Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  “Can we not end this nonsense, Anne? I want you. I want to be inside you.”

  “Soon. Another day or two, I promise.”

  She left, blowing out the candle on her way out the door. Once he heard the front door close and her carriage move down the street, he let out a bellow. Let her goons think he was frustrated that he hadn’t fucked her. Bay knew otherwise.

  The pounding woke her from a sound sleep. Charlotte threw on her gray robe and stumbled down the stairs. Mrs. Kelly was snoring unaware in her room. Irene was due back any day, but would have been no more prepared to answer the door at this hour than Charlotte was.

  “Who is it?” she shouted over the incessant thudding.

  “Angus Frazier! Open the door, Miss Fallon!”

  Charlotte turned the large brass key and pulled the handle. Angus nearly fell into the hallway. His hair and eyebrows were standing at red attention, wild, and his clothes were in a dreadfully rumpled state.

  “She’s got him! I followed her tonight to a mean little house in Islington.”

  Charlotte could barely understand the man’s Scots burr. “Come in, Mr. Frazier, and take a breath.”

  “I havena time to breathe! Anne Whitley has got the major locked up in a house with four guards!”

  Charlotte blinked. Frazier rather resembled a charging bull. “Come into the parlor. I’ll get you something to drink—some sherry or brandy—and we can talk about this sensibly.”

  “There’s no sense to be made of it!” He paced the hall, slapping his hand on the wallpaper so Bay’s paintings jumped. “I went to see Mulgrew after I left you this morning. He’s had word from his man on the Continent. Your sister turned over the necklace—only after her new husband showed her some gumption from what I ken—and he’s on his way back to England with it. Mulgrew was all set to report to Major Bayard with the news when I went to his offices. He knew nothing about the major turning up in France, so we went down to the docks. Major Bayard never booked passage anywhere. Mulgrew and I both checked. He knows what he’s about, Mulgrew does. So then I went to Whitley House this evening, watched as Lady Whitley went off in her carriage to her aunt’s. Hung about until she left. And did she go home?” the man barked. “No, she didna! I attached meself to the carriage like a barnacle and we wound up at a wee shabby house. Two strong lads let her in. There was talk about the ‘prisoner’ misbehavin’ right there on the front steps for all the world to hear. So she goes upstairs. I watched the candle flicker until I saw a dim light in the front room upstairs. Mind you, the shutters are closed right and tight. I crept round to the alley, and three of the blokes were smokin’ and laughin’ at the fourth, who’s wearin’ a sling and looks mad as hell. They kidnapped him, Miss Fallon! The major is tied up at Anne Whitley’s mercy!”

  Charlotte sat down on a stair step. “Mr. Frazier,” she said softly, “there might be some other explanation. Did they mention Bay—the major—by name?”

  “They didna have to! Who else could it be? That Whitley woman wants Major Bayard’s seed, she does. He told me so himself.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Charlotte wished someone would bring her a large glass of brandy.

  “That woman came to the major’s house days ago with some crazy idea that he get her with child. I fought with him over it.”

  “Bay wants to marry her?”

  “Och, no no. But if she falls pregnant, he would wed her all over again, poor fool.”

  Charlotte wrapped the robe tightly around her, feeling suddenly chilled for such a warm spring night. “Mr. Frazier, forgive me, but none of this makes any sense at all.”

  “You’re tellin’ me.” He stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair, upending it further. “I’ll get hold of Mulgrew at first light tomorrow, see if he’ll help us. We’ve got to get the major out of there.”

  Charlotte shivered. “You keep saying ‘we.’”

  He glared at her. “You won’t help? You’re happy enough to live in his house and eat his food, aren’t you?”

  Charlotte felt her face go warm. “You may not know this, Mr. Frazier, but I was an unwilling participant in this folly, and I’ve begged and begged you to help me go home. For all we know, Bay and Anne have a little love nest and don’t want to be interrupted. The men you saw could just be ordinary servants.”

  “Not bloody likely. They’re hired thugs. I’ve seen their like all over Europe. You’d know I’m right if you saw them.” He smacked the wall. “Maybe you should see them. Divert them while I get the major out of there. We’ll talk to Mulgrew and see what he thinks.”

