Mistress By Mistake (4 page)

“Hmm. Rubies and diamonds, you say? Worth a pretty penny.”

“Quite. A piece like this doesn’t come along every day. Canvass reputable jewelers, and disreputable ones as well. I don’t care what happens to the Bannisters, but I want the necklace back.”

Mulgrew puffed up. “See here, I don’t do murder. Got a young family, I do. But if it’s murder you want—”

Bay longed to bang his head against his desk. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Mulgrew,” he said icily. “I had understood you were very good in the retrieval business, returning missing persons to those who mislaid them. I most assuredly do
not
want you to come back with Arthur Bannister and his wife cuffed to your wrists.”

The man beamed. “Ah. Lord Egremont’s wayward daughter. One of my most difficult cases. A regular she-devil, she was. But I am,” he interjected hastily, “very discreet. I’ll not breathe a word of this business with your ex-mistress, I swear. Doesn’t do to have the world know you couldn’t hold on to your woman. To be thrown off for a bit of sparkle, why, that’s just sad.”

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.

S
he 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.”

Charlotte yanked her fichu to her chin. “Never! You’ll not see or touch my body again, sir. Unless I am dead and you are assisting the undertaker.”

“A most unpleasant task. Some men might flinch. But I have been at war, Miss Fallon. I have seen my share of dead bodies. I allow as how it would be a shame to kill you in order to look my fill at your womanly form, but I’ve killed as well.”

Charlotte spluttered. “First you threaten me with jail, and now murder if I don’t do your bidding? You are a fiend!”

“This from a woman who uses her teeth and hairbrush in such unseemly, some might even say violent, fashion. You are a passionate woman, in bed or out, Charlotte, despite your futile attempts to appear otherwise.”

“I have not given you leave to use my Christian name,” Charlotte said, digging her nails into the padded arms of her chair.

“Come. You gave me leave to use your body last night and this morning. We have been intimate. We will be intimate again. Call me Bay, and I’ll call you Charlotte. Although Charlotte is dreadfully dull.” His face lit. “Why,
you
are the Charlie Deb was always going on about! The little minx. She used you to make men jealous, you know. All those girlhood adventures she’d regale us poor fools with. We thought you were some friend of Harfield’s.”

George. Viscount Harfield. Their childhood neighbor and Deb’s seducer. To be fair, Deb had probably seduced him. She had been young and naive enough to hope for marriage. George quickly came to his senses once his father promised destitution and ruin, but he had kept Deb comfortably until he married six years ago. If Deb had a heart to break, Harfield had probably broken it. Since then Deb had gone through men, each richer and more influential than the last. Charlotte had never heard of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, but he must have something besides his handsome face to have intrigued her sister.

“Charrrlie.” Sir Michael—well, she supposed she’d have to think of him as Bay—rolled her name around in his mouth like a fine wine. “I like it.”

Charlotte huffed. She was getting nowhere with him, losing ground every minute he sat sprawled on the sofa grinning at her. Everything she had planned all day to say was fragmented somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Snatches of “God-fearing woman” and “reasonable man” warred with each other, neither victorious. In the end, she kept her mouth shut, and opened it only to drink her sherry, which she desperately needed.

“Charlie, my dear, I thought we might set some ground rules for our association while we wait for your delinquent sister Deborah to return. Are you sure she made no mention of their exact destination?”

Charlotte shook her head. Silence was not golden.

“I am a reasonable man.” Charlotte choked on her sherry and stared at him. Was he a mind reader as well as a satyr? “I will never expect you to perform acts which you consider to be repugnant. But I do have my favorite vices and will encourage you to become accustomed to them.”

Charlotte’s ears were turning red, she knew it. The rest of her was following suit. While Sir Michael—Bay, blast him—laid out his preferences in the bedroom, she felt like a fireball of mortification, soon to explode into thousands of crimson flames. Perhaps it was time to faint. A fake faint this time, of course, which might deter him from this litany of perversion and pestilence. Mama had always advised a swoon when one heard things one did not care to listen to. Tradesmen’s entreaties, for example. Harfield’s father, the Earl of Trent, when he discovered his son had run off with Deborah. The vicar’s sermons afterward. Swooning was a useful feminine accomplishment, effective if used sparingly. But as Bay had done nothing yesterday to help her off the floor—had instead stared with lasciviousness at her exposed parts—Charlotte ruled out another drop to the carpet.

Bay waved his hand in the air. “Are you getting all this? You look a bit dazed. And red. I can repeat it all if you like.”

That was it. She was done for. If she had to listen to one more word, he
would
be consulting with the undertaker. Best just to get on with it until she figured out a way to disappear. Mama said sometimes one simply had to close one’s eyes and do unpleasant things in life. Charlotte suspected she was talking about the marriage act, but it was not as though she was saving herself for marriage.

“Very well. Let’s go upstairs now and do it all.”

Bay had nearly admitted that he was playing a joke upon her, that he’d engaged the services of a private detective, that she was welcome to return to Little Glossup or wherever she lived, when she tore the ugly little cap from her head and flung it in a corner. She lifted her plump white arms and pulled out the pins, and cascades of black curls helped cover her ugly dress. That was it. He was done for. He was now tangled in the sheets, panting like a madman. Who knew such crude talk could stir this little gray governess to the heights of decadent sensuality? He’d never been able to say no to a woman, more was the pity, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to Charlie Fallon. He wasn’t sure he could sustain such dirty talk, but he was willing to make the sacrifice if it brought him more afternoons and evenings like this one.

She was exquisite. Now that he had seen her in daylight, he realized she was more rounded than her sister, her face softer. He had thought Deborah the fluffy kitten, but it was Charlie who was cushy, her alabaster flesh worthy of the Italian art he collected. He kept some minor works downstairs in this house, but the majority of his collection was in his town house a few long streets away. He was very fond of nudes, and he was very fond of Charlie Fallon. As long as she wasn’t speaking or throwing things at him.

He had given her little to complain of. He’d even done some of the naughty things he promised to do when she had turned that alarming shade of red. She looked like a well-satisfied woman now, her upturned blue eyes glazed, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. His hand remained on one full breast, his thumb stroking a berried nipple. If only she were wearing the ruby necklace, the picture would be perfect.

He suckled the nipple he’d readied between his fingers until she gave another groan. “I find I’m starving, Charlie. We’ll both need some nourishment if we are to do all the things on my list. I’m going to have Mrs. Kelly prepare us a tray.”

He got up and went into the dressing room. Parked in front of the fireplace was a copper tub, specially designed to hold two comfortably, three if he was in the mood. He pulled a black robe from the cupboard where he kept his spare clothes, and checked what had been Deborah’s. It was empty. She had left just the few gowns in the armoire in the other room. He was damned if he was going to go to the expense all over again of dressing his new mistress, but he truly was damned if he didn’t. Looking at Charlie in her gray gloom made his eyes hurt.