Mistress By Mistake (5 page)

He slipped out of the bedroom past a dozing Charlie and went downstairs to consult with Mrs. Kelly. She was well-used to his erratic schedule and attire, and presented him with the week’s menus for his approval without batting an eyelash at his dishabille well before sunset. He left orders for more brandy to be purchased and carried up a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He might be missing the strawberries, but he and Charlie had much to celebrate.

He paused on the stairs and examined a lovely little painting by an unknown artist depicting the seduction of a lovely little virgin. Her draperies were billowing in the wind, revealing her lovely not-so-little form. The expression of lust on her anxious lover’s face told the whole story. Like the painted gentleman, Bay was thinking with his cock again, damn it. It was entirely possible that Charlie was as guilty as her sister in this whole affair. Just because she could make herself blush scarlet meant nothing. Their mama had probably taught the Fallon sisters exactly how to trap a man—fainting on cue, weeping, dropping handkerchiefs, showing more than a bit of ankle or bosom. What did he know about her, after all?

He’d made it his business to know all about Deborah, who had come to town with Viscount Harfield ten years ago. Bay had met her at a boisterous party once when he was home on leave and been stunned, like everyone else, by her wit and beauty. She seemed quite devoted to George until his marriage, but moved on with alacrity to Baron Perham, a widower with notorious sexual appetites. Perham was followed by Fellowes and Stuart, a young marquess and a younger duke respectively. Bay had felt some pride succeeding a duke. Deb could have picked anyone.

And then she picked Arthur Bannister over him.

Of course, Arthur had offered marriage. Who would have imagined the Divine Deborah interested in domesticity? And becoming a plain Mrs. at that. Women were a mystery that Bay had spent the past twenty years trying and failing to fathom. His wife was a prime example.

Charlie was no longer pinned to the bed like a sex-drugged butterfly but sitting in a chair, her hideous elephant-colored robe covering her lush curves. She had even tried to tidy her hair, but Bay recalled most of her hairpins were scattered downstairs on the parlor floor. He’d go down later and toss them into the street if he had to. Nothing should tame his kitten-like Venus, purring and clawing.

“I’ve brought us some champagne. Mrs. Kelly will bring dinner up later.”

“To the bedroom?” Charlie sounded shocked.

“It will save us time. All those stair steps. Down, and then up again. This way we can get right back into bed when we’re done. We might even bring a crumb or two along.”

Charlotte screwed up her face. Her words yesterday indicated she was not amenable to lovemaking that incorporated food. He’d soon convert her to his way of thinking. The thought of licking honey from her—

“It’s my turn to set some ground rules,” she said, her voice brittle.

Bay set the bottle down. No point in popping the cork if she was in a mood. He could scarcely believe that this was the same woman whose every velvet inch had given him such recent satisfaction.

“I have agreed to your suggestions thus far, repugnant as they are. I also agree to wait here until Deborah returns, or until we hear from her so I can tell her you have kidnapped me.”

“I believe the term ‘kidnap’ is incorrect. That usually involves abduction from one’s home and the use of force. I found you in my bed, in
my
home, Charlie. Perhaps I should add trespassing to your other infractions. I have not used force. If anything, you have forced
me.
To hold me down like that while you had your wicked way—why, I couldn’t escape without doing myself some bodily harm.” He watched the beginnings of her rosy bloom. He counted the seconds until she was full vermillion.

“Nevertheless. I am here against my will. I’ll honor my sister’s covenant with you as she seems to have taken your property—accidentally, I’m sure—and I don’t wish to go to jail in her place. But you cannot visit me whenever it strikes your fancy. We must work some sort of schedule for—for sexual activities. Every sixth Sunday of the month, say. That way I can mentally prepare myself.” She shuddered as if his touch was anathema to her, which he knew it was most assuredly not from her cries of “Oh, God yes, fuck me!” earlier. “And I don’t want to take meals with you. I don’t want to take meals
on
you. If we are ever in the position to be dining together, we shall be sitting downstairs in the dining room, I at one end of the table and you at the other.”

Bay stifled his grin, which would only inflame her further. She was adorable in her umbrage. He could play along for a bit. “Every
sixth
Sunday? Are you certain you can wait that long?” He tapped a finger on his chin. “And surely there can be no more than five Sundays in any given month. It’s meant to be a day of rest, too. Our activities this afternoon were not precisely
restful
, Charlie. I declare you wore me right out.”

“Every Saturday then.”

“Every night of the week. Including Sunday. And possibly some afternoons when I’m not otherwise engaged.”

She turned white for a change. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Evenings only.”

