Mistress By Mistake (22 page)

“It may well be, but my grandfather didn’t believe in luck but hard work.” He walked to a corner and started rapping. Charlie glided after him, interested.

“You’re quite serious, aren’t you. Will a door pop open?”

“If
I
get lucky. It’s been years since I’ve been exploring here. The house was built by a family that was always in trouble with the church or the law. Hence a bolt-hole. There are stairs and a passage that leads to the beach. My father showed me when I was a boy, but then my grandmother absolutely forbid me to use them once he died. She thought I’d disappear.”

“And you were obedient.”

Bay grinned. “When I had to be. I don’t think I’ve used the stairs since my school days. It was always amusing to jump out at my friends in the middle of the night.”

“I suppose you were wearing a sheet.”

“On occasion. Ah!” He gave a shove with his shoulder and a narrow strip of aged wood creaked open.

Charlie peered into the cavity. “It’s dark.”

“Well, yes. Shall I light a candle, or do you want to parade before the staff in your chemise with your hair down your back? Not that you don’t look very fetching.”

“H-how long will it take us?”

“Not long. It’s just a few dozen steps. I’ll hold your hand and keep you safe.” He lit a candle stub from the sputtering flames in the hearth and stuck it back in the candleholder. “You’ll have to hold our clothes, though.”

Charlotte clutched the assorted clothing to her chest. She was freezing now, the dampness between her legs adding to the chill. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a ray of sunshine. She most certainly did
not
want to be trapped in a dark cobwebby corridor. But Bay held her fast and pulled her up the well-worn wooden stairs. She screamed only once when something fluttered on her cheek.

“Hush. People will really believe the house is haunted,” Bay teased. “Here we are.”

There was an actual door with an actual knob. Bay turned it and led her into a room whose furniture was covered in dust sheets. She sniffed and sneezed.

“Mice,” she said.

“No doubt. This wing has been closed off since before I went to war. The mice have probably evolved into rats by now.”

“Urk.” Charlotte felt invisible teeth nibbling at her ankles. The room was dim, the shutters closed. She scampered to the door and burst out into the hall. “Which way?”

“Turn right.” She was almost running now, Bay chuckling a few steps behind her. “Right again. Here we are.”

Charlotte was at her own door. “Would it be too much trouble for the household if I ordered a bath before supper?” She was convinced an army of spiders was weaving an elaborate web in her hair.

“My dear, we live to serve you. I’ll take care of it. Wrap up in your wretched gray elephant robe and wait patiently.”

She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. “Thank you, Bay. I haven’t anything grand to dress in for dinner, you know.”

“If I had my way, we’d dine naked in bed. You know how fond I am of that particular activity.” He held up a hand to stop her complaint. “But not tonight. Tonight we’ll be proper. But I can’t promise propriety for the rest of our holiday.”

Charlotte shut the door on his grinning face, grabbed a hairbrush, and tore it furiously through her hair. Every inch of her itched, ached, throbbed. And she supposed she would be subjected to more lovemaking tonight in Bay’s enormous bed.

She took her robe out of the wardrobe and wrapped her arms around herself. A clap of thunder startled her, but she had already been struck by lightning.

F
or a moment, Charlotte feared Bay would stay with her while she bathed, and then she would never get entirely clean. Or for that matter, dressed again. They would wind up supping in her room, or his, their appetites hungry for each other rather than Mrs. Kelly’s cooking. He had helped orchestrate the little procession of maids who trundled up the stairs with hot water and fluffy towels, going so far as to carry an enormous sloshing, steaming pail himself, but then left them to their duties. Irene introduced the two maids, sisters Mary and Kitty Toothaker, and explained they came for the day only, going back to their village home each night.

Charlotte looked out her window. The sky was slate gray, the rain coming down in sheets.

“That won’t do tonight, girls. Surely in a house this size there’s room for you to sleep here.”

“Our mam would worry, miss,” said Kitty, the darker of the two. She was short, slight, and didn’t even look strong enough to carry the pitcher of hot water she set down before the hearth. A good gust of wind might knock her right down. She might turn a thin ankle and roll into a ditch.

“I don’t think she’d want you to walk all that way alone in the rain and dark.”

“Mr. Frazier keeps us both company, Miss Fallon, and he’s got a big lantern.” Mary caught her sister’s eye and giggled. Kitty blushed under the ruffled brim of her mobcap.

“Mr. Frazier?” Charlotte thought the explosive ex-soldier was the last man she would think of to go a-wooing. But Kitty was young, fresh-faced, and considerably shorter than the short Angus Frazier.

“Hush, Mary!” There’s nothing going on, Miss Fallon! All Ang—All Mr. Frazier does is walk us home. He’s been a perfect gentleman this week while we’ve been getting the house ready for you.”

Charlotte bit back her smile. “I am acquainted with Mr. Frazier a little. He is very brave and loyal. Perhaps if you spend the night, you can get to know him better. Irene, please let Mrs. Kelly know my wishes.” If it was true they were all there to serve her, she might as well take advantage of it.

“But our mam—”

Mary elbowed Kitty in the ribs. “She’ll be asleep anyway and never miss us. She drinks, you know.”

