Mistress By Mistake (9 page)

“As if I could stop you.”

“—but that woman is not nice. Oh, she may have been when she was a girl and you married her. But look how she’s treated you over the years, blowing hot and cold. Using you to punish her husband. Why, the man practically killed you once! And still, you went back every time she lifted her little finger.”

“I loved her,” Bay said simply. “She was my wife, no matter what the legalities were.”

“Och, you loved what she did to your pecker. You were just a boy. What did you know about love? And then when you stared down death at every turn, it’s no wonder you sought some comfort. But you’ve a fine life now, and a pretty new mistress from what I hear, though Mrs. Kelly says this one’s a bit of a thief. You really do need a wife, sir. Someone to save you from designing women.” Frazier paused to take a deep breath, but Bay had a feeling he was not done. “You’re a smart lad. A good catch. You served your country well. The old scandal has died down by now. If you spent more time at parties and such and less time on Jane Street, I imagine you could catch yourself a wife by Christmas.”

“I am touched by your confidence, Frazier. And who might this paragon be?”

His servant gave him a cheeky grin. “A blonde. With big brown eyes.”

C
harlotte sat in the late morning sun, Bay’s letters in her lap. He had not come to her last night, even though she had put on one of Deb’s provocative dresses and waited with a saucy, mistressy expression on her face. His valet, Frazier, a short red rooster of a man, had delivered Bay’s regrets in person, keeping his flinty gray eyes firmly on her face and not her bosom. He seemed to be checking her out anyway, then disappeared down to the kitchen to visit with Mrs. Kelly. By the time he was done, he’d know all about her ill-fated scheme to flee Jane Street. And how very wicked his employer was to tie her up and ravish her with raspberry fool.

Charlotte felt an unfamiliar ache of desire. She knew she should not like this captivity, but it was growing on her. Just like a pimple on her arse, it was inflamed and uncomfortable, yet she could not remove it.

So she had decided to torture herself further by reading Bay’s love letters to Deb. Well, they were not exactly love letters, more like lust letters. There were twelve of them, two for each week he’d spent away. She was saving the ruby necklace one for last, like the last sugared rose on a chocolate gâteau.

She had arranged the letters in the order that they were written. Bay seemed methodical in dating each missive, his handwriting bold yet legible. She settled back on the iron garden bench and unfolded the paper, trying to block out the sound beyond the brick wall. A new garden was being put in next door, with workmen toting in almost full-grown trees and flowering bushes. Someone was spending a pretty penny to make the garden look as though it had been established for years. She had observed the activity from her balcony earlier, watching in appalled fascination as one of the laborers removed his shirt to reveal a large black cross tattooed on his brown shoulder. He made a total of two gentlemen she had seen shirtless in her whole life, and she’d only woken up on Jane Street for four mornings. Who knew what she’d see—and do—next? She blushed at her own daring and began to read.

Charlotte wiped the tear from her cheek. Deb did not deserve this letter. Here was Bay at his poetic and practical best. She tucked the letter into the pocket of her gray dress. As a concession to the absent Bay, she had left her cap in the drawer. Her hair, still scented with his lime soap, fell down her back like a wanton’s. She picked up the next letter. It was shorter, but still managed to convey Bay’s desire through his worry.

And Deborah had taken that negligee with her. Arthur Bannister was probably lifting its hem right now in some French coaching inn. For some reason that thought made her cry even harder. She bound all the letters up with a blue ribbon and shoved them into her pocket so as not to smudge the ink. She was bawling rather noisily now, oblivious to the sweating, swearing men next door.

Charlotte was not much of a crier. Even when Robert abandoned her, she had steadfastly refused to join her mama in wailing and woe-ing. The next month her parents were dead, and she allowed herself a few discreet tears in the churchyard. Deborah, hanging off Harfield’s arm and looking perfectly beautiful in new mourning clothes paid for with Harfield’s reinstated allowance, was making enough fuss for both of them. There were very few people to see or hear her—the Fallon family had fallen as low as one could go without actually being convicted felons. The people of Bexington were happy to see the back of them all. Harfield’s father, the Earl of Trent, had purchased their house for a song and then flattened it, not that Charlotte would ever go back there.

