Mistress By Mistake (6 page)

M
rs. Kelly had set forth to do some shopping. Charlotte had given her a list of her ‘favorite’ foods—things that would be a touch difficult or time-consuming to find, even in a metropolis as large as London. Mrs. Kelly’s eyes crinkled when Charlotte claimed she was anxious to have a special late dinner with Bay to make up for last night. Mrs. Kelly, the romantic fool, was an absolute puddle when it came to the baronet.

Irene was more difficult to get rid of. She had a host of duties to attend to. Charlotte didn’t expect a butler, but maintaining the house, even if it was small, was a lot for the two women. If she had stayed, she might have been tempted to pitch in. She gathered Deb had run them ragged.

Her mama would have been horrified to know how she lived in Little Hyssop. Even when her parents couldn’t pay their servants’ wages, they had plenty of them. Charlotte lived entirely alone within her garden gate. She swept her floors. She did her laundry. She cooked, preserved, pickled. She had been tempted a time or two to raid Deborah’s Mistress Museum upstairs when her funds were low, but had thus far refused to pawn any of the treasures. Fortunately, she did not have such scruples when it came to Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.

Irene was out with her own list and Charlotte was armed with one of Mrs. Kelly’s sharp knives. Her repacked valise was at her feet. Charlotte rolled the two paintings into it, fastened the latch, and looked around the hallway. A woman could feel at home here, she supposed. But she would be homeless for the indeterminate future. She’d get word to Deb somehow, if she could remember the name of the dead uncle’s estate in Kent. Something End. It began with a B, although it wasn’t Bannister. She wished she’d paid more attention when Deborah had lectured her.

Charlotte had done a very shameful thing packing, somehow worse than taking the paintings. Bay’s letters to Deborah were tucked in her case. They were the closest thing Charlotte would ever get to a romantic correspondence, and she was impressed how someone like the fiend had such an unfiendish turn with words. The bit about the rubies reflecting the light was quite lovely. It was all wasted on Deborah, of course, who didn’t have a romantic bone in her body.

Straightening her shoulders as she hefted the luggage, she was glad she’d been in too much of a hurry to pack much. The bag was light, and it gave her the perfect reason to send Irene off for necessities.

She knew exactly where to go. Her papa had kept the lines of communication open with a Mr. Peachtree, who at one time owned more of the Fallon objets d’art than the Fallons did. According to Papa, he was sharp but fair, and they had even become friends of a sort. Mr. Peachtree had an address she could recall at least, and she marched toward it.

Several hours later, Charlotte was sitting in her stocking feet in Mr. Peachtree’s office. There was a hole that exposed her left pinky toe, which was mortifying. He had locked her old boots in his safe, after telling her to remove them. At gun-point. Mr. Peachtree possessed a tiny silver pistol, but he assured her that size did not matter. The paintings were locked in the safe as well. He’d sniffed at Deb’s paste necklace but threw it in for good measure.

He had repeated his scolding five times now by Charlotte’s count. That he was a reputable businessman, that Sir Michael had a standing order to acquire Italian life studies, that he in fact had sold one of the paintings she brought to Sir Michael himself. That any dealer in London would know that Sir Michael was the owner of record and that she was a vicious little thief. That it was an excellent thing her parents had been dead these past ten years. That the only reason he had not called for Bow Street was the affection he felt for her papa all those years ago. How ashamed he would be to discover his daughter’s dishonesty, not to mention her lovely mama, who had tried to raise her daughters as ladies despite the family’s impecunity. One sister a whore, Mr. Peachtree had opined, the other selling that which did not even belong to her. Deborah, at least, sold only what was hers to sell. There were a few Bible verses tossed in just in case Charlotte didn’t fully understand his diatribe.

Bay came at last, resplendent in a deep brown coat and buff trousers. His topboots were blindingly polished. Charlotte would bet her walnuts there were no holes in
his
stockings.

