Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

Bay gritted his teeth. Sad didn’t begin to cover it. “Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Mulgrew.” He slid the banknotes across the mahogany. The man was almost as expensive as Deb had been. Bay hoped he got a better return on his investment this time. He looked at his watch.

“I’ll take the hint, Sir Michael,” Mulgrew said cheerfully, pocketing the money. He extended a chapped red paw. Bay shook it. “Good luck to us both, then, eh? Hope I find your old doxy and you find a new one. But there’s something to be said for marriage, you know. Kiddies. They settle a man.”

On that unwanted advice, Mr. Mulgrew shuffled out of Bay’s study, a burly bear who couldn’t possibly go undercover and remain undetected for a moment. Bay wondered what his procedures were, but they didn’t matter as long as the rubies got deposited in a safe. He went through a bit of correspondence, then ordered a bath, his second of this misbegotten day.

He supposed he was overly fastidious, but Bay had too often been walking dirt as a soldier. A hot bath, a close shave, and a bit of lime cologne made a man feel human again. As a considerate lover, he wanted to appeal to a woman’s sense of smell as well as all the others. Charlotte would have nothing to complain about when she moved down his body.

He laughed. He certainly didn’t intend to hold Charlotte Fallon to her sister’s contract, but it wouldn’t hurt for her to believe he did. Until he was certain she was innocent, he would torment her a bit. She was surprisingly passionate for a spinster with cats, and very beautiful, almost as beautiful as Deborah. Less polished to diamond-hard perfection, of course, but somehow more appealing for it. More real. Apart from the loss of the jewelry, Bay thought the sister switch would work out very nicely indeed.

Until he married again. Which he must do, if only to please Mr. Mulgrew.

She had brought two dresses to London with her, and worn another. One was gray, one was gray, and another was a bluish gray that did something nice for her eyes. She selected the latter. Irene looked faintly horrified as she helped her into it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear one of your sister’s gowns? They are ever so pretty.”

“Yes, and she took them with her.” Deb did in fact leave four dresses behind. One had a tear at the bodice as though someone had been impatient to get at what was underneath, two were cut scandalously low, and the fourth was much too dashing for four o’clock in the afternoon. And cherry red. She might as way hang a HARLOT sign around her neck and parade through Covent Garden. Charlotte had never had seven dresses at her disposal in her lifetime and wasn’t about to have her head turned now. Irene did something quite masterful with her hair and then Charlotte covered it with one of her starched spinster’s caps. She’d packed six of those. Irene looked crushed.

If Charlotte had not been in such a hurry to rush to her sister’s side, she would have brought her tatting with her. She longed to have something to do as she waited in the downstairs parlor for Sir Michael. She’d made enough lace to cover the altars of every parish church within a ten-mile radius of Little Hyssop, but she also quietly sold her best pieces to a London modiste that Deborah had recommended. Charlotte survived on the fashionable whims and trims of women in the ton. She wasn’t quite in competition with blind French nuns, but if she did say so herself, her work was very fine. Her hands were uncomfortably idle now, and a little shaky. The gilt clock over the mantel ticked inexorably toward twelve and four. Charlotte searched the drawer in the card table under the front window and found a worn deck of cards. She could play solitaire and watch traffic on the street. Get her wits battle-ready when Sir Michael stalked down the sidewalk like the predator he was.

She wouldn’t want to face him in a true battle. Deb had said he’d been in the army, and he still had a quiet fierceness about him that seemed quite deadly. He was tall, broad, and lean in all the right places, his chestnut hair still cropped close, his eyes so dark they seemed black. He was handsome without being a bit pretty and had the requisite saber scar on his cheek. She hadn’t noticed any other scars, since she was shamefully too busy having one orgasm after the next and her eyes were shut. It surprised her that he had to pay a woman for companionship.

She began to turn the cards up on the table. The king of hearts was winking at her, wearing his crown, a smile, and nothing else. Charlotte rifled through the deck. All the kings, queens, and knaves were entirely nude. With a cry of disgust, she swept the cards up and promptly shoved them back in the dark.

