, surrounded as they were by darkened circles. He should have allowed Frazier to finish shaving him, but wasn’t in the mood for the lecture.

  Nor had he been in the mood to see Charlie last night. His reluctant mistress was proof that he had somehow, somewhere gone far astray from the ideals he had when he was twenty.

  At twenty, Bay had believed in love. That marriage was forever. That he would somehow avenge the death of his child.

  But his life had gone on, loveless, childless. No matter the risks he took, he survived them. He’d had no thoughts of marriage or other children for years, just careless pleasure. Now he had a chance to change that. And he wouldn’t.

  Not with Anne. She still stirred his blood, but he couldn’t give her what she needed.

  Frazier rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Don’t bite my head off. Your Mr. Mulgrew is here, Major.”

  “Bloody hell. I haven’t even had breakfast.” Not that he was remotely hungry.

  “It’s noon, sir. Time to be thinking about lunch. Shall I stash him in your study and bring in a tray?”

  “I suppose.” Bay pulled a clean shirt over his head, taking care for it not to touch his chin. He applied some sticking plaster, dispensed with a neckcloth, and shrugged into a dark blue jacket. Each step down the stairs rattled what was left of his brain.

  Mr. Mulgrew was in his same tweed coat, a squashed hat on his lap. “Good afternoon, my lord. Sorry I was unable to come any earlier.”

  “Thank God for that,” Bay murmured. He didn’t bother to correct the man again about his title.

  “I expect your man told you I was by yesterday. Had a nice chat with the old Earl of Cranmore. He seems to think his son and the missus have gone to France.”

  “Well, that would be the logical destination. You didn’t, I hope, say a word about the necklace?”

  Mr. Mulgrew looked aggrieved. “I’m a professional, your lordship. Said I owed his son some money and wanted to repay it, kind of a wedding present, don’t you know. Seems that Arthur has a school chum with a château, or what’s left of it, in the Loire Valley. The Vicomte Bienville. Beans.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The friend. Known as Beans. You know these silly nicknames boys pick up in school. If my given name were Patrice I might prefer Beans, too. So I’m sending someone to Patty’s house in Vouvray with a message from Cranmore. And you, of course.”

  Bay imagined Mr. Mulgrew had accepted a second fee from the Earl of Cranmore, but that didn’t matter. “When will you know anything?”

  “Not for a day or three yet. I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a touch peaked this afternoon. Steady habits, sir, steady habits. A pint at lunch is fine, but you’ve got to watch out for overindulgence.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Just then Frazier entered with a tray. Bay hoped the coffeepot would provide a cure for both his hangover and Mr. Mulgrew’s unsolicited advice. There was a thick beef and cheese sandwich on a plate. Bay’s French chef would never have assembled such a prosaic meal.

  “Apologies, Major. Monsieur David has gone to get a tooth pulled. I hope this will do.”

  Mr. Mulgrew looked at the sandwich with some respect. “I’ll leave you to your luncheon then. Good day, Lord Bayard.”

  Bay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a bite. It would do. It would have to.

  Charlotte had washed her face and hands, and was now lying on her bed, a cool cloth across her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. She had looked an absolute fright in the garden. What must Lady Christie have thought of her? Granted, the baroness was liberal in her thinking, but no one could excuse Charlotte’s shameful tangle of hair or her tear-stained face. Charlotte had braided and pinned up her hair, covering it with her usual cap. Bay must be tired of her already, as he hadn’t come last night or even early this morning. Why should she try to look alluring? She was an old maid and might as well face the facts. Just because the fiend had tapped into her heretofore hidden reservoirs of passion didn’t mean he was in the water doing the breaststroke with her. Men were as easily aroused by a naughty painting of a female as the female herself. Charlotte was just a living painting in Bay’s collection.

  She had almost convinced herself of her utter worthlessness when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She flung the wet cloth from her face and sat up against the pillows, steepling her fingers on her lap. She knew she resembled a woman in prayer, and she was. She prayed he would send her back home and extricate himself from her heart. She could not afford another ten years of useless regrets.

  Bay entered, minus the usual spring in his step. He was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed. He was ill! That’s why he hadn’t come to her last night. If she were home she would give him her special infusion of herbs from her garden. Perhaps that marquess next door had a few leaves she could snip. His garden seemed to have everything.

  “Are you unwell, Bay?”

  “Not you, too. I should have come out with a sack over my head.” Instead of sitting down on the bed with her, he went to one of the chairs at the fireplace. “Take off the stupid napkin, Charlie. I told you I won’t stand for it.”

  His words were rude, but there was no fight to him today. Charlotte fiddled with the strings under her chin. “How was I to know when to expect you? Our original agreement was for every evening, but then you said you were com
ing last night and didn’t.”

  Bay raised an eyebrow. “Missed me, did you?”

  “Certainly not,” huffed Charlotte. “Mrs. Kelly was disappointed, that’s all. Dinner was most delicious.”

  Bay stretched his long legs out in front of him. Although his face was careworn, he was dressed to sartorial perfection as usual. “I drank my dinner, I’m afraid. Had an unexpected encounter with a woman from my past.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte pretended disinterest, but her heart kicked up a bit. She imagined there were a great many women in Bay’s past.

  “You’ve had lovers, Charlie. What’s your past?”

  “I’ve hardly had lovers,” Charlotte snapped. “You make it sound like I’m a concubine. And I can’t see why it should concern you. We hardly know each other.”

  Bay stared at her and then threw his head back, laughing. She was pleased to see the melancholy wiped from his face, but did not want to be the butt of his joke. “What I mean to say is, we may know each other in the Biblical sense, but you know nothing about me and I know nothing about you, except you keep a series of mistresses. And you were in the army.” And you were married and are surprisingly poetic.

  “Exactly so. I thought I’d remedy that situation this afternoon. Say, ten questions apiece. You may ask me anything you like and I shall do the same.”

  “How will I know you’ll answer honestly?”

  He waggled a finger at her. “Come, come, Charlie. I am not the one here whose honesty is in question.”

  “Up until I had the misfortune to meet you, my honesty was never in question.” Except the once, and she had paid for that lie a long time.

  “I’ll begin. I quite thoroughly researched Deborah, you know. I do with all my mistresses. As you were thrust on me so precipitously without proper vetting, I must rectify that.”

  “You were the one who was thrusting, as I recall,” Charlotte said tartly.