She was so hungry she regretted turning away dinner. The house was small enough for her to smell it too, and each clink of cutlery and Bay’s groans of pleasure and lipsmacking had driven her over the edge. He had been so audible deliberately, she was sure, making her suffer for her prideful refusal to share a meal with him. When oh when would he leave so she could raid the kitchen?
He was a fiend. An archfiend. A malevolent incubus dressed as a benign baronet, infecting society with lust and sin. Infecting her, anyway. She had spent the last ten years driving lust and sin right away with the biggest stick she could find. It helped that her heart had been shriveled. And that Robert was lost to her forever.
Charlotte hung her robe up in the armoire and lifted her nightgown from the shelf. She glanced at her satchel in the corner. She supposed she ought to unpack whatever she had crammed into it before she caught the London stage. When she was frantic to rescue Deborah. Ha. Who was going to come to rescue her? To get her out from under the thumb and every other inch of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard?
Charlotte put her few belongings in Deb’s drawers. No, not Deb’s. Deb had ceded her role as mistress quite permanently, and somehow Charlotte had been persuaded to assume it, with a fervor that she found incomprehensible and embarrassing. She loathed the man who called himself Bay, as if he were a tropical turquoise body of water or a chestnut horse or the howl of a demented dog. He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions—if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment.
Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room. Tiptoeing down the carpeted stairs holding a candle, she stopped at the painting of a half-clad virgin fleeing from a roué who bore no little resemblance to the picture’s owner. She had seen that smile over her not long ago.
And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks. Not to Little Hyssop, but a completely foreign destination where she knew no one and no one knew her.
The pitfalls of her almost-midnight madness were immediately apparent. She would actually be stealing this time, and she could, she supposed, hang if she was caught. Bay didn’t seem to be the type of man who forgave and forgot—look at what he was putting her through with Deborah’s folly. If she suddenly appeared in some out-of-the-way country village, she might as well take out an advertisement in a newspaper. Strangers were always the gleeful target of gossip; she would not go unremarked. It had taken her years to worm her way into Little Hyssop’s good graces, and she didn’t have the patience now for the subterfuge. But the most troublesome aspect was if Deb contacted her—or even, miracle of miracles, returned the bloody necklace—she wouldn’t know it. She might be on the run for the next six months.
The candle wavered as she heaved a sigh. She would think better on a full stomach. But when she reached the top of the steps that led down to the kitchen, she nearly tumbled straight down when she heard the laughter. His laughter. A little rough, as though he was unaccustomed to doing such a thing. Light and shadow flickered in the stairwell.
And then Irene giggled, a perfectly pure tinkly sound.
Good Lord. Charlotte’s stomach flipped. He was having it on with the maid, who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Men were beasts, disgusting, diabolical dogs, and that was an insult to canines everywhere. When she heard Mrs. Kelly say, “That’s quite enough for one night, Sir Michael. You want to keep us awake all night to have your fun, don’t you? You’ll get another chance tomorrow to try your luck again,” she had heard enough. If Irene was young enough to be his niece at the very least, Mrs. Kelly could be his grandmother.
Clutching her candle with both fists, she flew down the stairs. Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Bay and his servants sat at the long pine table, the devil’s deck of cards scattered on its surface. Mrs. Kelly had a little pile of walnuts in front of her, and Irene and Bay had nothing. Charlotte stared at them stupidly.
“Care to join me, Charlie? These two want to go to bed and deny me my revenge.”
“Oh, go on with you, Sir Michael. Don’t be a poor sport. What can I do for you, Miss Fallon? I hope you’ve changed your mind about a meal. There’s some lovely chicken left, and cherry tart.” The housekeeper rose from the table and headed toward the larder.
Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. “No, no. I’m perfectly content, Mrs. Kelly. Don’t trouble yourself. I heard voices and thought there might be an intruder.” Her explanation sounded lame even to her own ears.
“Don’t you be worrying about the safety of Jane Street, Miss Fallon. Sir Michael will be here most nights to protect you. And the Jane Street gentlemen hire a night watchman. No one visits who doesn’t belong, if you get my meaning.”
Oh, she got it. If people couldn’t get in without an entrée, people couldn’t get out without notice, either. She was already in a prison cell, only with tasteful décor—except for the paintings.
Bay stood, rolling down his sleeves. “Well, if I have no takers, I’d best be off. I’ll see you ladies tomorrow. Late. I’m afraid Miss Fallon doesn’t care to dine with me, Mrs. Kelly, but I’ll probably rustle up a midnight snack. Good night.” He blew them all a kiss and let himself out the tradesmen’s door.
Mrs. Kelly’s lips were set in disapproval. “That man needs to eat proper after all he’s been through, Miss Fallon. He has a fool of a French chef at the other house. Muck and rubbish he cooks and calls it gourmet.” To Charlotte’s amusement, Mrs. Kelly pronounced the ‘t’ at the end of the word. It was clear she disliked the chef and his language.
“I might change my mind about his dining here, then,” Charlotte said, remembering the bit about knives. Mrs. Kelly looked sweet, but one never knew. “I’ll go upstairs now so you can go to bed.”