And now here she was, living on the most notorious street in London, falling in love with a man who wanted her sister, a man who would send her back to her temporary cats as soon as he got his hands on his necklace. Charlotte sobbed and sniveled into her hands.

“My goodness. Whatever is the matter, my dear?”

Charlotte gulped, then quickly wiped her nose. The wooden door in the wall was open, not the side where the crew was hard at work, but the other. An elegantly dressed woman stood in the doorway, a basket with cuttings on her arm. She wore a spotless white pinafore over a teal silk dress. Her dark red hair was twisted up with aquamarine combs that caught the sunlight, and her gray eyes were wide with concern.

“Oh! I do beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

“Nonsense. I hope you don’t mind that I am disturbing
you
. Angelique and Helena kept the door unlocked so we could visit on occasion. I’m afraid I didn’t have the opportunity to meet the other young woman who was here before you. I’ve been away for a few weeks. Sir Michael isn’t cruel, is he? I have ways of dealing with that sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh, no. No, he’s not cruel at all.” Only if you counted the way he had completely coerced her body to do his bidding so that she was a mindless puddle. Charlotte wiped her snot-covered hands on her skirt. “How do you do? I am Charlotte Fallon.”

“Ah. You must be the Divine Deborah’s sister. I never met her, but I did see her in passing. Now that I look at you, you are very like her, are you not? You might almost be twins.”

“I am the elder by four years.” Charlotte was finding this conversation terribly awkward. But really, this stranger was in the same boat as she was. Charlotte shoved her mortification in her other pocket.

“You have no idea who I am, do you, Miss Fallon?”

Charlotte tried to laugh. “You live on Jane Street, so I imagine I know part of your story.”

“Ah. There you would be wrong. I am the Baroness Christie, but please call me Caroline. My husband, Edward, is Baron Christie.”

“L-Lady Christie?”
And she had a living husband
?

“Quite. May I sit down on your bench? I’m afraid when I bent to pull up a few weeds I did something to my back.”

Charlotte knew her mouth was still hanging open. “Of course!” she said hastily, scooting to one end. Bay’s letters crackled in her pocket.

Caroline set her basket between them, the heavy scent of peonies wafting through the air. Charlotte fingered a warm silky dark pink petal. They were her favorite flower. The ones at her cottage must be in bloom too, only they were ivory. And drooping their heavy heads right now since she was not there to cut them.

Caroline rubbed the small of her back. “I’m most vexed with my gardener. A total case of while the cat’s away the mouse will play. The flower beds are in a shocking state without my supervision. It’s not as though the man has to take care of Christie Park, for heaven’s sake, just a tiny city patch.” She removed her gardening gloves. On her wedding ring finger were an enormous diamond set with smaller stones and a matching diamond wedding band. Charlotte tried very hard not to gape. “Anyway, a bit of history. My husband and I separated five years ago after an unfortunate misunderstanding. Unfortunate for me, at any rate. He purchased my accommodations without my consent, naturally. I have tried to make the best of things. Of course in the eyes of society I am quite ruined, but there’s no reason for me to waste my time or tears, although I can tell you I once did. What has upset you so much, Charlotte?”

“I—I don’t really know. I’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding, too. My sister, the infamous Divine Deborah, ran off to get married. She
is
married. She left me here to explain the situation to Sir Michael, but somehow things have gotten a trifle out of hand.”

“The old bait and switch. I once knew a pair of sisters—the Condon girls—who were forever doing that to their beaux. Men never knew which one of them they were kissing.”

“I assure you I never meant to even kiss him. I most certainly didn’t intend to take Deborah’s place in Sir Michael’s bed. It just—happened. I am—I was—a respectable woman. Mostly.”
But not lately
.

Caroline laughed. “Aren’t we all? If you need a friend, I’m right next door. I receive every Thursday afternoon. Most of the girls stop by if they are not busy with their gentlemen. You should come and meet your new neighbors.”

Charlotte felt her world tilt a little. The baroness was a most unconventional woman. She watched as Caroline rose from the bench with a wince. “It’s a hot brick in bed for me this afternoon. And
that
is all that’s been in my bed for five years except my cat Harold, in case you were wondering.”

Charlotte stuttered over her good-byes. There was a crash and a curse on the other side of the wall. “The Marquess of Conover,” Caroline whispered. “Known as the
Mad
Marquess. They say he lost his soul in the desert.”

