Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  “Where is your wife?” she asked, acid dripping from her tongue.

  “Lady Whitley is on the Continent. I hope she doesn’t bump into your sister. The resemblance might unhinge her.”

  “As if she’s not completely unhinged already! The woman held a pistol to my head! And had you beaten and kidnapped!” Charlotte could still see faint traces of bruising under Bay’s chin and around his left cheek.

  “I do apologize. Sincerely, Charlie.” His black eyes bore into hers. She turned away.

  “It’s warmer in the kitchen. If you’re not too grand, you can sit at the table in there.”

  “I’m not too grand,” he said softly. “Mrs. Kelly’s sister always welcomed me in hers when I was a lad.”

  “Well, you’re overgrown now. Mind your head.” As if she cared whether he hurt himself, although it would be a chore to drag his body outside into the mud.

  Bay ducked under a beam and found himself in a square snug room. The old stove threw out welcoming warmth. Filthy weather had followed him ever since he left London. He dearly hoped once he got to Bayard Court the sun would shine and the sand would run hot between his toes. Frazier, Mrs. Kelly, and Irene had already been sent ahead to open the house and alert the skeleton staff at his grandmother’s house that he was on his way. After his little adventure in London, it was time for a change of scenery.

  He envisioned a picnic with Charlie, her black curls released from that dreadful little cap and blowing in the sea breeze. The secluded cove at the bottom of his cliff was perfect for bathing. Her pearly skin would shimmer in the sunlight, her spectacular breasts bob in the sea. She would be his own particular mermaid, and he most willing to crash against her rocks, lose his trousers to frolic in the surf with her.

  “Do you swim?”

  She was slamming tea things together, mulish. “Of course. But I am not,” she said as she hacked into a half loaf with a deadly looking knife, “going to Bayard Court or anywhere else with you.”

  “I’ll give you five thousand pounds.”

  The knife clattered to the floor. He knew he was utterly mad. The plan was to woo her away from Little Pileup gently, and he’d just baldly offered her a fortune—an insane amount, five times the amount he’d given Deborah to seal their deal. What had come over him? Charlie had. She had come over him, under him, virtually into him. He wanted her as he had not wanted a woman since Anne. It had been impossible to shake the thoughts of her away, and Lord knows, he had tried.

  At first he’d been unable to get the image of her frightened white face out of his mind. He saw her sitting frozen in that blue chair, her scarlet dress like a splash of blood. It had taken him hours that day before his heart beat normally, but then he’d had his hands rather full encouraging Anne to make her travel arrangements. His subsequent guilt over Charlie proved to be overwhelming, and he decided he must make more of an effort to make things up to her for Anne’s insanity. Charlie had taken such a paltry amount from Frazier and deserved so much more for the trouble their acquaintance had visited upon her. He consulted with his banker, planning to soothe his culpability with cold, hard cash.

  But then Bay saw her in his mind’s eye when she wasn’t frightened, when she was pink and warm and honeyed in his arms, when she was shuddering in pleasure, weeping his name as she crested beyond her prim propriety. This image swiftly overtook the first, and had haunted him in his lonely bed for several nights. He decided to see her himself and make sure she was all right. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Only he had the most ungentlemanly thoughts. Even with her nasty gray dress and grim face, he wanted to find the nearest feather bed and kiss her senseless. Everywhere.

  “You are absolutely mad. You cannot buy my company, not for any price.” She flew around the kitchen with even more irritation than before, embarking on a long litany of his deficits. Bay sat back in his humble chair watching her with appreciation. It was not every nearly virgin spinster who would turn down five thousand pounds. So eloquently, too, although he stopped paying attention somewhere around the ninth or tenth “fiend.” Charlie was a most unusual woman. He was right to come, even if his noble impulses were now tucked into a pocket and the devil was stirring in his trousers.

  “Well?” she asked somewhat shrilly.

  Bay gathered himself from his fantasy. “I beg your pardon. What is the question?”

