Mistress by Marriage

by Maggie Robinson

  Too bad Victorina was not in possession of a red nightgown, but the whispery cream silk was temptingly transparent. It had served its purpose, but something new would be necessary for tomorrow. Caroline would send Lizzie forth to borrow more courtesanal nightwear for the duration of Edward’s stay. It would be frivolous to order such things to hang permanently in her dressing room cupboard, and she knew the Jane Street girls would not mind contributing to the downfall of Baron Edward Christie. When Caroline was through with him, he would be contrition itself.

  If she was still alive, of course.

  Chapter 13

  There was nothing like a little good company to light her lonely life. A pity there were nothing but bats and spiders skittering about in the dark.

  —Saving Cecilia

  Caroline waited in the kitchen for Edward until every last crumb was gone from the plate. He must have found the garden absolutely fascinating, for she grew weary waiting for him. Maybe he was making friends with the cat. More likely, he was using his hand to relieve his masculine need that she had set out to inflame. If so, she would be safe from him in the bedroom, if not from herself. Putting their dishes in the scullery first, she climbed the stairs with her candle stub and crawled back into bed. She was nearly asleep when the door opened and Edward quietly returned to his spot on the carpet.

  After a decent interval, she rolled to the edge of the bed and peered down. Edward had removed his nightshirt but was half covered with a sheet, his broad shoulders gleaming in the slanting shaft of moonlight. His lips were parted, warm breaths rising to Caroline’s face, his lashes dark crescents above his chiseled cheekbones. She could throw one leg over the bed and step on him if she chose. But his breathing was even, and it would be a shame to rob him of sleep, no matter how irritating he was. She didn’t believe she was truly in danger, but it was gratifying to know Edward’s concern.

  The air was still. The room felt close, cloistered, especially with Edward’s long form radiating scorching heat. He must be quite naked beneath the sheet. Caroline settled back in the middle of her lonely bed and gazed up at the mirrored ceiling. Although the room was bathed in moonlight, there was nothing to be seen in the silvered glass save shifting shadows.

  When Caroline and Nicky were children, they’d done much of their exploring by moonlight, wandering far afield to catch glimpses of nature by night. In the winter when the blanket of snow reflected the January moon so brilliantly, they had even deigned to take their schoolbooks outside to see if they could read them. When Caroline recounted that tale to Andrew, he had been disbelieving. So they’d stepped out into the snow to test its dazzlement and read love poems to each other, then he had taken her atop and beneath fur blankets in the frost-covered garden. She had thought then it was the most remarkable, romantic night of her life. She’d felt nothing but his heat as she opened to him, tasting brandy on his tongue, shivering not from cold but desire.

  It was so long ago. She never let herself think of Andrew. That chapter of her life was not to be reread.

  She had forgiven herself for her stupidity, and nearly forgiven Andrew for his duplicity. Nicky’s journal had been most explicit. Andrew had suffered unimaginable torment from the time he was a child. It was no wonder he couldn’t comprehend right from wrong, why he used whatever was convenient to advance himself.

  When he came to her with the letters, he’d been almost apologetic as he attempted extortion. She had the feeling he would have preferred her body over the pounds he had requested, and she had been so miserable she would have given it. Almost had—until Edward walked in and saved her even as he condemned her.

  Caroline pushed the covers off. It was far too hot, and her brain was broiling with unpleasant thoughts. In a fit of pique she pulled Victorina’s nightgown off and tossed it to the floor. Not on Edward’s side, of course. She wouldn’t want him to smother in silk, although his light snoring was annoying. It had awakened her earlier and abandoned her to night devils.

  She was perfectly naked. No, not perfect. Her poitrine was opulente if she remembered her French correctly, but the rest of her was growing as well. With a rueful sigh, she stroked her belly, then allowed her fingers to dip lower. She was still as smooth as Edward required. For some odd reason she had remained so throughout their five-year separation. It would be so easy to wake Edward, but she was not ready to cede control to him just yet. Slipping her fingers within to stroke the plump fleshy bud, she held back her groan of satisfaction, pressing and circling above it as she had so very many nights alone. She knew what she needed, and knew who held the favored spot in her fantasy.