Mrs. Kelly clucked. “Oh, sit down, dearie. I may be old, but I’m not deaf. Your belly’s empty. Irene, poke at the fire a little. It gets damp down here at night, Miss Fallon, but Sir Michael likes to come down anyway. Reminds him of home.”
Charlotte stacked up the naughty cards. “You’ve know him since he was a boy?”
“Oh, no. Not me. But my sister cooked for his grandmother for years before she passed. My sister, not his grandmother, although she’s gone now, too. Irene, the milk jug if you please.”
“It’s terribly late,” Charlotte said, upset she was causing so much trouble. “Really, I know my way around a kitchen. I can get my own food.”
“Nonsense. Sir Michael has hired us to take care of you and so we shall. Sit.”
Charlotte sat and swallowed. “You don’t mind working here? Jane Street and its women are—are notorious.”
Mrs. Kelly slathered butter on a chunk of bread. “Everybody needs to get by, dearie. Sir Michael’s ladies have all been easy to do for, except your sister if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I can’t like it that Mr. Bannister came around.”
“How did he get by the night watchman?” Charlotte topped a slice of chicken with a sliver of cheese and chutney, folded it into the bread and chewed. Divine.
“Came in the daytime, he did. That’s the hole in their grand security scheme. As if men can control themselves and their tallywags until dark. Of course, most of the Janes respect the gentlemen who’ve set them up here and don’t dally unless that’s what their gentlemen
want them to do so they can watch. But your sister had other ideas.” Mrs. Kelly put the tart down on a linen napkin. “I suppose I can’t really blame her. She saw her chance to catch a husband. Lord knows, Sir Michael might never marry again, and he’s sure not to marry a whore. No offense.”
Bread stuck in Charlotte’s throat. “Bay is married?”
“Not anymore. The less said about that, the better.”
Damn. This was not the time for Mrs. Kelly to rediscover her discretion. But the housekeeper kept busy and quiet putting platters and bowls away as Charlotte ate. Mrs. Kelly had already sent Irene off to bed, but was yawning herself.
“Please let me do the washing up,” Charlotte said once she had drunk the last of the milk and eaten every morsel. “I live alone at home, you know.”
“Well, if you’re sure—”
“I am. And tell Irene not to worry about me in the morning. I don’t need chocolate in bed or anything. You should both sleep in.”
Mrs. Kelly snorted. “No chance of that. I’ve been rising before the cock crows all my life. But thank you, Miss Fallon. See you in the morning.”
Charlotte stood in the dim kitchen. So Bay had been married. She wondered how and when his wife had died. If she knew, she might be able to make more sense out of the man, whose quicksilver moods were unsettling. Tonight with the servants he had been impish and youthful, but she had experienced his wrath and cutting tongue firsthand. She stepped into the scullery to scrub her plate and rinse out the glass.
What on earth was she thinking? Tomorrow she was stealing the man’s paintings and running away.
Chapter 5
Mrs. Kelly had set forth to do some shopping. Charlotte had given her a list of her ‘favorite’ foods—things that would be a touch difficult or time-consuming to find, even in a metropolis as large as London. Mrs. Kelly’s eyes crinkled when Charlotte claimed she was anxious to have a special late dinner with Bay to make up for last night. Mrs. Kelly, the romantic fool, was an absolute puddle when it came to the baronet.
Irene was more difficult to get rid of. She had a host of duties to attend to. Charlotte didn’t expect a butler, but maintaining the house, even if it was small, was a lot for the two women. If she had stayed, she might have been tempted to pitch in. She gathered Deb had run them ragged.
Her mama would have been horrified to know how she lived in Little Hyssop. Even when her parents couldn’t pay their servants’ wages, they had plenty of them. Charlotte lived entirely alone within her garden gate. She swept her floors. She did her laundry. She cooked, preserved, pickled. She had been tempted a time or two to raid Deborah’s Mistress Museum upstairs when her funds were low, but had thus far refused to pawn any of the treasures. Fortunately, she did not have such scruples when it came to Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.
Irene was out with her own list and Charlotte was armed with one of Mrs. Kelly’s sharp knives. Her repacked valise was at her feet. Charlotte rolled the two paintings into it, fastened the latch, and looked around the hallway. A woman could feel at home here, she supposed. But she would be homeless for the indeterminate future. She’d get word to Deb somehow, if she could remember the name of the dead uncle’s estate in Kent. Something End. It began with a B, although it wasn’t Bannister. She wished she’d paid more attention when Deborah had lectured her.
Charlotte had done a very shameful thing packing, somehow worse than taking the paintings. Bay’s letters to Deborah were tucked in her case. They were the closest thing Charlotte would ever get to a romantic correspondence, and she was impressed how someone like the fiend had such an unfiendish turn with words. The bit about the rubies reflecting the light was quite lovely. It was all wasted on Deborah, of course, who didn’t have a romantic bone in her body.
Straightening her shoulders as she hefted the luggage, she was glad she’d been in too much of a hurry to pack much. The bag was light, and it gave her the perfect reason to send Irene off for necessities.
