Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

“‘ I am sending this token of my affection by special courier. I regret to say the jewels are on loan only-they belonged to my grandmother and should remain in my family should I ever find a woman more tempting than you are to marry. I tell you true I cannot imagine such a creature, for you inflame me beyond-’” He cleared his throat. “Erm, we’ll skip that part.”

“No,” Charlotte said, her lips twisting in a smile. “I’m fascinated by this letter. I would never dream you were so eloquent, Sir Michael. Do go on.”

He gave her a twisted smile back. “Very well. ‘ You inflame me beyond reason. I cannot wait to clasp the rubies and diamonds around your throat and watch as the candlelight reflects each facet on the marble whiteness of your body. For, my dearest Deborah, you shall need no other adornment than these borrowed jewels and the velvet of your own soft skin. It is my wish to fuck you until we are both quite exhausted, and then fuck you again. They say that sin deferred is sweeter sin, and so we shall discover for ourselves when I return to Jane Street. Do keep this necklace safe. Should you admire it, I will see if I cannot buy you some rubies of your own. Your most obedient servant, Bay.’”

Charlotte’s knees felt weak. Listening to his low rumble as he read his letter, she was reminded of throwing brandy on a well-banked fire. Heat and light sparked up in her blood. She closed her eyes, picturing a bloodred and bright white circlet around her neck, Bay’s hands everywhere else. She swallowed.

“Well, what do you think, Miss Fallon? Your sister does read, does she not? I saw her once with a novel in her lap, but perhaps it was for show.”

“She reads. We both do,” Charlotte said faintly.

“Was my intent clear? I don’t mean about the fucking part. I mean about the necklace.” He scanned the lines again, enunciating each syllable. “‘ On loan only…Remain in my family…Borrowed jewels…Some rubies of your own.’”

“You were an idiot to send them to her.” Charlotte collapsed on the dressing table bench, caught sight of herself in the mirror and suppressed the urge to jump out the bedroom window. She picked up her hairbrush instead, unplaiting her hair with her fingers.

“I quite agree. I imagine you think I’m a veritable beast as well, but you are my leverage. My bargaining chip. I’m sure your sister does not want you arrested.”

Charlotte yanked on her hair. “I doubt she’ll care. She cares nothing for anybody but herself. Certainly not poor Arthur. She’s flown to the Continent, you know. I have no idea where. Or when she’ll come back. With my luck, the packet has sunk and she and poor Arthur and your damned necklace are at the bottom of the English Channel.”

He came up behind her, his sardonic smile reflected in the mirror. “Well, that will alleviate the necessity for you to strangle her.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. He thought he was so clever. So witty. He took the hairbrush out of her hand and began smoothing through the tangles. She kept her face impassive as the bristles stroked her scalp with the perfect amount of pressure. Sweep after sweep. One hand slipped up the back of her neck, the pads of his fingertips gently tickling. His rhythm lulled her. She lost count of the number of times the brush glided through her hair, her lids dropping in relaxation. He would have made a fine ladies’ maid, if he hadn’t had such magnificent masculine equipage.

“You have beautiful hair.”

Charlotte made a face. “I’m going gray.” She winced as he tugged a silver strand out and wound it around his finger. “See? Gone.”

“And then I shall soon be bald.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “This isn’t right. Please don’t do this.”

He tossed the brush down with a clatter. “Fine.”

“I don’t mean brushing my hair. You cannot keep me hostage for my sister’s sins.”

His lips thinned. “How do I know they are not yours as well? The two of you no doubt colluded to trick me, steal from me, and make a fool of me. Deb is welcome to the money she took for services not rendered, but I want the necklace back. No, Miss Fallon, here you are, and here you will stay until we settle this. All cats are gray in the dark. Your duties will not be so very onerous.”

Charlotte grabbed the hairbrush and threw it at him. His reflexes were excellent. Instead of it braining him, he caught it easily with one hand and pitched it against the opposite wall. He might have been playing cricket. “You will not attempt to do me harm again, do you understand? You’ve done enough.”

Charlotte felt her fury bubble up. “I-I have not yet begun, sir! You are-you are inhuman! A fiend!”

“So I have been told,” he said with a threatening smile. He pulled a watch from his pocket. “I shall return here at four o’clock. I had planned, you know, to spend the day abed with you. Lap perfectly chilled champagne from your skin and retrieve berries from-wherever. But plans change. I think you’ll find me flexible.”

“I don’t care if you can bend like a sapling! You will not bed me, and will certainly not cover me in liquid and foodstuffs! I will not be here when you come back.”

“Off to Little Hyssop? It sounds like a very small village. Little, in fact.”

Damn her prideful tongue. She had told him where she lived. Charlotte had nowhere else to go and no money to get her there in any event. Deb had sent just enough money to come to London and Charlotte had been too stupid to ask for more yesterday in all the confusion. Charlotte turned to speak more cutting words, but instead watched Sir Michael pull his wrinkled shirt over his head.

She could charge him while he was temporarily blinded by linen and bludgeon him with a Cupid if she were quick. But his dark head popped out and her chance was lost. She really was going to kill Deborah when she saw her again, if she wasn’t imprisoned already for killing Sir Michael Xavier Bayard first.

Four o’clock. That gave her hours. It was clear she could not pawn Deb’s necklace, worthless as it was. Perhaps she could persuade the maid, Irene, or Mrs. Kelly to help her escape. There must be petty cash for the household stashed somewhere in a sugar jar. She would plead. She would beg. They must know what a wicked man their master was. And if he came to find her in Little Hyssop, she could shoot him with her papa’s old blunderbuss and afterward say he was an intruder, his big body prostrate at her feet. She smiled.

“You should do that more often.” Sir Michael spoke from the doorway, sinfully handsome even when dressed in clothes that had lain on the floor all night.

“What?”

“Smile. I was beginning to think you didn’t have teeth. Oops, I forgot. You did bite me, didn’t you? In several places.” He ran a long forefinger down the column of his throat.

Oh merciful heavens . She had bitten his tongue in anger, but the other bites, love bites when she’d nipped his delicious salty skin, were done under the influence of an altogether different emotion. She was going to Hell with Satan as her tour guide.

Bay rubbed his forehead in impatience. Mr. Mulgrew droned on, oblivious to the fact that Bay longed to leap across his desk and shake the man. He stabbed an ivory-handled letter opener into his palm instead.

“Yes or no?” he asked, interrupting, watching a drop of blood rise. He hadn’t intended such self-abuse. Charlotte Fallon was taking a toll on him. That is, her sister was. “Will you undertake the effort to find the Bannisters or shall I have to find someone else? I have a four o’clock appointment.”

The large man flushed, adding to the high color he already sported from what had to have been several pints at lunchtime. Bay was beginning to think he had been ill-advised to seek Mr. Mulgrew’s assistance, even if he had come highly recommended. After all, he’d heard wonderful things about Deborah, and look where that had led him-wrangling with a sodden Mr. Mulgrew, whose every breath bespoke middling-priced ale and fried fish.