Kitty rolled her eyes at her sister’s indiscretion but kept her lips shut tight.

Charlotte knew what it was like to have a mother who drank. A father, too. “That settles it. Irene, go downstairs with the girls and consult with Mrs. Kelly. As soon as you all have had your supper, you’re free to do as you see fit. I won’t need you until tomorrow, Irene.”

“Not even to help you dress for dinner?”

Charlotte laughed. “Irene, dear, you’ve unpacked my clothes. I’m not getting into a court gown.”

“You should have brought that red dress.”

“Sir Michael packed for me and must have overlooked it.” Charlotte had barely been able to see through her tears when she threw her belongings into her case at Jane Street the day she escaped from Anne Whitley. The object was to get out of town as quickly as possible. To go back to her cottage. To get on with her life, such as it was. But she had taken the impractical dress and Bay’s letters. She was a romantic idiot.

When the girls left her, she sank into the tub and scrubbed herself vigorously with her special soap. The secret stairwell could have been worse, she supposed. Charlotte was not all that fond of dusty, shut-up spaces, but Bay had shouldered the cobwebs away as he dragged her up the steps. He was never going to induce her to enter the tunnel to the beach, however. Bayard Court had once been home to smugglers, its cellars full of contraband. That had appealed to Bay’s grandfather, who was a big risk taker himself. He had bought the house for his child bride, then disappeared to make more money.

Charlotte thought Grace Bayard must have been lonely. She raised one son, then one grandson in this isolating splendor. The house could accommodate a dozen children easily with all its twisting and turning corridors. Charlotte could see why Bay had chosen a London life after he came back from the war—rippling waves and waving grasses had little conversation. It was far more amusing to surround himself with courtesans than watch his aging grandmother tend her rose garden, although she knew he had loved her deeply.

Charlotte washed and towel dried her hair, coiling the linen around her head. She was grateful for the brisk blaze in the fireplace. It would not surprise her one bit to see a snowflake out her window, even if it was June. She wondered if it were raining still in Little Hyssop, or if they had brought the bad weather with them. As the water was cooling, she rose from the tub and dried off in front of the fire. She shrugged into her robe again and combed the tangles in her hair with her fingers.

Her body was warm and relaxed now, its memory of Bay imprinted on every plane and fold. She hoped she could find the switch to turn off her feelings when the month was up. It would be the challenge of her life.

“Bah.” Bay stood before the window in the morning room, watching the rain thunder down. Charlotte sat at a table, her hands flying with bobbins and thread. He had observed her, nearly growing dizzy at her dexterity. Her pattern was pinned to a little pillow. He would go cross-eyed trying to figure it all out. He’d never had the opportunity to think about lace, or many female occupations before, if it came to it. His grandmother’s interests were limited to gardening and gossip. Tramping through the mud carrying a heavy kit to kill the enemy had been his priority for a decade. The wenching and gambling afterward were his peacetime reward.

“How did you come to make lace?” he asked, bending over her shoulder. He deliberately blew his breath on her neck.

Her clever hands paused, then resumed their effort. “There was a neighbor in Bexington. Deb and I would visit her when our parents were otherwise occupied.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes somber. “They drank, you know. First as a lark, as everyone does. It was all merry fun—house parties and other entertainments. Trips to town while we stayed behind. They had scores of friends. My papa could charm the bark off a tree. My mama was the ultimate lady, always with admonishments to us girls about our deportment, but somewhere along the way her tea became spiked with brandy, and there was champagne at breakfast. Pictures started disappearing off the walls. Mr. Peachtree became a fixture in our life. Deb ran wild. And so, in the end, did I.”

“Charlie.” His voice was rough. “You were betrothed. Robert took advantage of you, the cur.”

“Perhaps I took advantage of him.” The bobbins clacked relentlessly. “I wanted to escape, you know. Deb had. I thought if I gave Robert my body, he’d marry me sooner. I was wrong.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and her hands finally stilled. No matter what she said, Charlie had been Robert’s victim. It was a pity that a woman’s purity was more important than a man’s, but it was society’s highest dictate. He was beginning to feel the injustice of it. Ten years ago, Charlie’s black hair was not lit by silver. She had everything to hope for. She had acted in good faith, out of misplaced love, and look where it had gotten her—a solitary life working herself into premature old age. She deserved more. Much more.

Her shoulder shrugged beneath his palm. “It’s old news anyway,” she said lightly. “I’m well over it.” The bobbins wove back and forth in her hand again at their furious pace.

Bay wondered how many years it had taken for her to leave her guilt behind. The fact that she felt any was absurd—he had never regretted any sexual congress he’d ever undertaken, except perhaps with that Spanish camp follower who had raked his back like a frenzied panther. It had taken Frazier weeks of potions and ointments to get the swelling down, all the while mumbling that female fingernails would kill him sooner than a bayonet. Frazier never had much good to say about the fairer sex. But if what Charlie had said was true, he was now in the petticoat line courting one of the housemaids. It quite boggled the mind.

“You’re right. No point in dwelling on the past. Now, how would you like to plan our future?”