She knew exactly where to go. Her papa had kept the lines of communication open with a Mr. Peachtree, who at one time owned more of the Fallon objets d’art than the Fallons did. According to Papa, he was sharp but fair, and they had even become friends of a sort. Mr. Peachtree had an address she could recall at least, and she marched toward it.
Several hours later, Charlotte was sitting in her stocking feet in Mr. Peachtree’s office. There was a hole that exposed her left pinky toe, which was mortifying. He had locked her old boots in his safe, after telling her to remove them. At gun-point. Mr. Peachtree possessed a tiny silver pistol, but he assured her that size did not matter. The paintings were locked in the safe as well. He’d sniffed at Deb’s paste necklace but threw it in for good measure.
He had repeated his scolding five times now by Charlotte’s count. That he was a reputable businessman, that Sir Michael had a standing order to acquire Italian life studies, that he in fact had sold one of the paintings she brought to Sir Michael himself. That any dealer in London would know that Sir Michael was the owner of record and that she was a vicious little thief. That it was an excellent thing her parents had been dead these past ten years. That the only reason he had not called for Bow Street was the affection he felt for her papa all those years ago. How ashamed he would be to discover his daughter’s dishonesty, not to mention her lovely mama, who had tried to raise her daughters as ladies despite the family’s impecunity. One sister a whore, Mr. Peachtree had opined, the other selling that which did not even belong to her. Deborah, at least, sold only what was hers to sell. There were a few Bible verses tossed in just in case Charlotte didn’t fully understand his diatribe.
Bay came at last, resplendent in a deep brown coat and buff trousers. His topboots were blindingly polished. Charlotte would bet her walnuts there were no holes in his stockings.
“Good afternoon, Peachtree, Charlie.” Bay seemed unruffled, which frightened Charlotte to her core. Mr. Peachtree removed the key from his waistcoat pocket and walked to his safe. He presented Bay with the paintings, her boots, and the worthless necklace. Charlotte decided it was best just to say nothing until they were out of Mr. Peachtree’s earshot. For then he would know her to be a thief and a liar and a whore. Mr. Peachtree had not believed for one minute that her ‘cousin’ Bay had deputized her to sell the paintings.
Charlotte buttoned her boots with trembling hands. Bay’s civility was unnerving. She half thought he was going to get down on one knee and expedite the donning of her footwear. When she overheard him smoothly explain that his country cousin had misunderstood his intentions about the paintings, she didn’t know whether to be grateful or thoroughly alarmed.
Mr. Peachtree returned the silver pistol to his desk drawer. “Then I do apologize, Sir Michael. I was under the impression Miss Fallon had no living relatives save her sister. Her father never mentioned you, you see. And when she came here looking guilty as a priest peeking under a choirboy’s robe, I thought it best to inform you. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, she was. I’ve seen my share of crooks in this line of work as you can imagine. I know the signs.”
“You did the right thing, Peachtree. And I’m ever so grateful that the authorities weren’t called. Wouldn’t want to cause further family scandal. The Fallon sisters have always been a bit of a trial to us.”
Mr. Peachtree glared at her in triumph but was wise enough not to speak.
Bay adjusted his gloves. “Do keep an eye out for me, won’t you? I won’t rest until I’m in possession of another Maniero. That man knew his women, what? Come along, Cousin Charlie. It’s time for your medicine.”
Charlotte followed him out of the shop with a sinking heart. Bay flagged down his carriage as it made its way around the corner with one hand, gripping Charlotte’s elbow with the other. “Where precisely were you planning to go, Cousin Charlie? Little Jessup? France? You do know you could have booked passage to India and lived like a ranee for a year if Peachtree had fallen for your scheme.”
“D
eb said the paintings at the house were minor works.”
“Ah. Deb. I should have known she had a hand in this. Charlie, you continue to disappoint me. What may be minor to Deb is still very major, I do assure you.” He helped Charlotte into the carriage with unnecessary force.
“Then why do you keep such valuable things at Jane Street?” Charlotte knew she was being perverse. She’d never get Sir Michael to justify her theft.
“Because, my dear, until I met you and your sister, I never had any reason to suspect my mistresses of criminal behavior. Except in the bedchamber,” he added wickedly, “at my direction. I spend a great deal of time at Jane Street. Why should I not surround myself with beautiful things?”
“I—I’m sorry. But I wanted to go home! I don’t belong on Jane Street.”
“You certainly don’t, wearing that hideous hat and the abomination under it. I’m going to burn those caps.”
Charlotte checked under the brim of her hat and felt the comfort of her very own lace. “You cannot! I made them myself!”
“Well, you won’t be making any more. You won’t have the time. Or the hands.”
Charlotte had a truly terrible feeling. The Bible encouraged selling thieves into slavery, but the Qur’an advocated cutting off the hands of thieves. She had learned that at the Little Hyssop Women’s Guild when that missionary came to talk. Either way, it would be no picnic for Charlotte. Surely Bay wouldn’t be so barbaric.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, my dearest Charlie, I’m going to tie you to the bed until I tire of you and untie you.” He dipped a gloved fingertip into the indentation of her chin. “But I just don’t see that happening any time soon.”
Mistress By Mistake Page 5