“Every weeknight. I’ll give you weekends off if you behave yourself.” He’d have to eat red meat and swill beef tea all Saturday and Sunday to restore his prowess for Monday. Charlotte Fallon was a tigress.

She looked as if she wanted to say more, a lot more. Instead she nodded curtly. “Very well. I am not hungry. Or thirsty. Kindly tell Mrs. Kelly.”

Well, the pendulum had swung and the tigress was now a cranky cat with fleas. Bay couldn’t bother to cajole her back to bed. Perhaps she was suffering from a bizarre brain manifestation that enabled her to turn from scorching hot to frigid, blushing red to icy pale, courtesan to spinster. There was a possibility he’d been unfair to challenge her with such suggestive suggestions and she was regretting her complicity. Too bad.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then. I’ll just dress and eat downstairs if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Kelly since she’s gone to the trouble of cooking us dinner. It doesn’t do to annoy a woman with access to sharp knives.”

T
he nerve of him! He was still downstairs, smoking a cigar in the house instead of the garden if her nose was any judge. What had gotten into her? Well, besides him with his absolutely enormous member and his skillful tongue and fingers. Charlotte had never in her life behaved in such a fashion, wasn’t aware that there was such a fashion in which to behave. She’d blocked out Deb’s ‘helpful hints’ over the years, swearing never to lie with another man again after Robert. Two days on Jane Street and she was a confirmed slut. There must be something in the air.

She was so hungry she regretted turning away dinner. The house was small enough for her to smell it too, and each clink of cutlery and Bay’s groans of pleasure and lipsmacking had driven her over the edge. He had been so audible deliberately, she was sure, making her suffer for her prideful refusal to share a meal with him. When oh when would he leave so she could raid the kitchen?

He was a fiend. An archfiend. A malevolent incubus dressed as a benign baronet, infecting society with lust and sin. Infecting her, anyway. She had spent the last ten years driving lust and sin right away with the biggest stick she could find. It helped that her heart had been shriveled. And that Robert was lost to her forever.

Charlotte hung her robe up in the armoire and lifted her nightgown from the shelf. She glanced at her satchel in the corner. She supposed she ought to unpack whatever she had crammed into it before she caught the London stage. When she was frantic to rescue Deborah. Ha. Who was going to come to rescue her? To get her out from under the thumb and every other inch of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard?

Charlotte put her few belongings in Deb’s drawers. No, not Deb’s. Deb had ceded her role as mistress quite permanently, and somehow Charlotte had been persuaded to assume it, with a fervor that she found incomprehensible and embarrassing. She loathed the man who called himself Bay, as if he were a tropical turquoise body of water or a chestnut horse or the howl of a demented dog. He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions—if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment.

Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room. Tiptoeing down the carpeted stairs holding a candle, she stopped at the painting of a half-clad virgin fleeing from a roué who bore no little resemblance to the picture’s owner. She had seen that smile over her not long ago.

And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks. Not to Little Hyssop, but a completely foreign destination where she knew no one and no one knew her.

The pitfalls of her almost-midnight madness were immediately apparent. She would actually be stealing this time, and she could, she supposed, hang if she was caught. Bay didn’t seem to be the type of man who forgave and forgot—look at what he was putting her through with Deborah’s folly. If she suddenly appeared in some out-of-the-way country village, she might as well take out an advertisement in a newspaper. Strangers were always the gleeful target of gossip; she would not go unremarked. It had taken her years to worm her way into Little Hyssop’s good graces, and she didn’t have the patience now for the subterfuge. But the most troublesome aspect was if Deb contacted her—or even, miracle of miracles, returned the bloody necklace—she wouldn’t know it. She might be on the run for the next six months.

The candle wavered as she heaved a sigh. She would think better on a full stomach. But when she reached the top of the steps that led down to the kitchen, she nearly tumbled straight down when she heard the laughter.
His
laughter. A little rough, as though he was unaccustomed to doing such a thing. Light and shadow flickered in the stairwell.

And then Irene giggled, a perfectly pure tinkly sound.

Good Lord. Charlotte’s stomach flipped. He was having it on with the maid, who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Men were beasts, disgusting, diabolical dogs, and that was an insult to canines everywhere. When she heard Mrs. Kelly say, “That’s quite enough for one night, Sir Michael. You want to keep us awake all night to have your fun, don’t you? You’ll get another chance tomorrow to try your luck again,” she had heard enough. If Irene was young enough to be his niece at the very least, Mrs. Kelly could be his grandmother.

Clutching her candle with both fists, she flew down the stairs. Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Bay and his servants sat at the long pine table, the devil’s deck of cards scattered on its surface. Mrs. Kelly had a little pile of walnuts in front of her, and Irene and Bay had nothing. Charlotte stared at them stupidly.

