Improper Gentlemen Bundle with Touch of a Thief & Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson; Mia Marlowe Diane Whiteside

  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.

  “Fascinating. This Laurette sounds like a splendid girl. Do you think I might come with you?”

  “I suppose. She seems quite lonely. She hasn’t a thing to do but wait for Lord Conover to come. And when he does arrive, she wishes him to the devil.”

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Another unhappy mistress? You two will give Jane Street a bad reputation.”

  “You needn’t worry about that. There will be no gloom cloud over Number Eight. I received my congé in yesterday’s mail. I’ve sent for Bay’s Mr. Frazier and will meet with him tomorrow. The sooner I can make arrangements to leave, the better.”

  Caroline’s pencil rolled onto the floor. “But no!”

  “Oh, but yes.” Charlotte felt her lip tremble.

  “And I was just getting to know you.” Caroline patted her hand. “You understand I’m fond of all the girls here—most of them, anyway. I’ve had to be careful of Lucy Dellamar, though. Things seem to disappear when she comes calling. The odd silver teaspoon, the brooch I left on my dressing table, that sort of thing. It’s said her protector keeps her on a very short economic leash, so the poor girl is probably only supplementing her income. One day her sticky fingers are bound to get her in trouble. If only she would come to me, perhaps I could help her. I try to help them all, you see.” Caroline twisted a rather spectacular topaz bracelet over her glove. “But the Janes are not quite the thing. You seem so nice and normal. Refined. It’s been a while since I had such a friend.”

  Charlotte swallowed back her tears. “But I’m a fallen woman.”

  “Well, all of us have made a mistake or three, I expect. Your family was gentry, was it not?”

  “Yes, but at the end we were quite ruined. When my parents died, they were one step away from the workhouse.”

  “Then we have something in common. My father always had more pride than pounds. Papa would have been thrilled to know Edward proposed. Our relatives found bailing him out over the years tedious in the extreme. Papa spent every bit of mama’s settlement money and then some. He’s dead, else he would be hovering about wondering why I have not found a rich lover by now to spot him a monkey.”

  “Why haven’t you?” Charlotte asked.

  Caroline looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps one day I will. It’s not as though I haven’t had offers.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Let’s not keep Laurette waiting. If you are leaving, I shall have to replace you.

  Charlotte laughed. “Fair weather friend! I think Laurette is as ill-at-ease here as I am.”

  “I got used to it,” Caroline said softly.

  They did not go next door via the garden gate but instead stepped out onto the short street, turned right, and lifted the shiny brass star and moon knocker. The butler opening the door was a foreign fellow, very elegant and correct. He announced them both and Charlotte watched Laurette blanch. Charlotte should have sent round a note explaining that she was bringing another guest. Her manners as well as her morals had gone missing.

  But Caroline took charge as usual. In the very short time Charlotte had known her, Caroline seemed a force to be reckoned with. Caroline was already holding Laurette’s hands in hers, beaming a smile at her. “Do forgive Charlotte. I invited myself. Your arrival on the street in the Mad Marquess’s house has caused quite the commotion, and when she said she was coming to tea, I couldn’t resist. I am Caroline Christie.”

  “How do you do, Lady Christie?”

  “Please call me Caroline. The less we hear of my husband’s name, the better.” She settled herself on the settee, smiled, and patted a pillow. Laurette had no choice but to sit beside her while Charlotte arranged her dull gray skirts on a chair. Laurette’s hands were twisting nervously in her lap. “I told you you’d scare her,” Charlotte said. “Would you like me to pour, Laurette? I’m quite used to Caroline now. She’s been a lifesaver.”

  “Don’t worry, I shan’t reveal a thing to any of our other neighbors. I can be discreet if I care to be.”

  Laurette looked shocked. “You live here on Jane Street?”

  “Indeed I do. My husband bought my house five years ago when we separated. He thought to make a point, you see, to let me know what he thought of me. But I find the street suits me very well.”

  “Caroline lives next door to me. She heard me in my garden crying one morning and we’ve been friends ever since,” Charlotte said. “I seem to be a noisy neighbor.” She winked at Laurette and passed a cup to Caroline.

  “All men are beasts. I am sorry I missed the demolition of those deviant little angels. I should have enjoyed getting my hands around their scrawny necks.”

  “It was fun.” Laurette grinned.

  The ice broken, they spent the next hour filling Laurette in on the personalities on the street. Charlotte was almost sorry she would be leaving. But leave she must. She left Caroline and Laurette deep in gossip. She was going home to pack—again. This time she would not be secreting paintings into her luggage. Tomorrow morning Mr. Frazier was coming to make the arrangements for her return home. She would be in her cottage before she knew it, her contact with “Courtesan Court” over. It was time to go back to boring.