“Good afternoon, Peachtree, Charlie.” Bay seemed unruffled, which frightened Charlotte to her core. Mr. Peachtree removed the key from his waistcoat pocket and walked to his safe. He presented Bay with the paintings, her boots, and the worthless necklace. Charlotte decided it was best just to say nothing until they were out of Mr. Peachtree’s earshot. For then he would know her to be a thief and a liar
and
a whore. Mr. Peachtree had not believed for one minute that her ‘cousin’ Bay had deputized her to sell the paintings.

Charlotte buttoned her boots with trembling hands. Bay’s civility was unnerving. She half thought he was going to get down on one knee and expedite the donning of her footwear. When she overheard him smoothly explain that his country cousin had misunderstood his intentions about the paintings, she didn’t know whether to be grateful or thoroughly alarmed.

Mr. Peachtree returned the silver pistol to his desk drawer. “Then I do apologize, Sir Michael. I was under the impression Miss Fallon had no living relatives save her sister. Her father never mentioned you, you see. And when she came here looking guilty as a priest peeking under a choirboy’s robe, I thought it best to inform you. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, she was. I’ve seen my share of crooks in this line of work as you can imagine. I know the signs.”

“You did the right thing, Peachtree. And I’m ever so grateful that the authorities weren’t called. Wouldn’t want to cause further family scandal. The Fallon sisters have always been a bit of a trial to us.”

Mr. Peachtree glared at her in triumph but was wise enough not to speak.

Bay adjusted his gloves. “Do keep an eye out for me, won’t you? I won’t rest until I’m in possession of another Maniero. That man knew his women, what? Come along, Cousin Charlie. It’s time for your medicine.”

Charlotte followed him out of the shop with a sinking heart. Bay flagged down his carriage as it made its way around the corner with one hand, gripping Charlotte’s elbow with the other. “Where precisely were you planning to go, Cousin Charlie? Little Jessup? France? You do know you could have booked passage to India and lived like a ranee for a year if Peachtree had fallen for your scheme.”

“Deb said the paintings at the house were minor works.”

“Ah. Deb. I should have known she had a hand in this. Charlie, you continue to disappoint me. What may be minor to Deb is still very major, I do assure you.” He helped Charlotte into the carriage with unnecessary force.

“Then why do you keep such valuable things at Jane Street?” Charlotte knew she was being perverse. She’d never get Sir Michael to justify her theft.

“Because, my dear, until I met you and your sister, I never had any reason to suspect my mistresses of criminal behavior. Except in the bedchamber,” he added wickedly, “at my direction. I spend a great deal of time at Jane Street. Why should I not surround myself with beautiful things?”

“I—I’m sorry. But I wanted to go home! I don’t belong on Jane Street.”

“You certainly don’t, wearing that hideous hat and the abomination under it. I’m going to burn those caps.”

Charlotte checked under the brim of her hat and felt the comfort of her very own lace. “You cannot! I made them myself!”

“Well, you won’t be making any more. You won’t have the time. Or the hands.”

Charlotte had a truly terrible feeling. The Bible encouraged selling thieves into slavery, but the Qur’an advocated cutting off the hands of thieves. She had learned that at the Little Hyssop Women’s Guild when that missionary came to talk. Either way, it would be no picnic for Charlotte. Surely Bay wouldn’t be so barbaric.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean, my dearest Charlie, I’m going to tie you to the bed until I tire of you and untie you.” He dipped a gloved fingertip into the indentation of her chin. “But I just don’t see that happening any time soon.”

Slavery, then. And it might even be somewhat pleasant.

Bay was beginning to seriously regret ever clapping eyes on Deborah Fallon. If he hadn’t fallen a bit in lust with her some eight or nine years ago, envying Harfield his luck in having such a delicious little neighbor to run off with, he might not be saddled with her sour sister. To think that he had almost convinced himself Charlotte was innocent. As soon as his back was turned, she’d made off with more of his property. His grandmama’s necklace was one thing, but his art—it soothed his soul. It was as necessary to him as breathing. It inspired him to see the perfect form of women, fleshy and dimpled, gilded with apricot and pearl. They were constant, caught in their prime, unchanging. Idealized women who didn’t lie or steal or betray. The original models may have been whores, but the artists who painted them had found their purity and humanity. In this life when women—and men, too—were so undependable, Bay liked keeping company with his pretty two-dimensional strangers.

