Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

“ What? ” He strode across the floor in two steps and ripped it out of her hand. “No, not this bit of trumpery. The ruby and diamond collar. With a large pigeon’s blood ruby drop at the center.”

Charlotte bit her lip, reminding him of earlier. But the woman who had been so responsive-so hot beneath him-had disappeared behind a gray shroud. “I-I don’t know. She packed several jewel bags, but surely she wouldn’t take a family heir-loom.”

“Oh, wouldn’t she,” he said, grim. He began to pull open drawers. Empty, every one of them, save for one torn stocking, a packet of pins, a broken fan, and all the romantic letters he’d written to Deborah Fallon the past six weeks, ass that he was. “I’ll be damned. Where else could she have put it? It’s very valuable.”

“Perhaps she hid it. To keep it safe.” Charlotte was worrying the end of one of her braids. Unbidden, the image of it flowing down her back distracted him from his anger. Bay subdued the urge to grab a hairbrush and release all of that black silk.

Threaded with a bit of silver. Deborah Fallon wouldn’t allow such impudence to take root on her head. What a fool he had been this morning. Ass. Ass. Ass.

“If you wouldn’t mind delaying your departure, Miss Fallon, I’d appreciate your help finding my grandmother’s necklace.”

She looked frightened now. “What if it’s not here?” she whispered.

No one could possibly believe La Fallon could prefer Arthur Bannister over him even if gormless Arthur had inherited a moldy old estate in Kent. Deborah would never be satisfied with so little. Unless Deborah Fallon was going to supplement their income with the sale of practically priceless rubies.

But everything had its price.

Damn it . The little witch knew her sister had stolen it. She had probably packed it in the valise herself. They were in it together, fleecing him, scheming to switch places, making him a laughingstock. Charlotte had been accomplished in her ardor. Virtually acrobatic. She was as much a whore as her sister.

He loomed over her. “Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to stay until it’s found.”

Her succulent lips opened. He’d put them to good use later. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. It seems the position of my mistress is currently vacant. You’ll do in a pinch. Perhaps your sister will save you by returning my property. I’ll have you prosecuted for theft and fraud if she doesn’t.”

Bay watched her fall to the carpet. How trite. She was a good little actress, he’d give her that. But the Fallon sisters underestimated him if they thought they could get away with this charade. He’d been burned once and still bore the scars.

Charlotte stared at the ceiling. There were painted cherubs up there too, cavorting with something that looked very much like Satan in a white fur coat. She blinked and saw she had mistaken a cloud for the Prince of Darkness. She touched the back of her head and felt the lump forming. Mama had tried to teach her daughters the graceful art of fainting. Deborah had taken to the lessons like a duck to water, but Charlotte had discovered an actual blackout could not be choreographed. She had only ever fainted twice in her life and both times had cracked her skull.

She struggled to sit up. No, she was still mistaken. Satan was indeed here, minus the fur coat. In fact, Sir Michael Xavier Bayard was wearing nothing but a pair of buff trousers, his chest rather magnificent with a faint dusting of coppery hair. His arms were corded with muscles, his feet long and bootless, his smile terrifying. His eyes were as dark as the pit of Hell and trapped her in place. On the floor, on her sore bottom, with her old robe splayed open to reveal every inch of her legs and worse. She clutched the fabric shut. Too late. He’d seen it all before anyway. Those very legs had been wrapped around him in ecstasy not half an hour ago.

Oh. She was just as bad as Deborah. Worse. At least Deborah had some business sense before she entwined her limbs around a man. Sir Michael and the others had paid her a fortune over the years for the exclusive right to her body. Deb had once explained to an unwilling Charlotte that men didn’t value what was free. She insisted on an outrageous sum at the beginning of each relationship, a generous monthly allowance, and, of course, shelter, victuals, clothing, jewels, and anything else she was able to inveigle. Both upstairs rooms in Charlotte’s tiny cottage were crammed with the overflow of Deb’s gentlemen’s largesse. There were trunks full of clothes not a year out of season when they were stored, some of them never worn. Mother-of-pearl opera glasses, and Deb hated opera. Four full sets of bone china for twelve. A grotesque sterling silver epergne. Even a stuffed parrot, its brilliant feathers fading. If Charlotte sold every feather and bit of frippery, it would serve Deb right for landing her in such a pickle.

But apparently the money and assorted objets and even an offer of marriage had not been enough. Deb had taken this necklace that had Bayard so furious. Charlotte knew it. She might turn this house upside down, lift every cushion and carpet, but would find nothing. Deb did love her jewelry and had a keen eye. Enough to know the necklace she’d fobbed off on her sister yesterday was worthless paste. Charlotte was not at all surprised by yet more evidence of Deb’s perfidy.

But to be charitable, there might be some mistake about the missing jewels’ provenance. Maybe Deb thought the collar was an outright gift. Or packed it by mistake. Charlotte sighed. Most unlikely. Only a woman as hopeless as she would still be making excuses for her little sister.

The baronet was still fixing her with his gimlet gaze, as though he’d discovered a slug on the silk of his Persian rug. Charlotte stood up with as much dignity as she could muster.

“You cannot hold me against my will.”

He gave her an insolent smirk. “I don’t believe my company will be such a hardship. You enjoyed yourself earlier well enough, Miss Fallon.”

“Don’t flatter yourself! I was asleep the first time.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “And the second time?”

“I tried to tell you!” Charlotte snapped. “But you kissed me.” She felt herself flush. “And then I couldn’t speak for the obstruction of your tongue in my mouth. You were so fast-”

“Hardly what a protector wants to hear, my dear. A mistress should use the word fast very sparingly.”

“I am not your mistress, you insufferable man!” She fisted the worn velvet of her robe before she was tempted to hit him again and be charged with assault as well as thievery. “I am sorry my sister deceived you, but I assure you I had no part in the removal of the blasted necklace. I’ve never heard of it. Never seen it. I wouldn’t know it if I stepped on it.”

“You’d cut your pretty toes.” He shrugged his very broad, bronzed shoulders. “Well, no matter. Unless you want to find yourself in Newgate, you’ll fulfill your sister’s end of our bargain.”

“I am not my sister! I am not a courtesan-not a whore, Sir Michael. I am a respectable woman. A spinster. I live in a cottage in Little Hyssop. With cats.”

His look was mocking. Perhaps adding the part about the cats was unwise.

“Can you prove you are innocent?”

“Can you prove I am not?”

He walked over to the dresser. “Perhaps not. But I can prove your sister is a thief, or at best mistaken or illiterate.” He shuffled through the folded letters. “Ah, here it is. ‘ My dearest Deborah, blah blah blah’ I presume you don’t wish to hear the evidence of my misplaced devotion.”

Charlotte shivered and shook her head.