  Chapter 15

  Charlotte fidgeted with the strings of her cap. Mr. Frazier was frowning over the letter as though he were teaching himself to read. Perhaps he was not going to help her leave Jane Street after all. He had been most suspicious when she presented him with Bay’s orders, and had not believed her until she fished the letter out of the drawer in her room.

  He was scratching his red head, reading the hideous thing for perhaps the sixth time.

  “I dinna like it.” His Scots brogue had become more pronounced the longer he sat in the parlor.

  “Well, I didn’t care for it much either,” Charlotte said with asperity. “Yet you cannot argue he wants me gone and he wants you to help me.”

  “Hold on now, lass. When Mrs. Kelly sent word to me yesterday you wanted to see me, I was baffled. I thought the major was here with you all this time.”

  “As you can see, he is not. Has not been for days. He’s gone to Frannce,” she spit, sounding the extra “n.” The man couldn’t even spell the name of the country he fought against so many years.

  Frazier shook his head. “He has not. Not an article of his clothing is missing. Not a comb, not a stocking. His valise is in the attic.” He paused. “His desk is a mess, too. The major is quite orderly. He’d never go on a trip without tidying up. Or saying a word to me.”

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bsp; “Well, obviously he has. He can always buy toothpowder and a change of smallclothes on the road. Perhaps he lucked out on a quick passage.” Really, would the irritating man not fork over some money for her so she could get out of here? Charlotte was not asking him to accompany her.

  “Think now. What were his last words to you?”

  Charlotte huffed. “He told me he’d hired an investigator to find my sister. And the bloody necklace.”

  “Mr. Mulgrew. And the rubies, yes. Why then, Miss Fallon, does he refer to the necklace as emeralds?”

  “I could not tell you. He ranted about them enough to me.” And wrote about them with eloquence.

  “He mentions other letters. Is this one anything like the ones he wrote to Deborah?”

  Charlotte felt the wash of color creep up her neck. “No.”

  “He calls you by her name, too. There’s something fishy about all of it.”

  “Be that as it may, he wants me to go home and has asked you to help me. As soon as possible,” she emphasized.

  “Aye. And did you contact me the day you received this?” His hound dog brown eyes bore into hers. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, remembering her first reaction to Bay’s letter. All the shattered statuary and the resulting euphoria. Calling for Mr. Frazier was the last thing on her vengeful mind, and then Laurette had invited her to tea.

  “Practically. I had an engagement yesterday.”

  “So he’s been waiting for us to come to his rescue.” Frazier placed the letter on a table, then stood up, fists clenched.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Miss Fallon, forgive me so for saying so, but you’re a slow top. Does the major not know your name?”

  Charlotte snapped back at him. “He had an arrangement with my sister first. I’m sure one mistress is much like another in his world.”

  “Nay. The major is a most particular man. See here, he calls you by the wrong name, gets rubies mixed up with emeralds, talks about Little Turnip. I assume that’s not the name of your village?”

  “No, but he was always making fun of it. And don’t forget, he can’t spell either. But he’s made it plain he wants me out of his life.”

  Frazier picked the letter up again. “F-R-A-N-N-C-E. I’ll be damned.”

  Charlotte was quite sure he would be, working for the odious Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.

  “Good God. She’s got him.”

  “My sister is many things, but she’s a married woman now. I doubt Bay is so attractive she’s thrown over Arthur on her honeymoon.”

  “No, you little twit.” He buried his face in his hands. When he looked up his eyebrows resembled deranged caterpillars. “Och, forgive me. It’s Anne. Lady Whitley. She’s sunk her claws into him again somehow.”

  Charlotte reared back in her chair. “His—his wife?”

  He snorted. “He’d never write a letter like this if he could help it. The major has a way with words. Always lets the ladies down gently. This—this proves that he’s not himself.”

  “He’s run off with his wife? All the more reason for me to leave. Please, Mr. Frazier, I beg you. I simply want to go home. I have no money. None. If you don’t help me, I’ll have to resort to stealing the paintings again. Surely Bay would not approve of that.” Charlotte leveled a stern eye at the man, but he paid no attention to her.

  “No, no, lass. He would never run off with Anne. Not again. He’s taken the devil’s own time to learn his lesson, but he’s done with her.”

  “That’s not what he said. He told me his feelings were—complicated. That he was trying to be her friend. Maybe the friendship has turned into something else after all.” She watched as Frazier’s face turned as red as his hair.

  “I canna believe it! I willna believe it!” He pointed a stubby finger at her. “You stay right here. I’m off to see that Mulgrew fella, find out what’s become of his man and the damned necklace. See if he knows whether the major made it to France.”

  “I don’t want to stay right here!” Charlotte shouted. Without thinking she gripped an empty Chinese vase and hurled it against the wall. Frazier didn’t flinch.

