Charlotte had felt her emotions waver at twenty. Deb had happily disposed of her virginity and was living like a princess in London, certain that George’s father would come around eventually. Her misspelled letters were filled with exclamation points and descriptions that made Charlotte blush to her toenails. She didn’t understand half of what she read. She and Robert had an understanding from the time they were children, and their relationship in no way resembled what Deb had with Viscount Harfield. A chaste kiss here, a brush against her hip there. It was all very tame, and Charlotte decided she wanted more.
Robert trained in his father’s solicitor’s office, doing whatever work his father chose not to do, while she tatted tablecloths for her hope chest. He asked her to be patient about their marriage, but was impatient himself when it came to anticipating the wedding night. His kisses were soft and thrilling, his desire so flattering. She felt something in his arms that needed investigation. Part of her hoped that once she gave him her virtue, he’d toss away his objections and marry her at once. She knew she could economize; living with her parents had given her that dubious advantage. But after months of groping each other in carriages and caves, Robert broke it off. A country solicitor, he said, not meeting her eyes, could not afford the scandal of her sister or the poverty of her parents. Should she discover she was with child, she was not to look to him for support, for he would deny their association. Charlotte had stood with her mouth open, very likely looking like a dying carp.
So that was very much that. Charlotte’s mama had taken to her bed with a case of brandy for a week, and she hadn’t even known the worst of it. Three weeks later, Charlotte’s parents went for their moonlit sail. She sometimes wondered if their accident had been deliberate—that their troubles had simply overwhelmed them—but she never let herself dwell on that particular possibility. When the Earl of Trent made his offer on the house, Charlotte snatched it and reinvented herself far from Bexington and Robert and scandal
Her cottage in Little Hyssop was tiny and slapdash, but it was all hers. She doubted Bay could have stood straight under its low sloped ceilings. People in the village called her Mrs. Fallon, the unfortunate fictional Mr. Fallon having drowned along with her parents. Thus widowed and orphaned, she engendered some sympathy and enjoyed a degree of freedom. All in all, it had been a nice little life, if a bit boring, until Bay decided to hold her hostage on Jane Street.
Charlotte climbed back up on the bed and flopped down on her stomach. Reading Deb’s letters was just like scratching an itch. One knew one shouldn’t, but one did it anyway. This time she would not cry or feel sorry for herself, for she would be getting a letter of her own soon. She skimmed through a few until she read Bay’s terse note announcing his grandmother’s death. There were no sensual overtures in this one. Charlotte wondered if Deb had even bothered to send a note of condolence. She picked up the next letter.
Dearest Deborah,
The church was very crowded today. My grandmother Grace would have been pleased, I think, to see old friends and enemies, though she had precious few of those despite the sharpness of her tongue. Pointed as it was, it was often accurate, and one ignored my grandmother’s advice at one’s peril. They say it’s very common when man is faced with his mortality to seek comfort in the arms of a woman. I hear many a babe has been conceived on the eve of a funeral. If you were here tonight, we could test that legend. While I am sadder even more than I expected, I am also grateful to be alive, and long to show you just how very alive I am. I will be thinking of you the whole night through.
Yours affectionately,
Bay
Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t believe Bay meant to get Deborah with child. One didn’t impregnate one’s mistress if one could help it. But she suddenly realized they had taken no precautions the past few days. Bay had already shown her exactly how alive he was, and what if there was a child growing inside her? She tried to count back to her last courses, but never paid much attention to the calendar. There had been no need since Robert. She’d made a lucky escape there.
Her mama always said not to borrow trouble. There was no point in worrying herself when there was absolutely nothing she could do but wait. And anyway, she was old, well past her prime as a woman. She had the silver hairs slithering like snakes on her head to prove it.
She returned Bay’s letters to the empty drawer and sat at her dressing table with a hand mirror. Gritting her teeth, she began yanking out every one of the coarse gray hairs that had plagued her for the past ten years. If only it were so simple to uproot her fears. And her desires.
