Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  He heard her sigh, and then she pinched his nipple rather viciously. It was all he could do not to cry out. He gave an experimental snore instead. Very lifelike, if he did say so himself.

  “Damn it. You’ll be awake tomorrow. I’ll see to it,” she mumbled, gathering herself up and off the bed. “But it doesn’t matter if you speak. I’ve gotten what I wanted.”

  She slammed the door behind her, rattling the glass behind the shutters. His child would be conceived in this hovel. How would he explain it?

  He wished he had a blanket to cover his clammy skin. He’d have to ask for one tomorrow, which meant he’d have to wake from this nightmare and try to reason with Anne. If he could convince her that he agreed with her plans, even, God help him, welcomed them, perhaps she would let him move about freely. He’d jump out the window if necessary, no matter how high up he was, and take her with him.

  Yes, tomorrow he’d talk, cajole, flatter, and lie.

  Less than twenty-four hours passed before Bay had his chance to test his dissembling skills. His grandmother Grace had always seen right through any falsehoods, but he was trusting Anne to be so delusional she’d fall for his charm. This time when she entered, he met her eyes and gave her a seductive smile.

  “I had the most marvelous dream, Anne. You were in it, and I was in you.”

  Even in the dim light he could see her blush like a schoolgirl. She was not veiled today, but wore an elaborately feathered hat that she was unpinning. She placed it on a rickety dresser and pulled a chair close to the bed. Bay wondered why she was not removing all her clothing but could not, in fact, complain.

  He injected as much casual disregard into his voice as he could. “I wonder if you would permit me to get a note to my mistress. She thinks I went to France. I told her I would write, and if she doesn’t hear from me, she’s apt to wonder.”

  “So your letter was mislaid. It happens all the time. The mail service between here and there is very unreliable.” Anne shrugged, toying with the locket at her throat he’d given her all those years ago. He wondered if the lock of his chestnut hair was still within. She had been partial to his curls once, which was one reason he had Frazier shear them off now every month.

  He altered his tactics. “At least let me get rid of her, Anne. She’s probably costing me a bloody fortune on Jane Street. I’ll be most happy to see the back of her. She’s been trouble from the moment I set eyes on her.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “You know I’ll read anything you write.”

  “It will all be perfectly innocent.” Bay swallowed the lump of hope forming in his throat. “You know you’ve convinced me, Anne. I don’t need a mistress when I have you.” He plastered a false smile on his face.

  “I don’t think I should trust you.”

  “I only need one hand to write. Keep me tied, Anne, if it worries you. I don’t plan on going anywhere even when you let me loose. Why should I when I’ll finally be with the woman I’ve always loved?” He hoped she wouldn’t see how preposterous his sudden change of heart was. But she seemed disconnected from reality. She probably thought he was only giving her her due again, as he had for all those hopeless years.

  “Truly? Do you mean it?” She sounded now like the girl she once was, the girl he had once nearly given his life for.

  “I do. In fact, I’m willing to say ‘I do’ again, Anne. There’s no reason we cannot marry now.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I have no wish to marry you or anyone else. I told you that. I have my own funds, and you would only take them away.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You know I have no need of any fortune you might have. We could hammer it all out in the marriage settlements.”

  “You did not feel this way a few days ago. What has made you think differently?”

  “You have, my love. I’m assuming yesterday was no dream. While I regret I was not a more active participant, it can’t escape your notice that I climaxed. And how I want to again.” God, he was making himself sick, but if he could get her to release him—

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a few days. My damned courses arrived early this morning.”

  Bay sent a prayer up to a benevolent God. “I am sincerely sorry you are unwell.” He remembered how she would take to her bed with brandy and a hot brick. It must be costing her something to make this visit.

  “Let me think on your proposal. You’ll have to stay here where we can keep an eye on you.”

  “Really, Anne,” he said huffily, “I’m a man of my word. I want nothing more than to have a life with you again.” He sounded so sincere he was beginning to convince himself.

  “I’ll tell Karl to bring up some paper tomorrow so you can write to your little doxy. But I warn you, I’ll be reading it.”