  “Spirited, are ye? We might need some of that spirit before this is all over.” He stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “Now, see here, Miss Fallon. I know the major, have known him more than a dozen years. He’s in trouble. If you thought about it past your pride, you’d see I’m right.”

  Charlotte shut her eyes. She didn’t want to hear the reasonableness of his words or see the sincerity on his face. It was true when they parted, Bay had promised to escort her home himself. But rich gentlemen were a fickle lot—the letter made it clear he had changed his mind and was without a doubt happily sporting with some French tart. Or two. All the mistakes were probably made in a drunken haste to get back into bed.

  But what harm did it do for her to remain here a little longer, until Frazier was satisfied that his employer had in fact meant every word? The Jane Street house was loaded with every luxury, and Mrs. Kelly didn’t seem quite so disposed to poison her now. She had met congenial neighbors, and, if she were honest with herself, she didn’t exactly have a lot to go home to.

  “Very well. It’s your hide. Do what you must to assure yourself of Bay’s intentions.”

  Much to Charlotte’s shock, he patted her on the head. “Thank ye, lass. I’ll return as soon as I can with news. Please tell Mrs. Kelly all of this, every bit. Show her the letter and tell her my concerns. She might have a word or two to cheer you up.”

  Charlotte doubted that. She watched as Frazier sprinted out of the room. Reluctantly she got up and picked up the dreadful letter. She reread it with fresh eyes.

  Dear Deborah,

  I hope this letter finds you well. 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

  She still didn’t see Frazier’s point of view. The letter was as straightforward as ever to her. My word, Bay even talked about the weather. How banal. But she dutifully went down the stairs to explain the situation to Mrs. Kelly as instructed.

  The older woman was rolling out a pie crust. Charlotte took the rolling pin from her as the cook fished her glasses out of her apron pocket and continued to smooth the dough on the marble slab. She was a dab hand at pastry herself. Her pies always sold well at the Little Hyssop parish fair.

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Kelly looked up. “Sir Michael says he’s tied up. Don’t you feel his choice of words is rather significant?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say.” Charlotte would not soon forget her delightful humiliation, but she was not about to discuss it with Bay’s servant.

  “I agree with Angus. There’s something off about the whole thing.” She carefully folded the letter and put it on the kitchen table. “When you told me he’d gone to France without a word to me, I confess I was surprised. He’s a thoughtful boy.”

  “Bay is hardly a boy,” Charlotte reminded her.

  “When you get to my great age, you’ll sing a different tune. He’d never leave Angus behind if he were to go on a trip of any length, either. There is a mystery afoot here.”

  “Pooh.” Charlotte rolled the pin with a violent flourish. “If he’s not in France, then he’s with Lady Whitley. Either way, I’m still stuck here against his wishes. And mine. But it’s no skin off my nose if Mr. Frazier is reprimanded. What kind of pie are we making?”

  “Chicken. Be a dear and fetch a potato from the barrel, will you?”

  The two worked in companionable chatter preparing Charlotte’s lunch. Charlotte was treated to secondhand anecdotes from Bay’s youth, gleaned by Mrs. Kelly from her sister’s letters. Her descriptions of Bay’s grandmother made Charlotte sorry that she would ne
ver meet her. No wonder he wanted the necklace back as a reminder of his formidable grandmama. When the pie emerged from the oven, pastry browned and gravy bubbling, Charlotte shared it with Mrs. Kelly right at the basement kitchen table. The hatchet and knives had been buried.

  Anne had not come yet today, for which Bay was grateful. His captors had loosened the ropes somewhat after Anne complained yesterday that his skin was rubbed raw. He was on a strict schedule like a nursing baby. Meals were delivered at regular intervals, he was released—and surrounded—as he relieved himself to the taunts of the four grubby men who guarded him. The rest of the time he was left to stare up at the cracked ceiling. If Bay were to take up his paintbrushes again, he would paint a vision of hell to rival the heaven of Charlie’s bedchamber.

  He had failed there. Evidently she had not realized his intent when he wrote that horrid letter, nor, apparently, had Frazier. Perhaps she hadn’t even shown it to him but dusted off to Little Lockup in a huff. It was going on three days since the missive was delivered, unless Anne had simply lied and thrown it away. Bay had been so sure Frazier would be suspicious of his sudden disappearance and come looking for him.

  Ah, well. He supposed he’d better get used to his situation. Eventually he would escape. He had to. The thought of being bound to Anne for a lifetime was too terrible to contemplate. The shadows from the slatted shutters told him it was late afternoon, too soon for a night’s sleep. He made himself drift off anyway, half-listening for any movements in the house. It was remarkable what utter boredom led to. Bay had already exhausted his repertoire of remembered poetry and Bible verses. It was safer to doze, dreaming of being in Charlie’s arms.