  “Milk or lemon? If it’s lemon, I haven’t any. I’m sure they have lemons at the Pig and Whistle. Barrels of them.” She slopped a white pottery mug of tea on the table. The Welsh dresser had some lovely blue and white dishes, but he had been given this rude, misshapen cup with a significant and deadly looking chip right where he might place his lips.

  “Just sugar, Charlie. I’ll need something sweet if I’m to sit here being harped at.”

  “Harped at? I’ve not begun to harp!” She shoved a sugar bowl at him and tongs clattered after it. “You will ruin me! There are probably twenty people staring out their cottage windows waiting for you to emerge. I don’t know why I let you in, I really don’t.” She sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands.

  They were a bit rough, he noted, probably from the gardening and doing for herself in her little house. He should have known that first night when he felt them on his back and buttocks that they were not the hands of a cosseted mistress. But he’d been rather too busy to think.

  “Charlie,” he said carefully, “there is no reason for you to be upset.”

  “No reason? Because of you I was almost killed!”

  “Well,” he replied, dropping a small lump of sugar into the mug, “I suppose I could say the same. But here we are, sharing a comforting cup of tea.” He stuck his finger in and swished, as she hadn’t provided him with a spoon. It was tepid at best. She really must be trying to rush him out of here.

  Charlie got up and went to her sideboard. She took down a fragile cup and saucer set and poured her own cold tea, still looking troubled. He wanted to ease the little v that appeared between her dark brows, lift the clouds from her blue eyes, turn her rosy lips up in a smile. “Six thousand,” he said.

  Charlie choked on her tea. She set the china down with a crash. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

  Bay smiled. “I’m afraid not. I was too busy watching you storm around the kitchen in high dudgeon. You are very captivating when you’re angry.”

  Charlie gave a disgusted sniff. “Please. Do be original.”

  “It’s true. You are so full of pique and passion, you’ve made an indelible impression on me. I would not be here otherwise.”

  “Let me see if I understand you. You will pay me six thousand pounds to go to Dorset with you.”

  Bay folded his hands and nodded. This was not entirely how he wanted to woo her to Bayard Court for a romantic interlude. Offering money was so crass. But he was in sore need of comfort, and it seemed Charlie was the only one who could provide him succor. She was not the only one who’d been terrified recently. The sooner he wiped Anne Whitley from his consciousness, the happier he would be.

  “You truly have six thousand pounds to throw away for a few days of sexual congress?”

  “I had hoped you would spend the summer with me there actually,” Bay said calmly.

  Charlie got up as if she were sleepwalking. She came back to the table with a jar of golden plum jam, centering it in front of her. Bay’s stomach rumbled. Surely she was not going to eat without offering him anything. The knife still lay on the floor where she had dropped it earlier. He rose, picked it up, and sliced another piece of bread. “Where do you keep your cutlery?”

  She pointed silently to the Welsh dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a spoon from the modest collection of coin silver and tin. Grabbing two plates, he went to work making a jam sandwich for each of them. He gobbled his in three bites while she stared at hers as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

  “Why?”

  Bay swallowed the last chunk. The jam was deliciou
s. He’d seen the plum trees in her front garden. He actually did have an interest in gardening; he was Grace’s grandson, after all. This jar was probably the last of the previous summer’s bounty. A few more mysterious glass containers were lined up on the dresser. Charlie probably put them up herself. “Why what?”

  “You have your pick of any lightskirt in London. You own a house on Jane Street, for heaven’s sake, a guarantee that you can attract the most discriminating whore. And I know there is such a thing. I got to know the neighbors a bit. It was—they were astonishing.”

  Bay smiled to think of Charlie in the midst of a group of courtesans. He knew there were regular entertainments on Jane Street. He just hadn’t imagined his Charlie being entertained.

  “I prefer you, Charlie. We were becoming well used to each other, and not in any sort of boring way, I might add. If you are worried about your reputation, don’t be. Bayard Court is somewhat isolated. Frazier and Mrs. Kelly and Irene will be on hand to provide discreet service. I let most of my grandmother’s staff go when I shut up the house—and found them all employment, so you can wipe that sneer off your face, Mrs. Fallon. The neighbors will respect that I’m in mourning and not expect me to partake in the social scene, what there is of it. We’ll have time to get to know each other better.”