He wondered if he should take everything down and crate it to save himself the bother of hunting Charlie down again. No. Why should he? This was his house, arranged for his benefit. It was not as if she would have the opportunity to leave the house in the immediate future. The knots were quite strong on the silk ropes.

His grandmother always said he should have chosen the navy instead of the army. She loved the ocean at their doorstep and preferred a naval uniform above all others. But when Bay had purchased his commission, it was with the intent to get face-to-face with the enemy and slice his throat. Or have his own throat sliced. He was so angry at the time, he hadn’t cared which. When one is twenty and brokenhearted, one thinks very foolishly, if one thinks at all.

He put his fingers in his ears as Charlie gave another bloodcurdling scream. He was very much afraid he’d have to gag her as well, or face the disapproval of his neighbors. The Marquess of Conover next door had not set up his mistress yet, however. There was still much to-ing and fro-ing with a swarm of staff and Conover’s occasional supervision. Bay was more concerned with Lady Christie on the other side, who fancied herself a bit of a godmother on the street. She might not take kindly to Bay trussing his mistress on the bed, naked and extremely unwilling. He’d also taken a page from Mr. Peachtree’s book and thrown her shoes out the window into the garden in the unlikely event she found a way to escape.

Ah, well. Charlie deserved the inconvenience. But he knew Mrs. Kelly was not absolutely on board with his method of bringing Charlie Fallon to heel, and poor little Irene was so shocked he’d given her the week off to see her mum. Bay would do for Charlie himself—wash her, brush her midnight hair, feed her Mrs. Kelly’s delicacies. He supposed he’d have to release her so she could use the chamber pot. He was a man of some compassion, after all. And fastidiousness.

When he was done with her, she’d not think to lift so much as one of his teaspoons from the dining room sideboard drawer. He checked his pocket watch. Just enough time to go home and bathe and dress for dinner. The spittle the little temptress hurled in his direction had dried on his lapel, but the fact that it was there at all irritated him. Perhaps she would be so hoarse when he came back, she couldn’t put that lovely mouth of hers to speech. He had other plans for it entirely, and they did not include listening to any more of her surprisingly creative epithets.

“I’m off, Mrs. Kelly,” he shouted down the basement stairs. “If you need some cotton batting for your ears, don’t hesitate to visit the shops again.”

Mrs. Kelly hurried up, wiping her hands in her spotless apron. “I do apologize again, Sir Michael. I had no idea Miss Fallon would be so duplicitous. To send me out for Grains of Paradise when ordinary peppercorns would do. I don’t know when I’ve been so deceived.”

“It’s not your fault. The Fallon sisters may look like angels but they are as devious as the devil himself. Pay no mind to her caterwauling. I shall return for dinner. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Well,
she
told me it was to be a romantic supper.” She ticked the items off her flour-dusted fingers. “There’s to be oysters. Asparagus. Stewed celery. Salmon en croute. Chicken in ginger sauce. Almond torte. Fresh figs in cream. Chocolate petit fours. Raspberry fool. And of course, champagne. A whole case of it from some vineyard I’ve never heard of.”

Bay grinned. The little witch had sent Mrs. Kelly out for foods commonly considered to be aphrodisiacs, and had planned for him to consume them all alone. Well, Charlie would be joining him tonight and reap the benefits of her recipes. Not that he would need any assistance in that area. When it came to Charlie Fallon, he was hard as marble, in body and in heart.

T
he angry tears had left dry salty tracks on her hot, flushed face. Not that she was warm. In fact, her body was covered in gooseflesh as she lay, each limb staked to a carved bedpost by lengths of white silken rope. Trust Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to have implements of torture so handy. At least he had not blindfolded her, and there was no need of a gag anymore. After all her useless shrieking, she could barely croak out her displeasure at what the fiend had done to her. The evil little clock-cupid on the nightstand told her his arrival was imminent, which was a very good thing. If he did not release her to relieve herself very soon, this day would progress from folly to festering Hell.