  Charlotte stood up. “Now see here, Mr. Frazier. If these men are so dangerous, I hardly think I can be diverting enough. I’m not exactly a femme fatale.”

  Frazier looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. Charlotte was acutely aware of her old gray robe, her braided hair, and her nightcap. “You’ll do. Now go back to bed and rest up. I’m going back to Islington to keep watch. Someone needs to have a clear head tomorrow.” He slammed the front door behind him.

  Charlotte leaned against the wall. Her head was most certainly unclear tonight. Mr. Frazier had convinced himself that Bay was in danger, when in reality the man didn’t even know if Bay was in the house that Anne Whitley visited. Just because Frazier and this Mr. Mulgrew couldn’t find evidence that Bay went to France didn’t mean that Bay wasn’t someplace else enjoying himself in high style. There could be a hundred different explanations for his whereabouts.

  Heaving a sigh, she mounted the stairs. Fat chance she would get back to sleep tonight, although Mrs. Kelly was still snoring away in her attic room, each rippling snort a testament. Mr. Frazier was a difficult man to sleep through, with his shouting and slamming. Charlotte thought he was a difficult man to ignore, no matter the time of day. Tomorrow would come too soon.

  Chapter 16

  Despite Charlotte’s misgivings, she fell back asleep, drifting into sensual dreams. In no time at all, Mrs. Kelly was shaking her awake.

  “You’ve got company downstairs. Angus—Mr. Frazier and another gentleman, Mr. Mulgrew.”

  Charlotte groaned. “What time is it?”

  “Just on seven. Why didn’t you get me up last night?”

  Mrs. Kelly’s tone was accusatory. She obviously believed Bay was being held hostage by four ruffians under the direction of Lady Anne Whitley. Charlotte was not yet prepared to agree.

  “I’ll dress as quickly as I can. Please go downstairs and offer them breakfast.”

  Mrs. Kelly looked even more aggrieved. “And just what do you think they’ve been doing this past hour waiting for you, Miss Slugabed? There’s no time to lose!” With that warning, she turned on her heel as quickly as an elderly cook could and left Charlotte with a basin of hot water. Within fifteen minutes Charlotte was dressed in her usual gray, a neat cap covering her curls. She could do nothing about her pale lips or shadowed eyes, but perhaps a cup of strong tea could clear her thoughts. She followed the masculine bellowing down to the kitchen. Mr. Frazier was even more disheveled and agitated. He paced the room while a very large man sat placidly drinking a cup of coffee at the table. The only sign of the early hour was a stubborn cowlick of grizzled gray hair that stood up on the back of his head. He rose the instant he saw her.

  “Good morning. Mr. Mulgrew, I presume.” Charlotte extended a hand. He clasped it briefly between two huge ones. A prizefighter, Charlotte thought, looking at his genial face with its broken nose, or a man very unlucky with someone else’s fists. Mulgrew caught her stare and rubbed his nose reflexively. “The Duke of Egremont’s daughter,” he said, sheepish. “One of my most famous cases, but alas, the little b—er, witch had a spectacular right hook. Angus has convinced me his lordship has fallen into a spot of trouble.”

  “Sir Michael,” Charlotte corrected.

  “Aye. Too bad my assistant is still in France, or we’d have better odds.” He squinted at Charlotte, then took out a pair of spectacles from his tweed pocket. “I
can see it, Angus. With the right attire, Miss Fallon might be the answer to our prayers.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and was saved from speech when Mrs. Kelly slapped a plate of toast and eggs on the table.

  “Here is the plan, Miss Fallon. Mrs. Kelly here is going to beg for an interview with Lady Whitley, keep her at home as long as she can. You and I and Angus will go to Islington and break into the house where Lord Bayard is being held.”

  “Sir Michael,” Charlotte muttered through a mouthful of poached egg.

  “Right. You’ll be dressed as a strumpet, o’course, and go round the back door, keep the boys occupied while Angus and I do the rescuing.”

  Charlotte’s toast lodged in her throat. After an alarming series of coughs whereupon Mr. Mulgrew was prompted to pound her rather forcefully on her back with one of his large red hands, she was able to object.

  “Look here. Why don’t I go see Lady Whitley, and Mrs. Kelly bring round a basket of food for these men? That makes much more sense to me.”