  It didn’t take her long. It never did. She waited for God to smite her or Edward to wake—either one would be disastrous, but the waves of blessed relief juddering through her body were almost worth it. Still greedy, she continued to touch herself until she was exhausted from her pleasure. Surely now she could fall asleep, boneless and sated. With a sigh, she pulled the sheet up and curved into the mattress.

  On the floor, Edward lay rigid. It seemed Caroline had just done the very thing he did for himself in the garden, in much less than half the time. Of course he’d had the blasted cat to contend with. He’d practically seen Harold sneering in the flower bed.

  Lord, but they were a pair of fools. Edward hoped Caroline would not ignore the crackling heat between them forever. He’d have to pressure Mulgrew for fast results. Sleeping on Caroline’s floor was torture of every kind—like the state of their marriage. Punching his pillow, Edward cursed and willed himself back to sleep. He had a busy day ahead and couldn’t afford to be a lovesick lad at his age.

  Things had improved for Edward, at least in terms of his physical comfort. The ubiquitous Cameron had found a camp bed for him, and it was set up near the threshold of Caroline’s bedroom door. No longer could she feel his warm breath or feel the waves of desire emanating from him throughout the night. He was at a safe, if dissatisfying, distance. They were scrupulously polite to each other as their days intersected and circled. Caroline had even stopped flirting, as it didn’t seem to be effective. Edward was determined to be valiant and chivalrous and too damned good.

  After several days stuck indoors, Caroline was going mad. Cameron was hovering as usual. He took his duties far too seriously, steadfast in Edward’s absence. She had tried without success to sic Lizzie on him as a distraction, but her maid was far too besotted with Garrett Marburn to bother flirting with Edward’s valet, no matter how handsome he was.

  Even Caroline, who was resistant to the allure of most men thanks to her unfortunate past, thought Cameron was a prime specimen, if a bit humorless. Nearly as tall as Edward, she could imagine him in a scarlet coat tramping through Europe with his musket shooting at the French without a blink. At present, he had a wicked little pistol strapped to his chest and a frown on his face. She had been arguing with him the past quarter hour trying to leave the house. There was a game of loo that afternoon at Victorina’s. There was always delicious Spanish wine, Caroline nearly always won, plus she needed to return her borrowed nightgowns and obtain more. Despite the fact that Edward didn’t seem to notice her dishabille, she had her Parker pride to contend with. Each night she looked ready to be ravished, not that Edward had laid a finger on her. Yet.

  “You can stand guard right outside the house,” Caroline suggested for the fourth time. “Or wait inside. I’m sure the girls won’t mind a bit.”

  Cameron colored. “’Tain’t proper. Baron Christie would have my hide if he thought I was hanging about with a house full of loose ladies. Beggin’ your pardon, Lady Christie. I know they’re your friends and all—the baron did explain—but he wants you to stay inside for now. His instructions were very clear.”

  “So I’m to be kept a prisoner in my own home?” Caroline flared. Really, this was going too far. Whatever amorphous threat had been uttered at a drunken party, surely she was safe on her own street. It wasn’t as if she could be snatched away without incident. After Pope’s assault
on Lizzie, she had helped train the girls in rudimentary self-defense skills, and each of them would be armed with hatpins, fingernails, and a judiciously placed knee at the very least.

  Cameron folded his arms, looking stalwart. “Sorry. My mind’s made up. You’re to stay put, my lady.”

  Caroline subdued her desire to fly into a frenzy and attack the man. He was a war hero, after all, and her hands would only wind up bruising against his broad chest. Edward and Cameron were well matched—both calm, controlled, and utterly pigheaded.

  “I need fresh air. I assume you’ll let me go into the garden?”

  “Only if I accompany you. I know about the doors in the garden walls, you see. You’ll lift the latch and be down the street in no time.”