  “Whatever makes you think I want to get to know you better?” Charlie’s face was bright red again, not a good omen.

  Bay shrugged. “You must admit we were getting on quite well toward the end. I was on my way to visit you when I was kidnapped that night, you know.”

  “Rubbish. You were going to France to see my sister.”

  “No. I changed my mind. I decided to let Mr. Mulgrew’s operative earn his fee. I didn’t want to leave you, Charlie. Didn’t want to leave your bed.”

  She was silent, her hands trembling around the teacup. She must have heard the sincerity in his voice, must understand that he wasn’t ready to leave her behind in Little Fillup forever just yet. A summer idyll would be just the thing for both of them. They’d had a difficult time and deserved some restoration of their spirits. Even if it cost him the earth.

  A part of him wished she’d come even without the enticement of a fortune. He glanced around the simple room that was dominated by the large stove. A streak against the whitewashed wall showed where the stove smoked, but the rest of the kitchen was spotless. A gleaming copper teakettle sat atop its surface. The space was cheery without being one bit ornate, much like the parlor he’d had trouble standing upright in. Perhaps her head wouldn’t be turned by money—she was nothing like her sister.

  “You tempt me,” she said at last.

  “Good.” He grinned at her.

  “Oh, not you,” she said scornfully, finding her bite. “It’s nearly impossible to turn down that kind of money, as well you know. I could do a lot of good in the village.”

  “I mean the money for you, Charlie, for your future.”

  “Little Hyssop is my future. It’s not as though you’re offering me marriage.”

  A prickle of unease swept from his neck down his spine. Of course he couldn’t offer to marry her, not that she wouldn’t make some man a happy husband. Judging from the condition of her cottage, she was an excellent housekeeper, not that any wife of his would ever have to lift a finger—his nabob grandfather had ensured that. And he knew from experience her performance in the bedchamber was every man’s dream. She’s certainly bedeviled his nights since they’d been apart.

  She stacked and carried her dishes to the slate sink. He pushed his arctic tea aside and stood. “Think about my proposition, Charlie. I’ll be at the Pig and Whistle until I hear from you.”

  She continued the washing up, not acknowledging his departure. Fine. Let her stew over it for a day, a week, however long it took. He’d wander about the countryside on his garden tour until she came to her senses and into his arms.

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte spent a sleepless night, counting the raindrops as they fell on her roof. The man was impossible, the devil himself, to taunt her with such an enormous amount of money. She would be set for life, never wondering whether she should sell one of Deb’s castoffs, never tatting another inch of lace if she didn’t want to. The banknotes she had in the ginger jar could fall into the fire and she needn’t deign to singe her fingers to rescue them.

  A summer by the sea as well as a fortune—she realized she missed her childhood home, hearing the slap of waves against the rocks, feeling the sharp wind against her face, seeing the gilded ribbon of moonlight on the water on a calm night. When her parents had drowned, she’d turned her back to the ocean, hating what she once had loved. But a decade had passed. She would love a beach holiday—she’d even contemplate going for a sail should the opportunity present itself.

  But if she had felt guilty taking money from Mr. Frazier, however could she reconcile herself to Bay’s offer? She would be a true prostitute, bought and at his every beck and call. No one could possibly refuse any demand he made after he had paid such a wicked sum. She would be completely at his mercy. The situation was absurd.

  Let him cool his heels at the village inn. He’d soon grow bored waiting to hear from her. He’d simply have to find another woman to captivate. She would not succumb to his allure. Not again.

  Grumpy, Charlotte tumbled out of bed and straightened the covers. She always made the bed first thing. She had her routine, and she stuck by it. Today was Monday, which meant she would clean her clean kitchen, then walk to the village shops. It had turned out to be a fine day for a change. She could finally get at her overgrown garden this afternoon, work up a sweat, and work out the irritability she still felt for Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. She wrapped her hair in a clean kerchief, tied an apron on over an old brown calico work dress, and entered her kitchen.