“Care to join me, Charlie? These two want to go to bed and deny me my revenge.”

“Oh, go on with you, Sir Michael. Don’t be a poor sport. What can I do for you, Miss Fallon? I hope you’ve changed your mind about a meal. There’s some lovely chicken left, and cherry tart.” The housekeeper rose from the table and headed toward the larder.

Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. “No, no. I’m perfectly content, Mrs. Kelly. Don’t trouble yourself. I heard voices and thought there might be an intruder.” Her explanation sounded lame even to her own ears.

“Don’t you be worrying about the safety of Jane Street, Miss Fallon. Sir Michael will be here most nights to protect you. And the Jane Street gentlemen hire a night watchman. No one visits who doesn’t belong, if you get my meaning.”

Oh, she got it. If people couldn’t get in without an entrée, people couldn’t get out without notice, either. She was already in a prison cell, only with tasteful décor—except for the paintings.

Bay stood, rolling down his sleeves. “Well, if I have no takers, I’d best be off. I’ll see you ladies tomorrow. Late. I’m afraid Miss Fallon doesn’t care to dine with me, Mrs. Kelly, but I’ll probably rustle up a midnight snack. Good night.” He blew them all a kiss and let himself out the tradesmen’s door.

Mrs. Kelly’s lips were set in disapproval. “That man needs to eat proper after all he’s been through, Miss Fallon. He has a fool of a French chef at the other house. Muck and rubbish he cooks and calls it
gourmet
.” To Charlotte’s amusement, Mrs. Kelly pronounced the ‘t’ at the end of the word. It was clear she disliked the chef and his language.

“I might change my mind about his dining here, then,” Charlotte said, remembering the bit about knives. Mrs. Kelly looked sweet, but one never knew. “I’ll go upstairs now so you can go to bed.”

Mrs. Kelly clucked. “Oh, sit down, dearie. I may be old, but I’m not deaf. Your belly’s empty. Irene, poke at the fire a little. It gets damp down here at night, Miss Fallon, but Sir Michael likes to come down anyway. Reminds him of home.”

Charlotte stacked up the naughty cards. “You’ve know him since he was a boy?”

“Oh, no. Not me. But my sister cooked for his grandmother for years before she passed. My sister, not his grandmother, although she’s gone now, too. Irene, the milk jug if you please.”

“It’s terribly late,” Charlotte said, upset she was causing so much trouble. “Really, I know my way around a kitchen. I can get my own food.”

“Nonsense. Sir Michael has hired us to take care of you and so we shall. Sit.”

Charlotte sat and swallowed. “You don’t mind working here? Jane Street and its women are—are notorious.”

Mrs. Kelly slathered butter on a chunk of bread. “Everybody needs to get by, dearie. Sir Michael’s ladies have all been easy to do for, except your sister if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I can’t like it that Mr. Bannister came around.”

“How did he get by the night watchman?” Charlotte topped a slice of chicken with a sliver of cheese and chutney, folded it into the bread and chewed. Divine.

“Came in the daytime, he did. That’s the hole in their grand security scheme. As if men can control themselves and their tallywags until dark. Of course, most of the Janes respect the gentlemen who’ve set them up here and don’t dally unless that’s what their gentlemen want them to do so they can watch. But your sister had other ideas.” Mrs. Kelly put the tart down on a linen napkin. “I suppose I can’t really blame her. She saw her chance to catch a husband. Lord knows, Sir Michael might never marry again, and he’s sure not to marry a whore. No offense.”

Bread stuck in Charlotte’s throat. “Bay is married?”

“Not anymore. The less said about that, the better.”

Damn. This was not the time for Mrs. Kelly to rediscover her discretion. But the housekeeper kept busy and quiet putting platters and bowls away as Charlotte ate. Mrs. Kelly had already sent Irene off to bed, but was yawning herself.

“Please let me do the washing up,” Charlotte said once she had drunk the last of the milk and eaten every morsel. “I live alone at home, you know.”

“Well, if you’re sure—”

“I am. And tell Irene not to worry about me in the morning. I don’t need chocolate in bed or anything. You should both sleep in.”

Mrs. Kelly snorted. “No chance of that. I’ve been rising before the cock crows all my life. But thank you, Miss Fallon. See you in the morning.”

Charlotte stood in the dim kitchen. So Bay had been married. She wondered how and when his wife had died. If she knew, she might be able to make more sense out of the man, whose quicksilver moods were unsettling. Tonight with the servants he had been impish and youthful, but she had experienced his wrath and cutting tongue firsthand. She stepped into the scullery to scrub her plate and rinse out the glass.

What on earth was she thinking? Tomorrow she was stealing the man’s paintings and running away.