“Does he have a tattoo?” Charlotte whispered back.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Thursday, then. Anytime between three and five. I look forward to seeing you.”

Dear Lord. She had just been invited to sip tea with Cyprians. Her mama would have fainted—gracefully—dead away.

B
ay was beginning to think his luck was finally running out. He stood in front of his shaving mirror, blotting up the blood that coursed under his chin to his bare throat. He was clumsy this morning—a sleepless night lubricated with a bottle of whisky accounted for the tremor in his hands. His black eyes looked even blacker than usual, surrounded as they were by darkened circles. He should have allowed Frazier to finish shaving him, but wasn’t in the mood for the lecture.

Nor had he been in the mood to see Charlie last night. His reluctant mistress was proof that he had somehow, somewhere gone far astray from the ideals he had when he was twenty.

At twenty, Bay had believed in love. That marriage was forever. That he would somehow avenge the death of his child.

But his life had gone on, loveless, childless. No matter the risks he took, he survived them. He’d had no thoughts of marriage or other children for years, just careless pleasure. Now he had a chance to change that. And he wouldn’t.

Not with Anne. She still stirred his blood, but he couldn’t give her what she needed.

Frazier rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Don’t bite my head off. Your Mr. Mulgrew is here, Major.”

“Bloody hell. I haven’t even had breakfast.” Not that he was remotely hungry.

“It’s noon, sir. Time to be thinking about lunch. Shall I stash him in your study and bring in a tray?”

“I suppose.” Bay pulled a clean shirt over his head, taking care for it not to touch his chin. He applied some sticking plaster, dispensed with a neckcloth, and shrugged into a dark blue jacket. Each step down the stairs rattled what was left of his brain.

Mr. Mulgrew was in his same tweed coat, a squashed hat on his lap. “Good afternoon, my lord. Sorry I was unable to come any earlier.”

“Thank God for that,” Bay murmured. He didn’t bother to correct the man again about his title.

“I expect your man told you I was by yesterday. Had a nice chat with the old Earl of Cranmore. He seems to think his son and the missus have gone to France.”

“Well, that would be the logical destination. You didn’t, I hope, say a word about the necklace?”

Mr. Mulgrew looked aggrieved. “I’m a professional, your lordship. Said I owed his son some money and wanted to repay it, kind of a wedding present, don’t you know. Seems that Arthur has a school chum with a château, or what’s left of it, in the Loire Valley. The Vicomte Bienville. Beans.”

“Pardon?”

“The friend. Known as Beans. You know these silly nicknames boys pick up in school. If my given name were Patrice I might prefer Beans, too. So I’m sending someone to Patty’s house in Vouvray with a message from Cranmore. And you, of course.”

Bay imagined Mr. Mulgrew had accepted a second fee from the Earl of Cranmore, but that didn’t matter. “When will you know anything?”

“Not for a day or three yet. I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a touch peaked this afternoon. Steady habits, sir, steady habits. A pint at lunch is fine, but you’ve got to watch out for overindulgence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Just then Frazier entered with a tray. Bay hoped the coffeepot would provide a cure for both his hangover and Mr. Mulgrew’s unsolicited advice. There was a thick beef and cheese sandwich on a plate. Bay’s French chef would never have assembled such a prosaic meal.

“Apologies, Major. Monsieur David has gone to get a tooth pulled. I hope this will do.”

Mr. Mulgrew looked at the sandwich with some respect. “I’ll leave you to your luncheon then. Good day, Lord Bayard.”

Bay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a bite. It would do. It would have to.

Charlotte had washed her face and hands, and was now lying on her bed, a cool cloth across her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. She had looked an absolute fright in the garden. What must Lady Christie have thought of her? Granted, the baroness was liberal in her thinking, but no one could excuse Charlotte’s shameful tangle of hair or her tear-stained face. Charlotte had braided and pinned up her hair, covering it with her usual cap. Bay must be tired of her already, as he hadn’t come last night or even early this morning. Why should she try to look alluring? She was an old maid and might as well face the facts. Just because the fiend had tapped into her heretofore hidden reservoirs of passion didn’t mean he was in the water doing the breaststroke with her. Men were as easily aroused by a naughty painting of a female as the female herself. Charlotte was just a living painting in Bay’s collection.