How she ever thought his punishment might be amusing was a complete mystery. She had been robbed of her clothes and her dignity. He had set her spinster’s cap on fire, causing the lingering malodorous scent in the bedchamber. He had opened the window to the little balcony to air the room and toss out her boots, and the gauzy lace was wafting in the twilight breeze. The air had also caused her nipples to peak into hard pink points. Her hair was a snarled mess from writhing in fury. Her mama would not know which was worse—her nudity or her dishevelment.

Yes, Mr. Peachtree was right. It was a very good thing her poor mama was dead. Mama had ambitions for both her girls. She was spared the knowledge that Deb did not get George to marry her after all and that Charlotte had somehow fallen even further into disgrace than her sister. Charlotte would consider herself lucky if she didn’t wet the bed.

The thud of the downstairs door brought a surge of unbalanced hope. When the demon entered the room a few long minutes later, Charlotte gave him a pathetic smile.

“Please,” she whispered. “Untie me. I need to use the chamber pot.”

The fiend’s dark eyebrow raised. “How am I to know your intentions are honorable? You may decide to bean me with it if I let you loose.”

Oh merciful heavens. Surely he wasn’t going to
watch
her. She shut her eyes to the frustrated tears that were welling up again.

“Oh, very well,” he relented. She felt her bonds on her wrists loosen and abstained from grabbing his head and squeezing. Punching him in his handsome straight nose. Giving him a scar to match his other cheek. Instead she rubbed the feeling back into her hands and arms as he stood over her, looking at though he wanted to fry her with thunderbolts.

“I’ll need your word that you’ll not kick me or try to run away.”

“I promise,” she croaked.

When her legs were free, she hobbled to the dressing room door. There must be something in there she could use as a weapon—a hanger, a footstool. She’d spent the afternoon contriving ever more violent imaginary attacks upon his person. Although she had always thought herself a pacifist, it was easy for her to see now why people committed murder. But if he had been angry with her before, he was apt to be even more so if she attacked him physically. It would have to be poison. Slow. Painful. Her mama said patience was a virtue, and Charlotte’s chance would come to bring Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to his knees.

She concluded her business and caught sight of herself in the standing mirror. Remarkably enough, there were no permanent signs that she had been held captive by a madman and come perilously close to losing her own mind as well. She simply looked well-tumbled. She sponged her face and body quickly, for who knew when she would be free again? Lifting her chin and straightening her spine, she returned to the scene of his crime, holding her hands before her.

“See? No weapons of any kind.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Charlie. Some might say just looking at you like that is enough to make a man lose all his sense.” He pulled open a drawer and tossed her night rail at her. “See? I’ve relented already. Put it on. I had planned, you know, to keep you tied up and at my mercy for a week.”

“A week!” she squeaked, scrambling into the threadbare lawn. It wouldn’t afford much protection, having been washed so often it was practically sheer. If she could see the shadow of her nipples, then so could Bay. She clapped an arm across her chest.

“Yes. Consider the alternative. Death by hanging, and the ropes would not be silk, my dove. But I find I cannot do it.”

She looked down at her bare feet. It was too much to ask for her boots back. “Th-thank you.”

“Don’t thank me quite yet. I’ll come up with some alternative, but I find it’s difficult to think on an empty stomach. In a few minutes Mrs. Kelly is bringing the dinner you so thoughtfully planned.”

Charlotte realized she was starving. She’d been too nervous to eat much breakfast and had to watch Mr. Peachtree tuck into his lunch with one hand as he held his little gun on her with the other. He’d had difficulty cutting his meat, which only served him right. She heard the rattle of dishes as Mrs. Kelly climbed the stairs.