  Angus’s bushy red brows drew together. “Hmm. That’s not a half-bad plan. They were complaining last night about the local pie shop. Rosemary, no one would suspect you of anything underhanded, and your cooking is ambrosia from the gods. What do you say?”

  Mrs. Kelly pinked in pleasure. “I’ll be happy to go into the gates of hell itself if it will mean saving Sir Michael from Anne Whitley. My sister never did care for her.”

  Mulgrew clapped his hands. “Excellent. One of us can help you tote in the victuals. Let’s say Lady Whitley is supplying the house for a few days or so. It would only make sense for you to have a helper.” He looked across the room at Angus, who despite his bright red hair, was a much less conspicuous figure than Mulgrew. “You can wear a cap. One of those chef things. Let me in when the coast is clear and then we’ll see what’s what.”

  Charlotte swallowed her tea, hoping she had chosen the less dangerous mission. Bay’s staff did not think highly of Lady Anne Whitley. She admitted to herself she was curious about Bay’s choice of a wife, even if the ceremony had not been altogether legal. She watched as Mrs. Kelly spun around the kitchen, tucking food into boxes and baskets. Mulgrew pulled out a watch. “Can you be ready by ten o’clock, Miss Fallon? Too early to be calling, but also too early for Lady Whitley to be out and about.”

  “I’m ready right now.”

  Mrs. Kelly paused from wrapping up a round of cheese and frowned. “Oh, no, dear. You want to make Lady Whitley jealous and keep her off balance. You are Bay’s mistress, after all. She won’t ever believe he offered you his protection if she sees you like this. You look like a Sunday school teacher.”

  “I am a Sunday school teacher,” Charlotte grumbled.

  “The red dress,” Mrs. Kelly said firmly. “You can wear that again. Shocking, it is. I’ll help with your hair. You two”—she pointed at Frazier and Mulgrew—“pack up the rest. Go into the wine cellar, too. I’ll fix those brutes a lunch they’ll be too drunk to remember.”

  Charlotte was pushed upstairs by Mrs. Kelly before she had a chance to wipe the breakfast crumbs from her lips. She was stuffed into the red dress again, her bosom glaringly obvious for daytime. Mrs. Kelly was a bit of a miracle worker with her hair, creating an effect that looked like she had recently risen well-satisfied from bed. Charlotte owned no appropriate hat for a visit to Lady Whitley’s, but Mrs. Kelly went upstairs and came down with ribbon, a length of tulle, some fringe, and a paste pin that she somehow twisted around Charlotte’s head. In addition, she brought cosmetics left over from Bay’s former mistresses that Irene had squirreled away in her room. Charlotte’s lips and cheeks were rouged, her already dark eyelashes blackened, and the corner of her mouth patched. Mrs. Kelly could have rivaled any dresser on Drury Lane. Charlotte scarcely recognized herself.

  “Is—is not all this a bit much?”

  “Exactly so. You look a proper whore now, Miss Fallon, if you don’t mind me saying so. Lady Whitley will be outraged you’ve come to call, but won’t be able to resist quizzing you. And if Angus is right, she must have made Sir Michael write that letter to get rid of you. You’re going to tell her you’re not leaving Jane Street until you hear it from his own lips.” She yanked down Charlotte’s bodice another inch. “There. Perfect.”

  Charlotte felt a bit faint, and not only because the dress was so constricting. It was decided that they would go in two vehicles, with Mr. Mulgrew dropping Charlotte off in Mayfair before journeying on to Islington. He peppered her with instructions, reminding her of the day not so very long ago when Deborah lectured her about Bay. A great deal had happened since then.

  Self-conscious, she stepped out of the hack, wrapping her shawl as high as possible. Whitley House was a middling-grand property, with as stiff-necked a butler as she had ever encountered, who opened the door before she had trod on the lowest step. It was clear he admitted her into the hallway with great reluctance, confused by her cultured accent, which clashed so with her attire.

  “Please inform Lady Whitley that Miss Charlotte Fallon has come to call.” Charlotte looked down her nose at Denning, the butler, no mean feat as he topped her by several inches.

  “Your card, miss?” he held out a white-gloved hand.