She had almost convinced herself of her utter worthlessness when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She flung the wet cloth from her face and sat up against the pillows, steepling her fingers on her lap. She knew she resembled a woman in prayer, and she was. She prayed he would send her back home and extricate himself from her heart. She could not afford another ten years of useless regrets.

Bay entered, minus the usual spring in his step. He was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed. He was ill! That’s why he hadn’t come to her last night. If she were home she would give him her special infusion of herbs from her garden. Perhaps that marquess next door had a few leaves she could snip. His garden seemed to have everything.

“Are you unwell, Bay?”

“Not you, too. I should have come out with a sack over my head.” Instead of sitting down on the bed with her, he went to one of the chairs at the fireplace. “Take off the stupid napkin, Charlie. I told you I won’t stand for it.”

His words were rude, but there was no fight to him today. Charlotte fiddled with the strings under her chin. “How was I to know when to expect you? Our original agreement was for every evening, but then you said you were coming last night and didn’t.”

Bay raised an eyebrow. “Missed me, did you?”

“Certainly not,” huffed Charlotte. “Mrs. Kelly was disappointed, that’s all. Dinner was most delicious.”

Bay stretched his long legs out in front of him. Although his face was careworn, he was dressed to sartorial perfection as usual. “I drank my dinner, I’m afraid. Had an unexpected encounter with a woman from my past.”

“Oh?” Charlotte pretended disinterest, but her heart kicked up a bit. She imagined there were a great many women in Bay’s past.

“You’ve had lovers, Charlie. What’s your past?”

“I’ve hardly had
lovers,
” Charlotte snapped. “You make it sound like I’m a concubine. And I can’t see why it should concern you. We hardly know each other.”

Bay stared at her and then threw his head back, laughing. She was pleased to see the melancholy wiped from his face, but did not want to be the butt of his joke. “What I mean to say is, we may know each other in the Biblical sense, but you know nothing about me and I know nothing about you, except you keep a series of mistresses. And you were in the army.”
And you were married and are surprisingly poetic.

“Exactly so. I thought I’d remedy that situation this afternoon. Say, ten questions apiece. You may ask me anything you like and I shall do the same.”

“How will I know you’ll answer honestly?”

He waggled a finger at her. “Come, come, Charlie. I am not the one here whose honesty is in question.”

“Up until I had the misfortune to meet you, my honesty was never in question.” Except the once, and she had paid for that lie a long time.

“I’ll begin. I quite thoroughly researched Deborah, you know. I do with all my mistresses. As you were thrust on me so precipitously without proper vetting, I must rectify that.”

“
You
were the one who was thrusting, as I recall,” Charlotte said tartly.

“Be that as it may. I was under a misapprehension, as you well know. Now then. Where shall I begin?”

“How about ‘When would you like to go home, Miss Fallon?’ The answer, in case you’re interested, is ‘Right this very minute.’”

“That brings your questions down to nine. There’s no point in talking to yourself, you know. You’ll never get anywhere.”

Charlotte aimed a little fringed pillow at him but missed. “How can you be so annoying?”

“Tsk-tsk. That’s eight left for you now. And the answer is, most people don’t find me annoying at all. My grandmother loved me.”

“She’s dead.”

“Ouch. You are cruel to remind me of my loss.” He looked sincerely upset. Charlotte longed to throw the Cupid-clock straight at his head next.

“How many men have you slept with, Charlotte?”

She bit her lip, hating to give him the satisfaction. “Two.”

His face betrayed nothing. “Your turn.”

“How many women have you slept with?” She didn’t really want to know, but it was the only thing she could think of. She already knew his middle name.

Bay made a pretense of counting on his fingers. After more than a minute passed, he grinned and her fury mounted. “Rather a lot. But a gentleman does not kiss and tell. I never keep more than one mistress at a time, if that is what’s worrying you. You’ll have no competition.”

Odious, insufferable man
. As if she cared what he did.

“Who was the woman from your past yesterday?”

“You’re out of turn, Charlie.” His voice was level, but she knew she hit a nerve.

“I’ll forfeit another question if you answer now.”

He had the oddest expression on his face. “My wife.”