The bobbins slipped through Charlie’s hands. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Our day. Obviously we can’t go out in this muck. And I’ll be damned if I sit here all day watching you make yards of lace, fascinating as it is.”

“It’s my livelihood, Bay.” She snipped a string that had gone astray.

“It needn’t be. Surely the stipend I’ve arranged for you will comfortably provide for you and all the charities you favor and all the stray cats you could ever choose to adopt. You can be a lady of leisure.”

Her lower lip jutted out. He’d seen that stubborn look many times before and couldn’t like it.

“It does not suit me to be idle.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”

“I’m not meant to be a wastrel like you.”

Bay laid a hand over his heart. “A wastrel? I am mortally wounded.”

“Sorry if the truth hurts. What do you do besides ensure your pleasure?”

She was looking at him as his old governess used to, all beetle-browed and pursed-lipped.

“I manage my investments! And I collect art.”

Charlie snorted. “Art that is by its very nature suited to the advancement of your pleasure.”

How did she know he’d gazed at his paintings a time or two, his cock firmly in hand? He felt his color mount. “You are forgetting I spent a decade serving His Majesty in conditions I can assure you were not at all pleasurable.”

“Do not rest upon your laurels. What have you done lately?”

“I—I—” What
had
he done lately? Certainly he sent money to veterans’ charities. He tithed although he rarely attended church. He was kind to small children and animals when they crossed his path. It didn’t amount to much, not enough to brag on. “What do
you
think I should be doing?” he asked, turning the tables.

“What did you want to do when you were a boy? Besides be a smuggler.”

He had wanted to be an artist. His cartoons at school had been dead-on until an upperclassman objected to his depiction as a bully and only proved it by beating a young Bay to a pulp behind the dining hall. After that Bay put away his brushes and charcoal and stuck to declining Latin verbs. Anne had posed for him when they married, but he had destroyed the pencil sketches years ago. Until Angelique insisted on the ceiling fresco, he’d spent years admiring art instead of creating it. A wicked thought crossed his mind.

“I’ll show you. Stay right there.”

He took the stairs two at a time to his room. In his dressing room was a battered trunk he’d had at boarding school. Within were some dried-up watercolors, several yellowing sketch pads, and some dull sticks of charcoal. He took out his knife and sharpened the points, nicking himself in the process. Not an auspicious beginning for the rejuvenation of his artistic career.

He made a quick detour into Charlie’s room and was downstairs in minutes, the pads tucked under his arm. “Disrobe, my dear.”

Charlotte looked up at him, startled. He flattered himself to think she looked interested in an après-breakfast interlude, as was he, but first things first.

“H-here in the morning room?” she faltered.

“The light, what there is of it through all this bloody rain, is excellent.”

“Surely you know what I look like by now.”

“Indeed I do, every lovely inch. Your body is exquisite. And I wish to immortalize it.”

Charlotte seemed to notice the paper for the first time. “You want to
draw
me?” She made it sound as if he planned to roast her and feed her to wild animals.

“I cannot think of a more deserving subject. You give all my Italian ladies a run for their money.”

“You’re an artist.” There was an unpleasant degree of doubt in her voice.

“You remember the ceiling on Jane Street. All the angels and clouds and whatnot.”

“
You
painted it?”

Her openmouthed shock was comical. He didn’t think it was because she thought he was the next Michelangelo, either. “The subject matter was not my first choice, and the execution a bit rusty, I admit. But we have all the time in the world. Twenty-nine days, anyhow. I’m prepared to practice until I get your likeness right. I’ll even put wings on you, if you like.”

“I’m certainly no angel.” She abandoned her lace making and stood up. “Let me see your notebooks.”

Bay shrugged. “I haven’t touched them in years. Trust my grandmother to have squirreled everything away. She thought I had some promise.” He handed her the oldest collection of drawings. She smiled when she saw the first, a pencil sketch of his old spaniel Homer. Perhaps he should consider getting a dog again. Dogs were diverting, and if he were to rattle around in this enormous house, he’d welcome some good company.

She picked through the pages carefully. “She was right. Why did you stop drawing?”

“I suppose I outgrew it. When I was in the army, every now and again someone might ask me to sketch their horse or their portrait in a letter home, but there was little time for frivolity.”

“Let me see the rest.”

He gave her the second notebook. The pages were mostly empty, but it was clear that a large chunk had been torn away.

“What happened to the drawings?”

Bay swallowed the lump in his throat. He had hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I’m afraid they were honeymoon drawings. Once the honeymoon and my marriage were over, it didn’t seem right to keep them.”

“Oh, Bay.” She placed her hand on his sleeve. “I am sorry for you. How horrible it all must have been.”

“It seemed so at the time. But now I begin to think I made a lucky escape.” He looked down on her. Her hair was arranged too neatly on her head. Soon he would fix that.

“Lady Whitley might not have become unhinged if she had been Lady Bayard all these years.”

“You are a warmhearted girl, Charlie.” He bent to brush his lips against hers.

“Hardly a girl,” she murmured. She responded to the kiss, deepening it artlessly. At this rate he might as well throw his drawing paper in the fire and bed her on the chaise. She aroused every bit of his lust, for all she was a short, shrewish thing.