  Hell and damnation. Cameron was no fool. He’d made a thorough reconnaissance of the situation. Each back garden was walled, but there were indeed doors on either side so the Janes could visit each other without stepping out their front doors. Caroline had first made the acquaintance of her old neighbor Charlotte Fallon after hearing her sobbing next door and had hurried through the wall to soothe her. Blast.

  “Oh, very well.” Insufferable man. Caroline tramped back upstairs and sat at her desk. She heard shuffling in the hallway and knew Cameron was right outside her bedroom door pacing the carpet. If she were clever, she could knot bedsheets and climb down the balcony, but that seemed like a great deal of trouble to go to in order to win a few pence and drink some red wine. She opened a blank notebook and stared at the blank page. Her muse had definitely deserted her. What with the alleged threat on her life, the constant monitoring, and Edward’s inconvenient, insidiously tempting presence, she could barely think straight. What she needed was a diversion or she thought she might start to throw things again.

  Just in the knick of time, Cameron tapped on the door and entered. “Lady Christie, Hazlett says you have a guest below. A Mrs. Bannister.”

  Caroline frowned. “I know no one with that name.”

  Instantly, Cameron produced the gun from its holster.

  “Oh, good grief! Put that away at once. It’s probably some poor soul collecting for charity.”

  Cameron shook his head. “Unlikely. A high flyer if I’m any judge. I caught a look at her from above before she went into the parlor. Hair black as night, big blue eyes, and a body that—well, never mind,” Cameron mumbled. “Hazlett says she’s come to ask you about her sister Charlie. What kind of a name is that for a woman?”

  Caroline grinned in understanding. “Ah. It must be the Divine Deborah. It’s all right, Cameron. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize the name. Mrs. Bannister is my friend Charlotte’s sister. She lived next-door, although I never met her.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I knew it!”

  Caroline couldn’t help herself. Cameron might tower over her, but she shook a fist in the direction of his somewhat crooked nose, his only apparent flaw. “Yes, she may have lived here once, but she’s a respectable married woman now. Don’t be such a prig. You’ve no idea the suffering some of the residents of Jane Street have gone through. Young women have very little opportunity for employment and are always at the mercy of predatory men. Sometimes selling their bodies is the only available choice open to them. It would behoove you to leave your judgment to God.”

  Chastened by her tart lecture, Cameron stepped back into the hallway, his shoulders drooping in a satisfactory manner. Caroline appraised her own shoulders in the mirror. She was wearing one of her new dresses, perfectly proper, more wine-colored than scarlet—quite plain really. She fastened an amethyst brooch on the bodice and added amethyst earbobs. She had been too dispirited the past few days to affix her usual sparkle to her person, but the prospect of an interview with the notorious Divine Deborah was reason enough to shine. Deborah’s sister Charlotte had disappeared from Jane Street, not entirely without warning. Charlotte had told Caroline she planned to leave, but had gone without saying good-bye. The whole house was shuttered and silent, a mystery Caroline itched to solve.

  “I’ll accompany you downstairs,” Cameron said, blocking her at the door. He had recovered his superior height and attitude.

  “You may wait in the hallway. I have nothing to fear from Mrs. Bannister.”

  “You don’t know that,” Cameron said stubbornly. “She could be in league with the men who have plotted against you.”

  Caroline sighed. Her good gossip opportunity was not to be ruined by Cameron.

  “Look,” she said, trying to make her tone as reasonable as possible, “Mrs. Bannister is the new daughter-in-law of an earl. I doubt she would be foolish enough to risk her rise in society for some petty revenge upon me. I’ve never even met her before.”

  “Then maybe she’s not who she says she is.”

  “You worry too much, but I suppose I should thank you. Please, Cameron. I’ll leave the doors open and you may station yourself right outside. I will not let Mrs. Bannister get the better of me, but if she attempts anything untoward, I’ll yell my bloody head off. Or maybe stab her with a letter opener. All right?”

  Cameron blushed again at her curse, but nodded in agreement. What kind of soldier had he made if a little vulgar language was a problem?