  Charlotte’s homely reticule was quite empty save for a vinaigrette, a handkerchief, and the cab fare back to Jane Street. “It is too early for calling cards, sir, as you must know. Were it not a matter of the gravest urgency, I would not dream of disturbing her ladyship at this hour,” Charlotte bluffed. The fringe on her headdress wavered as she spoke.

  “May I inform Lady Whitley of the nature of this so-called emergency?”

  “You may not,” Charlotte snapped.

  The butler sniffed. Charlotte found herself shut up in a little room off the hall, no doubt intended for pesky tradesmen or those seeking charitable donations. She tossed her shawl aside and sat in the only chair, a spindly affair designed to hasten one out of Whitley House as quickly as possible. The room was white, bare of ornamentation. Charlotte wished for a mirror to see whether her eyelashes were flaking black bits onto her crimson cheeks. Her face was so hot now rouge was completely superfluous. She fished out her handkerchief and wiped away the worst of her maquillage. She had been doubtful she should appear as sluttish as Mrs. Kelly had painted her. Bay was a man of taste and restraint. Her lips twitched when she remembered exactly how restraining he could be.

  There was no way to measure the time she sat, save for the increasing wetness under her armpits and at her hairline. The longer she waited, the more nervous she became. She thought of her sister, ever at home in any circumstance. Deborah would have no difficulty dealing with Anne Whitley. Deborah would be saucy, flirtatious even with another woman. She was capable of great charm, and was diamond-sharp in intelligence, even if their schooling had been less than lengthy. Deb did read, hung on to every word her powerful protectors had uttered. She could hold her own in any conversation when it suited her to appear intelligent. Conversely, she could seem to be the merest bit of attractive fluff if the situation called for it. Which Deborah should she channel, Charlotte wondered. Gradually, she sat taller in the uncomfortable chair.

  Her composure faltered a bit when Lady Whitley opened the door. To say she was shocked was an understatement. It was almost as if she was looking in a distorted mirror. Anne’s black hair, blue eyes, and buxom figure were very like Charlotte’s own. No wonder Bay had selected Deborah from the bevy of available courtesans. He was reliving his time with Anne with each mistress he chose. The woman confirmed it with the first words out of her mouth.

  “I see Bay is running true to form. You look like all his other Jane Street whores. Angela and Helen or some such. But neither of them had the gall to come to my home. What is it you want?”

  Charlotte detected a certain wariness behind the rudeness. She swallowed and stood, throwing back her shoulders and thrusting her exposed chest before her. If she was not mistaken, she was slightly better endowed than
Anne Whitley.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Whitley. I didn’t know where else to turn. Bay has told me so much about you, you see. So many…wonderful things. I’m very worried about him.” She rubbed her hands together nervously, giving credence to her words. She was Deb at her most helpless. Perhaps Lady Whitley would take pity on her.

  Anne looked about the little room, as if she wished to conjure up another chair. “Let’s discuss this in the parlor.”

  Charlotte followed her across the hall to a lovely white and blue salon with touches of black lacquer, a setting that showed Lady Whitley to great advantage. She realized, however, that there was a newer Lady Whitley somewhere in the country, who was probably planning to redecorate first thing. In the meantime, Anne sat regally on a blue wing chair and indicated Charlotte should do the same opposite. A china clock on the black marble mantelpiece chimed the half hour.

  “I have very little time. I repeat, why are you here?”

  Charlotte’s mission was to keep Anne Whitley away from Islington as long as possible. If the woman could hire four thugs, she had resources to hire even more. Mr. Frazier and Mr. Mulgrew needed time.

  “This is a very beautiful room, my lady. Very tasteful. It suits you.” Charlotte gave her most deferential smile.

  “Come to the point, Miss Fallon.”

  Flattery was not working. Charlotte placed a hand over her heart and looked as pitiful as possible. “Very well. I don’t wish to shock you, my lady, but I have nowhere else to turn. I’m quite alone in London, you see. Without friends or family. I’m very much afraid that Sir Michael is missing. I am in hopes you might know his whereabouts.”

  “Missing? How absurd.” Anne arched a perfect brow. “He’s in France, I believe. Didn’t he write to you?”

  Charlotte stuck to her script and wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “No, ma’am. I’ve received no word at all from him.”