Black spots danced the mazurka before Charlotte’s eyes. At least she was on a bed this time and wouldn’t hit her head on the floor again when she fainted.

He’d done a stupid thing telling her that way. He found a balled-up wet cloth and wiped her brow. Her eyelids fluttered. He could see each tiny blue vein against the parchment of her skin. She was like his own version of Snow White, minus the dwarfs, of course. Bay was not completely perverted, although he’d indulged in a ménage à trois ou quatre a time or two to try to drive Anne out of his mind. It hadn’t worked, but had been pleasant in its way. Seven dwarfs would be entirely out of the question, however.

He unbuttoned her bodice, watching the pulse leap erratically at her throat. Lord, he hoped she wouldn’t expire in his bed. It would do his reputation no good. And he would miss her.

She’d slept with two men. He assumed she had counted him in that number, although sleeping had little to do with the flames of the past four days. He wondered that they had not combusted, both of them just a shower of sparks scattering on the rumpled sheets, scorching tiny black holes in the linen.

She really was nothing like Deb, although even Deb had been nothing like the
idea
of Deb that circulated in the ton. The Divine Deborah had been with just four men as far as he knew. Five, probably, if one included gormless Arthur, who had made inroads with Deb while Bay was in Dorset. But an hour in Deb’s company made one feel as if one had been in her bed. She touched, flirted, teased. Befuddled, really. A man felt blessed that she had given him the time of day, and the exaggerations grew.

Charlotte did not have a coy bone in her body. She was a sharp-toothed spinster that someone had hurt. Bay did not want to add to that hurt, nor did he want to get rid of her quite yet. He was the worst sort of cad. He’d driven her to desperation and theft. But he’d make it up to her, and soon.

“Wake up, Charlie. Or I’ll take advantage of your unconsciousness.”

“Just like the first time, you fiend,” she mumbled.

Ah. There were her teeth. “Exactly. I’m going to sit you up now.” He pulled her up onto her pillows. She was as limp as a stuffed doll, still unnaturally pale.

“I didn’t mean to shock you.” He smoothed a wrinkle in her bodice and she slapped him away.

“Well, you did.” Her blue eyes were icy. “Deborah never, ever consents to sleep with married men. You tricked her and me. Bad enough I’m now fornicating, but you have made me an adulteress!”

“Let me explain.”

“What is there to say? Yesterday you spent the evening with
your wife
! I sat here like an idiot waiting for you. I’ll not be party to breaking some poor woman’s heart.”

Bay smiled. “I don’t think you need to worry about Anne. She can take care of herself.”

“What do you know? You’re a man! You’ve no notion how women are dependent on the occasional goodwill of their fathers and husbands. We cannot keep our own money, own property, vote. Even our children don’t belong to us. Oh my God. Do you have
children
?”

He gripped her hand hard. “Charlie. I misspoke. I am no longer married. In fact, I never
was
married. The ceremony was invalid, as the bride had another husband. We thought he was dead but he was not. She went back to him and I went to war.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip, processing what seemed even to him to be the plot of some gothic novel. Whitley Abbey with its gargoyles had served as the perfect setting for sin, seduction, and intrigue. Viscount Whitley had been the perfect villain. Absently Bay rubbed at the scar on his cheek. Most people took it for a war wound, but it was not.

“It was long ago. But Anne and I—we’ve kept in touch on occasion. Her husband died recently, and she—” He could not possibly repeat the reason Anne came to him. “She needs a friend.”

“Do you still love her?”

He stood up abruptly and went to the fireplace. “Is this one of your six questions?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

How to answer? A part of him would always love Anne. He had worshipped her, growing up not far from her family’s estate. Then she had made her brilliant marriage when she was just sixteen. She disappeared, becoming sought-after words to him in the gossip columns his grandmother read. ‘Society rejoices as Young Lady W—has returned to Town, having found rusticating at W—Abbey a bore. She and Lord W—were seen at the Somerset soiree Thursday evening.’ He finally had his chance when she returned home five years later, beautiful and tragic and lonely. He’d fought his grandmother tooth and nail for permission to marry before he came of age. If only he’d waited a few months, his life would have been far different.

“My answer would be complicated if I could give it, Charlie. I’m not sure I know it myself.”