Chapter 12
Monsieur David had recovered sufficiently to present him with a raft of palatable delicacies for his dinner. Bay had taken his time digesting, one eye fixed upon the case clock in his study. For good measure, he unpocketed his pocket watch at intervals and double-checked the time. When he was satisfied at last that Charlie should be sleeping, he stretched, rolled down his sleeves, and put his jacket back on. He left the desk in its disordered fashion, ledger books and pens strewn on the surface; he could set it to rights tomorrow when he returned from Jane Street. He had waited long enough.
The evening was mild, the skies clear, the walk was short. Spring had come to fashionable London in bursts of flowering trees and blooms in window boxes. Bay took a deep breath of night air, inhaling the sweet smell of flowers, so different from the miasma of other parts of the city. Like a naughty boy, he plucked a lilac branch from behind an iron fence, then a few buds from a stone pot that flanked some nob’s doorstep. Armed with his improvised bouquet, he would lay it on Charlie’s pillow in a few minutes.
His cock twitched impatiently. Miss Charlotte Fallon had an unpredictable effect on him, despite her fusty caps and tart tongue. And while she was far from the strumpet he first thought her, she had proved to me a very satisfactory bed-mate. If he ever ran into Robert Chase again, he’d thank him before he planted him a facer. To the best of his knowledge, Bay had never taken a woman’s virginity. He supposed he must when he married again, and the prospect did not fill him with any particular thrill.
But he was sure he’d manage it better than Robert Chase.
Poor Charlie. Seduced and abandoned. Robert was married now, to a viscount’s pretty daughter who had been possessed of a good dowry. Quite a step up for a simple country solicitor. The offices Robert shared with his father were far grander now, as was their clientele. Bay had attended the wedding with his grandmother a few years ago, more as friends of the bride’s father than the groom. The elder Chase had served Grace Bayard well enough in local affairs. He wondered if Robert’s wife knew of her husband’s dishonorable use of his childhood sweetheart. Robert had never once uttered Charlie’s name in his presence during their years at school together, but he had bragged long and at length of his other conquests. He must not have had anything yet to brag about with Charlotte Fallon.
Bay again marveled that he had never stumbled across the Fallon sisters. They had lived not twenty miles away from Bayard Court. Of course his old friend George, Viscount Harfield, had stolen Deborah right out of the schoolroom ten years ago, while Bay was busy battling Napoleon’s forces in Spain. As a youth, he might have passed Charlotte on market day in Dorchester and never noticed—he’d only had eyes for Anne then anyway.
But now he definitely had eyes for Charlie, his very unlikely mistress. He was in hopes he could persuade her to remain in that position for a while yet, for as long as it was mutually agreeable to both of them. Bay was confident he held more attraction than Little Hyssop, whose very name was ridiculously prosaic. Despite her best intentions, Charlotte was more poetry than prose, her curvy body a heavenly cushion of carnality. Yes, Deborah was to be congratulated on her marriage and leaving him her sister in his bed.
His thoughts were entirely focused on what he planned to do with Charlie within the next hour. He didn’t hear the stealthy shuffle behind him, but could not ignore the three large men who blocked his path as he
rounded the corner on Jane Street. Surely hiring three night watchmen was a bit of overkill. None of them was familiar, either. He hoped he wouldn’t be dragged off by his ear. He most urgently needed to see Charlie.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, his voice breezy. “I’m Sir Michael Bayard. Number Eight.”
“Evenin’, guv. Sorry about your whore. We got other plans for you tonight.”
Bay opened his mouth, but the crack to the back of his skull made argument difficult. He pitched forward, grabbing at the lapels of one of the toughs, taking him down to the pavement.
“’Ere now!”
The man smelled of tobacco and ale and serious body odor. Bay couldn’t quite get his hands around his throat, but his fists seemed to be working. Knowing he was outnumbered and outfoxed, he rolled off and tried to stand up, only to be clubbed down again. His last sight was a pair of scuffed boots before a hood came down to cover his face. When he was hit for the third and final time, his world became permanently dark.