  “As you wish. I’ve nothing to hide, Anne.” And a day to plan the most important letter of his life.

  Chapter 14

  Mrs. Kelly came into the dining room bearing a rather grubby note. Charlotte put her fork down. The truce between her and the housekeeper was fragile at best, and right now Mrs. Kelly was frowning at her with some ferocity quite putting her off her coddled eggs.

  “A letter for you, Miss Fallon. From Sir Michael, I believe. The urchin who delivered it to the kitchen door didn’t say and didn’t even wait for a coin. Now before I give it to you, you must promise me that you’ll be up to no funny business. I’ve got to leave the house for an hour or two on some errands, and Sir Michael will have my head if you get up to your old tricks.” The woman actually held the letter behind her back, as if withholding a sweet from a child.

  A letter of her own! She had practically worn holes in Deb’s dozen letters, mooning over Bay’s unexpectedly romantic turns of phrase.

  “I promise I will be right here when you come back, Mrs. Kelly. Is there anything you’d like me to do for you while you’re gone?” Charlotte asked sweetly.

  “Laying it on thick, aren’t you? I suppose if you want fresh flowers for your room and the downstairs parlor you might cut some.” She placed the letter on the opposite end of the dining table and left the room. Shortly thereafter, Charlotte heard the slam of the back door as the woman left for the market.

  Charlotte was up in an instant, all thoughts of finishing breakfast gone. Her fingers trembled as she broke the red wax seal on Bay’s letter.

  Dear Deborah,

  Charlotte sat down on a dining chair so fast she nearly fell. Dear Deborah! Dear Deborah! How could the man write such a thing? She was tempted to tear the paper into a million little pieces, then stomp on them. Even if he were distracted by travel, he should know her name. He’d shouted it loudly enough when he emptied himself inside her time after time. Her face grew hot and her pulse quickened in anger.

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  No, she was most assuredly not well. And if Bay had been here with her, he would not be either, with her hands fastened around his throat.

  Please keep it with the others I have written you. Frannce is very hot. I have seen your sister and the emerald necklace is safe. I have gotten tied up and have to delay my return home, so see Frazier for the money to go back to Little Turnip where you belong. Bring this letter to him as soon as possible and he will know what to do.

  Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, Bart

  Charlotte let the letter slip from her fingers. This was the worst letter in the history of human correspondence. He might have dismissed her gently, thrown in a compliment or two before he so brutally told her to get out of his house. Little Turnip! Yes, she would go back to Little Turnip at the earliest opportunity, and hope the man never remembered the real name of her village. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

  To think that she thought they were coming to an understanding. An accommodation. She had convinced herself that being Bay’s mistress was something she could live with, at least for a time. Deborah had been right for a change—Charlotte was in need of amusement, although ravishment was perhaps the more accurate t
erm. She had spent the past ten years being so damned good it was almost a relief to succumb to Bay’s seduction.

  What a fool she had been. Still was. She should not be allowed to ever leave her cottage in Little Turnip again, for she could obviously not navigate in the wider world. She had been duped by a devil, and he was so stupid he couldn’t even spell France.

  Charlotte looked at her plate of eggs, longing to throw them against the flocked wallpaper. That would be highly unfair to Mrs. Kelly. But damn it, she was in the mood to break something.

  An insidious idea popped into her head. Why not? At least she would be sparing Bay’s next mistress the repugnant remains of Angelique’s and Helena’s tenure on Jane Street. With determination, she marched up the stairs.

  The clock would be the first to go. Let the next poor girl measure out her days waiting for Bay by some other means. She gathered up a few smaller statues from the bedside table and went into the garden. She pitched the Cupid-clock against the brick wall and smiled as it shattered, springs and metal-works flying into the air. It was child’s play to hurl the others quickly after it.

  The splintering sound was most satisfying. “There! That will show the bastard!” Her blood was buzzing so loudly in her ears she almost missed hearing the hesitant voice of the woman next door.

  “I say, is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  “I am now.” Charlotte straightened her little lace cap and wiped a flake of plaster from her cheek. It was a pity she did not have protective spectacles. Having to squint her eyes closed as she heaved each angel to its destruction lessened the satisfaction to some degree. “Who’s there?”