What could she expect from a house on Jane Street? Even buried in the country, she knew all about it. Deb had been over the moon to acquire a protector who owned a house at this fabled address. The crème de la crème of courtesans resided here in this short cul-de-sac-a dozen houses, a dozen women who were perfectly expensive and expensively perfect. To be a Jane Street mistress was an affirmation of one’s infinite worth. To be a Jane Street property owner was to be the envy of every man in the ton. Deeds passed only through death, extortionate fees, and occasional deceit. Charlotte wondered which way Sir Michael came upon his.

The dwelling itself was small and neat. There was a reception room and dining room on the ground floor, a smaller parlor, Deb’s bedroom and dressing room on the first floor, and three rooms above where Irene and Mrs. Kelly slept. Charlotte’s visit to the basement kitchen had been fruitless. Neither Irene nor Mrs. Kelly had any intention of helping her flee. They actually thought her quite mad to cast aspersions on Sir Michael’s character, and had nothing favorable at all to say about Deborah. Charlotte had gone out to the well-kept walled garden and kicked a tree.

So here she sat in the front window for all the world to see, or at least the fallen women of Jane Street and their keepers. The irony was not lost on one of the Fallen Fallon sisters. Deb might have embraced her reputation, but Charlotte had spent the past ten years hiding in Little Hyssop, far from her crime. Her parents’ untimely death had enabled her to start a new life, and now wretched Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, named for two saints but undoubtedly at Satan’s right hand, had the power to ruin her completely.

She saw him immediately as he rounded the corner. Jane Street was within walking distance of the finer clubs and households in London, handy for a man to slip away to when his cards were unfaithful or his wife boring, or vice versa. Charlotte had to give her sister some credit. At least she did not bed married men. Sir Michael was therefore unattached. It was a mystery how a man his age had avoided the Marriage Mart for so long.

Charlotte left the window and arranged herself on a chair in front of the empty fireplace. It was very comfortable. She imagined she could be cozy sitting in it in front of a roaring fire this winter, tatting or reading away. But if she was still here by then, she really, really would kill Deborah. It was almost June. She had her little garden to tend and the cats to feed. How long would it take Arthur to slink back and face the wrath of his father, the earl?

Bay did not raise the knocker but entered with his key. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to look uninterested as he entered the room. She’d have to practice later in the mirror to perfect her most off-putting expressions. Supercilious. Arrogant. Condescending. Insolent. She would match him, look for look.

“What the devil do you have on your head, woman?”

“Good afternoon to you too, Sir Michael,” she said primly.

“You look-you look ridiculous. Like an old tabby. How old are you, anyway?”

Charlotte selected ‘superior’ from her facial repertoire. “A gentleman never asks a lady her age.” She decided to ignore his snort when she called herself a lady. He certainly was no gentleman, either. “May I ring for tea?”

“I don’t want any bloody tea. Do you suppose I have any brandy left, or did Bannister drink it all?”

Charlotte felt her cheeks grow warm. Deb really did have a lot to answer for. “I know there is sherry.” She had drunk altogether too much of it yesterday, plus the wine at dinner. No wonder she let a stranger make love to her in the middle of the night. At Sir Michael’s nod, she went to the drinks cupboard and found the bottle and two glasses.

“You said your sister is younger. What does that make you? Thirty-five? Forty?”

Charlotte stopped midpour. “I’ll have you know I’m only thirty!” At his triumphant smirk, she knew he had deliberately provoked her into revealing the truth. She handed him his glass, slopping a bit onto his immaculate bottle-green sleeve. Oops.

He did not seem to notice. “I’m afraid no mistress of mine, no matter how long in the tooth, will be permitted to wear a dust rag upon her head. Kindly remove it.”

“I will not.” Charlotte had made the cap and its lace trim, and if she did say so herself, she’d done a creditable job.

“You will. And that dress. Fit for the dustbin along with the cap. Did Deborah leave you nothing to wear? Madame Duclos sent me an astronomical bill.” He crossed his leg and leaned back on the sofa, looking right at home. Damn the man.

She set the sherry down with a click on the piecrust table. “I will not wear clothes that a man other than any future husband I might obtain has paid for. I have some standards, despite my sister’s reputation.”

“Well then.” His dark brows knit, his lips pursed. “I also have standards, Miss Fallon. And I believe I have the perfect solution to our difference of opinion. You shall just have to go naked.”