Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

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.