  “Your neighbor. I’m Laurette.”

  “How do you do? I’m called Charlotte. When he remembers my name,” she muttered.

  There was a long silence, and then a tentative question. “Are you going as mad as I am?”

  What an extraordinary thing to be asked. But then Charlotte’s entire life was extraordinary at the moment. She would not be surprised if pigs flew or the mountains came to Mohammed, rock by rock.

  “It depends how mad you are. I have always thought of myself as being the steady and sensible one, but lately I have reason to doubt. This is rather absurd, talking through the wall. There’s a wooden door, you know.” Charlotte heard the rustling of leaves. “I imagine it’s covered over on your side, but I’ll rattle the knob.”

  “There is? I’ll have to cut back some of the ivy,” Laurette said. “Hold on.” After some vicious snipping sounds, the hinges creaked but the door didn’t open enough for Charlotte to pass through.

  “Bother. Can you push?”

  “I can try.” Charlotte giggled, filled with a kind of giddy anticipation. She had enjoyed meeting the other mistresses, and this one sounded charming and intelligent. “If this doesn’t work, I suppose I could always come round and ring your doorbell.”

  “That would take all the adventure out of the endeavor. Here, I’ll pull, you push.”

  After a joint effort and a sore shoulder, Charlotte slipped through into the most magical garden she had ever seen. Put the bastard Bayard’s totally in the shade. There was every kind of flower she knew and many she didn’t. Tiny yellow birds trilled and dodged overhead. A fountain bubbled. It was dazzling.

  But Laurette was not. Laurette did not look like anybody’s mistress, or at least not a Jane Street mistress. She was pretty enough, but frazzled. And she was old, at least Charlotte’s age. Her wavy blond hair was pinned back in a messy lump, and she had thousands upon thousands of freckles. Charlotte’s mama would have attacked her with a crate of lemons.

  “Oh! How absolutely lovely this is!” Charlotte gazed around the garden. “I watched them put it all in from my bedroom window, you know. They all worked like fiends. Even Lord Conover dug right in.” She lowered her voice. “He removed his shirt. You are a lucky woman indeed.”

  Laurette snorted. “He is a fiend.”

  “Oh, my dear, you’ve no idea of a true fiend. Sir Michael Xavier Bayard’s portrait is right next to the word in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”

  “Then why—” Laurette colored. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”

  Charlotte sat on the stone bench and lifted her face to the sun. Her mama was not there to warn her of freckles, although Laurette served as a living example of complexion misfortune. “It’s rather a long, sordid story. Let’s just say that one’s family obligates one to do things that are distasteful if not downright repugnant.”

  “Exactly so. How long have you been in residence?”

  “Long enough. It seems like I’ve been here forever. An eternity. But at least I won’t have to look at the damn cherubs any longer.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard my little fit. The smashing and the screaming. I just broke what are no doubt valuable but entirely vulgar little naked statues that belonged to my predecessors. There are still more in my bedchamber. Would you like to help me finish off the rest?”

  Laurette looked a bit frightened of her, and no wonder. It was not at all ladylike to destroy property, particularly when the property was not your own. Charlotte gave her a benign smile. “Truly, I am not usually so bloodthirsty, not that there’s any blood in gilded plaster, mind you. But when you see them, you’ll understand. Come.”

  Laurette nodded toward her house. “I’m not sure—they might miss me.”

  “Oh, you poor dear. I’ve heard all about the strange and mysterious Conover. I saw the tattoo. Is he keeping you a prisoner, then?” Maybe they had more in common than she thought. Under house arrest. Sisters in forced seduction, although if she were honest, there had been times when she was forcing Bay.

  “No! Not really.”

  “Well then. Come along.” Charlotte looped an arm through Laurette’s. “Is he stingy, your Lord Conover? Your dress looks seasons old.”

  Laurette laughed. “That’s because it is. It’s my own. I assure you, Conover has filled my closets. I just chose not to be tempted today.”