“Here, Mrs. Kelly, let me help you.” Bay sprinted from the room to take the heavy tray from the housekeeper. Charlotte snatched a brass candlestick from the mantel, concealed it under her voluminous nightgown and sat down at the cozy little table in the corner. Who knew when she could access enough poison to fell a man Bay’s size? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, her mama always said. Bay came back carrying a silver tray heaped with all the delicious things she had requested. Charlotte kept her lips pressed together so her drool would not escape.

Mrs. Kelly stood in the doorway, giving her an accusatory eye. “Sir Michael, I hope you don’t mind I served these courses all at once. A woman my age can’t be too careful on the stairs, you know. The desserts are downstairs chilling. Please ring when you’re ready.”

“I can go down and fetch it,” Charlotte said, her voice scratchy.

“Aye, and stab me with one of my own knives and run off, no doubt.”

“I’d never harm
you
,” Charlotte said truthfully.

Bay began to place morsels of food on a plate for her. As if she were still in the nursery, he cut everything into bite-size pieces with the one knife that had come on the tray. Charlotte hoped she would be allowed a fork, but she was hungry enough to eat with her fingers and lick them off to get every last smear and crumb.

“I was going to feed you as you lay tied on the bed.” He handed her a silver fork.

“I would have spit the food back at you.” Charlotte shoved an inch of asparagus in her mouth. Crisp, the very
taste
of green. Divine.

“I was rather afraid of that. I don’t know where you learned your manners.”

“My manners are perfectly unobjectionable!” Charlotte said through a mouthful of salmon and puff pastry. Or they would be if she were not trapped here. Her mama had been a stickler for propriety. She watched as Bay held a rough shell between his fingers and slipped an oyster into his mouth. His eyes half closed, he swirled the meat around his tongue, making a little sucking sound. Perhaps it was he who had the abominable manners. She closed her legs together tight to stop the betraying ache between them. She knew perfectly well what else Bay could do with that tongue. And rather hoped he would do it again.

Mrs. Kelly had outdone herself on this lovers’ supper. Each portion was small yet perfect—six succulent oysters each, one fillet of chicken, a tender salmon pie the size of her fist. Champagne fizzed in the flutes that had been wrapped in their starched napkins. Charlotte fingered the fabric. Should Bay destroy all her caps, she could fashion something out of the table linens.

The food was so delectable there was little opportunity for conversation. Bay reveled in each bite, pausing only to give her looks that were steeped in sin. When their plates were empty, he stacked the dishes on the tray. “I’ll fetch the dessert. You won’t do anything stupid, will you?”

Charlotte brushed against the cold candlestick that was lodged against one thigh. “Of course not,” she said, as scornfully as possible. Let him think he had won her over with a hot meal and a few sultry gazes, not to mention the hours she’d spent lashed to the masts of the bed.

As soon as he left, she stationed herself behind the door, testing the weight of the weapon. Charlotte would need two hands for the job. She didn’t plan to kill him, just whack him a bit to make him insensible so she could dress and escape. Then she’d have to make a detour into the back garden for her footwear. It was inconveniently dark now, but she supposed if she had to, she could run through the streets of London barefoot.

She racked her brain thinking of whom she might turn to in her hour of need. George, perhaps. True, he was very married with several children, but it was indirectly his fault that she was in Jane Street to begin with. If he hadn’t ruined Deborah, she wouldn’t have chosen a career as a courtesan and dragged Charlotte along with her.

She could never go to Robert.

Whistling! Bay was
whistling
as he came up the stairs. How very considerate of him to give her sufficient warning. She gripped the candlestick over her head. In a second it would come down on his.

“Charlie? How did you know my favorite—”

With a ferocious cry, she struck out. She would have been more accurate if only she had kept her eyes open, but she had ever had a distaste for blood and mayhem. She managed only a glancing blow on his shoulder, enough for the figs to bounce from their bowl and roll to the floor in a creamy puddle instead of Bay’s body. She found herself pressed up against the wall by man and silver tray, the scalloped edges of which dug into her stomach. “Ouch!”