  She stopped still. There on the table was Bay’s mug, the tea still in it. She had been so distracted when he left yesterday, she’d gone straight into her parlor and wound lace on her bobbins, weaving and twisting and pinning the thread to her pillow until her hands cramped and it was too dark to see. She’d gone to bed without supper, her toast and the jam sandwich the only thing she ate all day yesterday. She was famished.

  Sweeping the mug off the table, she opened the back door and tossed it into the garden, where it bounced along the lawn. It wasn’t fit to be used anymore. She sometimes kept spare coins or pins in it. Perhaps Bay had swallowed one.

  She stoked the stove, adding a shovelful of coals, boiled her water, scrambled her egg. When she finished breakfast she tidied the kitchen and set to scrubbing the stubborn long gray stain on her wall. If she had six thousand pounds, she could buy a new stove that wouldn’t smoke. If she had six thousand pounds, she could hire Mrs. Finch from the village to scrub walls and sweep floors while she read one of Caroline’s naughty novels in her back garden.

  No, she was not going to do it.

  She made herself presentable for her walk to the shops, gathered her basket by the front door, and went outside. Her plum trees were bursting full with green fruit. In a few weeks it would be time to make jam. If she were at Bayard Court, all those delicious plums would drop to the ground for the birds and the worms, and then what would she have for her bread come winter? She’d miss the raspberries and blackberries too. She’d been in the middle of making strawberry preserves when Deb’s letter had come, so at least there was that, although she’d promised a dozen jars to Mrs. Kemble for the church fair in August.

  But if she had six thousand pounds, she could buy jars of jam at any church fair.

  Charlotte mentally slapped herself. She had her pride. She had her dignity. She had her modesty, what there was of it. It was one thing to be an accidental and then blackmailed mistress, quite another to acquiesce to the position in broad daylight.

  So preoccupied with her born-again virtue, she nearly walked right by Mr. Trumbull’s bentwood gate before she noticed the old gentleman hailing her. He was crouched over his stick, a smile
splitting his wrinkled face. Mr. Trumbull’s pride and joy was his garden, although he’d had to cut back its size severely the past few years since his wife had died. His roses in particular were to be admired. Because he was quite lame, Charlotte often shopped for him as well when she went for provisions. She had an eye for a bargain, which suited them both in their straitened circumstances.

  “Hi there, Mrs. Fallon!”

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Trumbull. I’m on my way to the shops. May I get you anything while I’m there?”

  “No need, no need. I have an acquaintance of yours here who has already been and back. Turned up on my doorstep bright and early this morning. Good fellow. Wouldn’t take a penny for his trouble but wants some China rose cuttings in exchange. Told him he was getting a bad bargain—why, he bought me so much I don’t believe I’ll live long enough to eat it all.”

  Charlotte’s heart thudded. “An acquaintance?”

  “Aye. Said the vicar introduced you in church yesterday. Sir Michael Bayard. Military man, but now he’s a man of leisure, going about the country looking at gardens. He’s planting a memorial to his old granny. Fond of roses, she was. Don’t quite know what brought him to our neck of the woods, but I’m happy to help.” Mr. Trumbull grinned in pride, revealing several yellow teeth. “He’s out back, clearing out all the brush that got away from me. Can’t do what I used to, and that’s a fact.”

  What on earth? Why was Bay working at her neighbor’s, if not to spy on her?

  “I would hardly call Sir Michael an acquaintance, Mr. Trumbull. He wanted to see my garden after church yesterday, but the rain prevented it. He admired the flowers I did for the altar.”

  “I’m sure they were lovely as always. Didn’t get to see them myself, you know. Too wet. Makes my old bones ache. Vicar Kemble came round last night after evensong, so I reckon I’m still in good standing with the Lord. I’ll tell Sir Michael you’ll receive him after you get back from your errands. He’s got a powerful interest in your garden. Keeps peeking over the wall. Seems to like your Cuisse de Nymphs.” The old man chuckled at the name. Thigh of nymph roses did sound naughty. Whatever one called them, they were a beautiful, lush, blush rose.