  “Very wise. I myself will not wear what Sir Michael has bought.” Bought for her sister, not that she was going to tell anyone that at first acquaintance. It was all too sordid for words. “It drives him to distraction.” She’d leave one of her spinster’s caps on his pillow as a parting gift.

  They ducked into the kitchen entryway. “My servants are out, otherwise I would not have had the courage to kill all the little angels. Follow me.” Since the Painting Incident, she had been watched like a hawk by Mrs. Kelly. Charlotte had sworn she had learned her lesson. Being tethered to the bed had its charms, but was not to be repeated if she could help it. But in a day or two she’d be on her way with the full approval of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.

  Laurette stopped in her tracks to admire the artwork along the hallway. It was Charlotte’s opinion all the subjects could do with more clothing. She was getting very tired of plump breasts and buttocks, but she knew now Bay’s collection was famous. Bay knew his nudes. And every art dealer knew Bay and knew his pictures. She was lucky he didn’t clap her in Newgate after her abortive attempt at theft, but his punishment had been almost as bad, minus the rats. The paintings would continue to hang on the walls, taunting her and making her nipples stiffen with cold just looking at them.

  “None of them are my doing. Sir Michael is quite the connoisseur. He has excellent taste in all things, except mistresses. What they did to the bedroom—well, you shall see for yourself.”

  When they stood in the doorway upstairs, Laurette gawped.

  “You understand, don’t you? How can one possibly live in a room where so many plaster eyes are on one? And they look far from innocent. They are not proper angels. See their leering little faces?” Charlotte poked a dimpled cheek and shivered.

  “I’ll help you. A pity we cannot borrow a wheelbarrow and roll them down the stairs.”

  “I daresay the exercise will do us good, but I’m grateful you’re here. We’ll have the job done in half the time.”
Charlotte gathered up her skirt and started depositing the little Cupids in the fold. Laurette followed suit.

  It was a heady experience, dropping the plaster angels on their heads and shattering them on the bricks. Wings flew everywhere. Charlotte imagined each tiny neck was Bay’s as she strangled the statues first before she dashed them to the ground. Laurette was getting into the spirit quite nicely, whooping with sympathetic vengeance. She taught Charlotte how to skip the smaller angels like stones. Laurette showed an excellent arm bouncing each baby to its doom.

  Eventually the angels had all gone to heaven. Charlotte and her new friend were glowing with perspiration where they weren’t coated in dust. The brick path looked like a battlefield, the odd elbow and foot blown off by the enemy and scattered. Charlotte sent Laurette back through the wall so she could sweep the bits of plaster under the foliage. Before she left, Laurette invited her for tea tomorrow, which would make a nice farewell party from Jane Street. She was not about to be rushed out before she was ready, Bay be damned. What difference did a day or two more make, when he was undoubtedly in the arms of some French floozy?

  Charlotte was nearly ready to go next door when Mrs. Kelly knocked at her bedroom door. “Lady Christie is downstairs, Miss Fallon.”

  “She is?” This was most unexpected. Such a flurry of friendship for her, when she had spent most of the past ten years in solitude with her undependable cats. She tied her battered bonnet over her usual cap. Perhaps it was time to give them up, but they had annoyed the annoying Bay so very, very much. It was too bad he would not see her one more time.

  She followed Mrs. Kelly downstairs. Caroline was sitting in the parlor, frowning over a little notebook in her lap. She was crossing out something with a silver pencil.

  “Caroline! I didn’t expect you, but I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Are you going somewhere? My, forgive me for being blunt, but that is an atrocious hat.”

  Charlotte flopped down on the settee beside her. “I know, but it’s all I have. I’ve been invited to the Mad Marquess’s house. His mistress Laurette and I engaged in a bout of vandalism yesterday.” Charlotte proceeded to tell Caroline the particulars, and to her discomfort, watched Caroline take notes as she did so. She was very much afraid that an obituary for the cherubs was being written, to be included in a future volume of Lady Christie’s shocking novels. Charlotte’s fit of pique would be made famous, or more accurately, infamous. Hopefully no one in Little Hyssop would ever connect the quiet Mrs. Fallon with the wild woman who smashed statues on Jane Street and slept with her sister’s lover.