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.
“‘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.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord. My wife says I do go on.”
“Sir Michael will do. I’m a mere baronet, not a member of the aristocracy.”
“Indeed, indeed, your lordship” the man said, still fawning. “Ye haven’t given me much to go on. The Continent is a mighty big place.”
Bay well knew it. He’d tramped over half of it in the service of His Majesty until the Corsican upstart’s defeat. Civilian life suited him very well, and he would be thoroughly ecstatic to rid himself of the sisters Fallon and enjoy the rest of his life.
“Bannister planned to marry yesterday. They might even still be in town. Look at ships’ passenger lists. I don’t have to tell you your business.” Surely Deborah had not had the time to sell his grandmother’s necklace already. And she would probably like to wear it awhile, even to her wedding. Odd that Deborah had not invited Charlotte, even if it was a hole-and-corner affair. Bay picked up a graphite pencil and began to draw the necklace on a piece of stationery. If he’d had time, he could have rendered the necklace in paint on water-color paper upstairs. He was a fair artist, or had been before the art had been drummed out of him.
Mulgrew patted down the pockets of his tweed coat until he came upon his spectacles. Good lord. A private investigator who couldn’t see. Bay handed him the paper anyway and watched the man hold it up against his nose.
“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.
Chapter 3
She 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 radi
us 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.
Mistress By Mistake Page 3