  She found the new Mrs. Bannister in the green downstairs parlor, her gloved hands holding a Sevres plate which she put down at once. Clearly the woman was examining its provenance. Just as clearly, she did not seem ashamed of her snooping. Instead she curtsied gracefully, raised her eyes, and put a lovely practiced smile on her face. Wearing a stunning gown of peacock blue, she was the sleekly polished image of her sister Charlotte—there was no doubt she was who she said she was.

  “Lady Christie, so kind of you to see me. I am Mrs. Arthur Bannister.”

  The words sounded like magic coming from her lips. Caroline knew a little about Arthur, and he was not magical at all. She extended two fingers. “Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Bannister. May I ring for tea?”

  “Thank you for the offer, but I won’t inconvenience you. Or my husband, Arthur. He is waiting outside in our carriage. We’ve just come back from our honeymoon, you see.”

  Deborah was the picture of delight over her new station. Caroline could not remember ever being so pleased to be married, although she must have been at one time. Edward had saved her from her cousins, and for that alone, he should be enshrined in some heroic pantheon. “My felicitations on your marriage. I understand from your sister that it was rather sudden.”

  “Yes, a whirlwind courtship. But I couldn’t say no to my Arthur. Charlotte was minding the house for me, but there is no one next door now, not even any staff. Would you happen to know what’s become of her?”

  “I do not. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  “Oh, dear.” Deborah fiddled with a loose coal-black curl. “I imagine she’s gone back to her silly little cottage in the country then.”

  Caroline thought Charlotte was far more suited to a silly country cottage than a Jane Street residence. Charlotte Fallon was definitely not mistress material. Deborah, on the other hand, despite her recent marriage was still in full courtesan mode—every gesture, every smile set on a well-worn course to charm. It was no wonder men fell at her feet, but Caroline was impervious. She could see the vulnerable woman beneath the glittering surface and felt a bit sorry for her. It must be so very tiring always being pretty and pleasant.

  “If you see Charlotte,” Caroline said, “tell her I have taken inspiration from her. My closet is positively exploding with red dresses and my husband is apoplectic.” Actually, that was not true. Edward seemed rather sanguine every time she entered the room in one of her red dresses. They were not having the desired effect at all.

  For the first time Deborah Bannister expressed a natural look—one of confusion—but nodded in agreement, her careful curls bouncing. “Of course. I shall write to her.” There was the slightest pause. “You have not, perhaps, heard any news of Sir Michael Bayard?”

  Car
oline knew this was not an idle question. Deborah had left her sister in her place as Sir Michael’s mistress when she ran off with Arthur Bannister. Poor Charlotte had not been able to hold out against Bayard’s masculine conceit and had been hopelessly in love the last time Caroline had spoken to her.

  “I’m afraid not. He’s not been seen on the street in some time. As you said, the house is closed and the servants gone.”

  “Well, I’m sure they both landed on their feet,” Deborah said, rising. “Thank you so much for your time, Lady Christie. I’m most sorry I didn’t make your acquaintance earlier.”

  Caroline thought if anyone had landed on their feet, it was Deborah Bannister, nee Fallon. Once one of London’s most sought-after mistresses, she had managed to hook a husband after a string of high-born lovers. Most Jane Street girls would never be so lucky, living out their old age rationing out the gifts of their youth. No wonder they were anxious to acquire one bauble after another to keep themselves warm in a future winter. Once their beauty faded, as it inevitably would, there was nothing left to fall back on but cold, hard cash.

  Caroline shook off her dismal thoughts as she saw Deborah Bannister to the door. She knew she couldn’t save every girl in the neighborhood—she could barely save herself. Although her writing had proved more lucrative than she had ever dreamed, she gave much of the compensation away. There was always some poor soul who needed it more than she did. After all, how many red dresses and Sevres dishes did she need? She had redecorated her house recently out of necessity. When Edward had placed her there, it looked very much like the wicked love nest it was supposed to be. The paintings alone were enough to make a whore blush. If Cameron had seen them, he’d probably have swooned. It had taken Caroline a few years, but room by room she had upgraded her surroundings. The only holdover from the previous tenant was the carved bed and the ceiling mirror, and it remained solely because the workmen feared the plaster would fall down upon their heads if they removed it.