The gray morning light revealed to him that he was in a rather shabby bedroom. Naked. Tied to a bed.
The irony was not lost on him. How on earth had Charlie managed to hire those goons and teach him this lesson? He had apologized to her. A sincere apology. As far as he knew she had no access to any funds, unless she had promised one of the paintings as payment once he was safely out of the way. From his brief impression of them, they did not seem like art collectors. And how had she time to make these nefarious plans, when he had kept her so busy in bed over the past few days?
She must not have been ‘waiting like an idiot’ last night but deep in league with the bastards who had given him such a headache. Bay wrinkled his forehead and could feel the dried blood pulling tight against his skin. Charlie Fallon was a bloodthirsty little bitch. How could he have let himself be deceived by her? His first instincts had proved correct.
The whole while these thoughts were jumbling through his head, he strained against his bonds. The rope was nothing like the silken cords he used on Charlie, but rough hemp that cut into his wrists and ankles. He would have cried out, but the filthy rag that gagged him make anything but muffled grunts impossible.
No doubt the little minx thought she was clever to torture him thus. She underestimated him. He’d been a prisoner of the French for a mercifully short week, and they had not taken kindly to his activities before he was captured. It was true he bore no outward physical scars from that encounter, but his injuries were nevertheless acute enough for him to be invalided home for a while—just long enough to be nearly dispatched more efficiently by Anne’s husband. Bay had been foolish enough to see if after all the humiliation he’d suffered if his manhood was still intact, and Anne was as ever his partner of choice. The whole affair had been hushed up, though the mark on Bay’s face was a daily reminder of his foolishness.
By his estimate, he had been unconscious for four or five hours at least. More than a blow to the head had probably been applied. He inhaled deeply, wondering what he had been subjected to that incapacitated him, and hoped that his body was free of any drug. He bit into the rag, tasting its vileness, but didn’t detect poison. He wasn’t dead yet. But Charlie Fallon would be swinging from a noose as soon as he freed himself from his own ropes.
He squinted around the room, looking for anything that might be put to use to get himself out of here. His clothes were nowhere in sight, nor were there any useful guns or swords mounted on the stained brown wallpaper. It seemed he was left with his wits, scattered as they were, and his furious desire to escape. They would have to be enough.
The house was dead quiet. Bay listened hard for any noise of the neighborhood, but the shutters appeared to be nailed closed. There was absolutely nothing for him to do but lie here and wait.
Frazier would know something was amiss when he didn’t come home. Even if his batman thought Bay was with Charlie, he would eventually trot round to Jane Street for some gossip with Mrs. Kelly and a piece of her famous strawberry pie. There were bills and business to attend to. Bay had left a very atypical mess on his desk last night that Frazier would notice immediately. If Charlie was still in residence, Frazier would frighten her into telling him the truth about his whereabouts.
But Charlie had probably bunked it, leaving her henchmen in charge. Bay devoutly hoped they hadn’t forgotten about him, leaving him to lie in his own squalor for days, if not forever. This would be a most unpleasant and embarrassing way to die, trussed up like a plucked Christmas goose in a dirty oven.
He’d only kept Charlie tied up for a few hours, if one didn’t count their raspberry fool interlude. If she was aiming for parity, he would already have been released. And as far as he knew, no dessert of any kind had been applied to his body. In fact, he was getting rather hungry.
Being a practical man, he shut his eyes against the feeble rays of light. As a soldier, he’d learned to sleep under the most primitive of conditions, hungry or not. This imprisonment would rank above a wet Spanish ditch, he reckoned. At least he was on a mattress, musty as it was. He’d need his rest before facing his jailors. If they came.