“I can see,” said Bay, his face thunderous, “I was mistaken taking you at your word about refraining from stupidity. Let’s see now. Perpetration of fraud and entrapment, two instances of theft, and now attempted murder. I begin to think you have a low opinion of me, Charlie.”

“I wasn’t going to murder you, just knock you out,” Charlotte said sullenly. “It’s only what you deserve, keeping me a prisoner here and torturing me.”

“Torture?” His smile was wide and terrifying. “You haven’t begun to see torture yet. Did I tell you I was a guest of some French outlaws for a week? A very long week. It was most instructive.” With a vicious little shove, he pushed the tray against her, then brought it to the table. He popped a petit four into his mouth and chewed.

Charlotte stayed rooted to the floor, knowing if she tried to run he’d be on her in a minute. She realized she still clutched the candlestick in both hands. Bay was so confident of her clumsiness he hadn’t even bothered to take it away from her. Lifting her chin, she glided across the floor to put it back on the mantel, lessening the effect a bit when she squelched a fig under her left foot.

“I want to be arrested,” she announced. “Newgate will be a haven of respectability compared to Jane Street. Keeping company with the lowest criminals for a lifetime is preferable to spending one more day with you.”

“You wound me.” He was eating a slice of almond torte now, licking his fingers. “Care for some dessert? Mrs. Kelly really is a treasure.”

“I want nothing from you but my freedom!” she cried. “You are inhuman! I assure you I am completely innocent of conspiring with Deborah. And she won’t give tuppence to get me out of here. She’s got what she wants now. I doubt she even remembers she has a sister.”

“Now, Charlie, you do yourself a disservice. I’ve only known you two days and I could never forget you. Take off that horrible nightgown.”

“P-pardon?”

“Don’t play deaf. Although I wouldn’t mind dumb. No man wants a shrew for a mistress. The nightgown, if you please.”

With great reluctance, Charlotte pulled it over her head and handed it to Bay. He balled it up and threw it out the window into the garden, where it could have a late-night assignation with her boots. At least he hadn’t burned it. The room was only now beginning to smell fresh. She shivered again to be exposed to him so blatantly. She had never been naked with a man before, not even Robert.

“Lie down on the bed, Charlie. I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie you up again.” The man had the effrontery to look regretful.

Charlotte bit her lip. “Please don’t. I’ll be good.”

“I have no doubt of that. You are amongst the best I’ve ever had.” He gave her a smug smile.
Beast
. Comparing her to other women. Hundreds of them probably, scattered throughout Europe. Everything was about sex to him. Just because he was so freakishly perfect and proficient—well, she would
not
succumb to his wiles, tonight or any other night. She would lie like a stick or a stone, completely insensate to his touch. She spread herself out on the white sheets like a pagan sacrifice, closing her eyes as he pulled each insidious knot tight.

She would not look at him. She would not speak to him. She would not—

“Oh!” Something cool plopped onto her stomach. If her breasts had not been so ridiculously large she could see what he had done.

“I’m a fool for you, Charlie,” he said, his voice deliciously low. He bent over and began to lick the raspberries and whipped cream from her belly. She tried to lie still—she did, really, but when the tip of his tongue circled her navel, then dipped in, she jumped. Apparently finished with her stomach, he scooped more from the bowl and rubbed a dollop of pink on one nipple, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

“This is outrageous! This is wrong!”

“I quite agree. I’m missing something.” He decorated the other breast as well, heaping a mound of raspberry-streaked cream on her aureole. Charlotte knew her nipples were stiff with cold and decadence. Bay then proceeded to warm her up, suckling the sweet mixture from her bosom as one sticky finger traced a lazy curve down her stomach to her curls. When she realized where he was going to put the raspberry fool next, her mouth opened in protest. Surely he would not do something so scandalous.

But he did. The wicked gleam in his eye matched the gleaming silver spoon as he dripped the tingly mixture between her legs. She gasped from the chill and knowledge of what would soon follow. Futile tugging on her bonds only resulted in his earthy chuckle.

“Better. Much better. Pink on pink. Lie still. If you can.”