Charlotte rose early, wandering about the house as the morning drizzled on. The day was as gray as her spirits. She missed Bay, and when he got back, their liaison would be over. He would bring her home in the most discreet fashion, she was sure. He wouldn’t drop her in the middle of the Little Hyssop green from his shiny new carriage. Probably trusty Frazier would be deputized for the last leg of their journey, in some conservative vehicle, Mrs. Kelly or Irene along for the ride for propriety’s sake. Her neighbors would be agog anyway. Charlotte wondered what she would tell them about her visit with her sister that wouldn’t betray her with suspicious blushes.
Yes, Charlotte’s little adventure was almost over. She should be overjoyed. Instead she found herself wiping a tear from her cheek, earning her a scornful look from Mrs. Kelly as she charged through the house with a feather duster.
Charlotte felt useless and morose. She stared out onto the street from the front window, seeing no gentlemen creeping out of love nests or wicked ladies strutting down the sidewalk. But there was a break in the clouds, so she decided to get some fresh air in the back garden and escape Mrs. Kelly’s disapproval. The foolishness of her actions was born upon her when she sat down on a damp bench, jolting her bottom with uncomfortable wetness. Just one more reason to feel sorry for herself, and her tears began to flow in earnest. For a woman who prided herself in not giving in to morbidity, she couldn’t seem to control them or the accompanying blubbering.
“Not again.”
Charlotte looked up to see Lady Christie in a lavender day dress and gave her a wobbly smile. “You must think me a veritable watering pot.”
“What I think is of no import. What has the man done now?” She handed Charlotte an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief and joined her on the bench.
“Oh, you shouldn’t sit! It’s very wet.”
“Pooh. I have a hundred dresses, not that my husband has bought them for me. I have a little sideline that keeps me in pin money. But do tell me—what has upset you today?”
“S-sir Michael has left. Gone to France.” Charlotte hiccupped.
“Well, that’s a good thing, is it not? You won’t have to service his needs in your sister’s place. Although—” Lady Christie raised an elegant copper brow—“it’s my understanding that Sir Michael is more than adequate in the bedchamber.”
Charlotte felt her crimson flush. Was there no privacy of any kind on Jane Street? All this garden-door hopping made it easy for the courtesans to confide in each other, not that Lady Christie was a courtesan. Charlotte wondered if Lady Christie’s Thursday teas were another source of information for her. Perhaps the mistresses brought rulers and anatomically correct drawings with them to compare notes. That thought was quite shocking and compelling at the same time, and Charlotte giggled.
“There, that’s better, although I don’t know what brought it on.” Lady Chr
istie stared hard at her, but Charlotte was not going to confess.
“I am—I am to go home once Sir Michael completes his mission in France.”
“My dear, surely you’ve been told, the war is over.”
Charlotte snorted. “Not Bay’s. He’ll have to wrestle a valuable necklace away from my sister. She’s apt to give him a scratch or two. She’s very fond of a bit of sparkle.”
Lady Christie’s hand flew to the pansy-shaped diamond and enamel pin on her bodice. The stone in the center was large and brilliant, the purple petals each lined with tiny diamonds. “As am I. There’s no point to jewelry sitting in a dark safe the year long. Edward used to argue with me over it. Now, thank goodness, I don’t have to listen to him drone on and on. He was such a bore. Tell me, how did your sister come by this necklace?”
“It was on loan from Bay. Sir Michael, you know. She packed it with her in haste—oh, who am I kidding? She took it and Bay wants it back. It was his grandmother’s. At first he thought I was in league with Deb, but I feel sure now he knows I had nothing to do with her taking it. We began on a very bad footing. But I have come to—to care about him. It’s only been a few days, and I’m angry with myself for letting my guard down so easily.”
Lady Christie sighed. “Poor thing. No matter how we resist, there are men in this world who manage to worm their way into our hearts. Bastards, all of them. Shall I ask about for another protector for you? Sir Michael will be sorry he let you go.”
Improper Gentlemen Bundle with Touch of a Thief & Mistress By Mistake Page 11