Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  “Impossible! I know for a fact—” Anne flushed and closed her lips. Charlotte knew then that Anne was hiding something. Whether Frazier’s fears were grounded or not, something was off.

  “He promised to write, he did,” Charlotte confided, batting her thickened eyelashes. “His letters are a perfect treat. How he does go on in the most romantic fashion. But then, I expect you know that.” Bay had probably written hundreds of letters to Anne over the years.

  Anne plucked at her skirt. “Perhaps he is just very busy.”

  Charlotte shook her head, fringe flying at the corner of her eye. Really, she wanted to rip Mrs. Kelly’s concoction right off her head. “His manservant, Mr. Frazier, came to me yesterday. It’s most unlike Bay to travel anywhere without him. It’s his opinion Bay has met with foul play.”

  Anne tittered. “How ridiculous. The man has just gone off on holiday. And,” Anne said, looking disdainfully at Charlotte, “before he left he told me he was quite committed to me. He intends to end your association, Miss Fallon. He has no need of a mistress any longer.”

  Charlotte’s heart fell. The dismissive words of Bay’s letter came back to haunt her. But if she accepted Anne’s version of events, she would have no reason to stay here. “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. He couldn’t be so cruel after all we’ve meant to each other.”

  “I watched him write the letter himself! He has broken with you completely and wants you to go back to Little—Little, oh, it’s some sort of vegetable.” Anne’s eyes glittered in triumph.

  If Anne was present when Bay wrote the letter, then he certainly was not in France. “But I never received a letter. I won’t leave until I read it from his own hand,” Charlotte said stubbornly.

  “What if you heard it from his own lips?”

  Oh dear. Surely Anne didn’t intend to drag Charlotte to Islington and interrupt Bay’s breakout.

  “I—I suppose.”

  “Wait right here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”

  Charlotte couldn’t give Anne the opportunity to warn those who were keeping Bay prisoner, for she was now fully convinced that’s exactly what the situation was. There was something entirely mad about Anne Whitley. She reached out a hand and Anne recoiled.

  “What do you mean to do?”

  “Why, send for Bay, of course! I do know where he is, actually. We’ve had a little interlude away from that interfering Frazier. And you. Bay will come here and tell you to go and leave us in peace.” She gave a ghastly smile and left Charlotte seated on her chair.

  Oh, but she had muffed her mission. She looked around the room wildly, hoping to find a spare pistol or brass candlestick. Disappointed, she set to praying that Anne’s messenger would arrive once Bay was freed, tripping over the subdued bodies of the four guards. Bay would come here and straighten all this out. There was nothing to do but continue her conversation with God as she waited for Anne to return.

  And when she did, Charlotte was dismayed to see that it was Anne who had discovered a spare pistol and had it pointing straight at her ill-clad head. Charlotte’s conversation with God took on more urgency.

  “We’ll just see which one of us Bay chooses,” Anne said, smug. “This might help him make up his mind a little faster.”

  Mrs. Kelly put the empty wine bottle down. Never had she enjoyed herself so much in any kitchen. An enormous spread of food covered the dinged table. Chairs were overturned, and three large men were trussed like chickens on a spit on the floor. The wine bottle had assisted one man into unconsciousness after he made an especially rude remark. The fourth man was currently being divested of his clothes upstairs so that Sir Michael would have something with which to cover his body when he returned home. There wasn’t time to search for his own things.

  Angus and Mr. Mulgrew had been mercilessly efficient in dispatching the brutes as they sat at the table like slavering wolves. Mrs. Kelly liked to think that her rabbit pie had a hand in bespelling them into letting down their guard. They had dutifully helped her bring in the food from the carriage, allowing Frazier to disappear upstairs in all the confusion. She had their full and undivided attention as she had unpacked the victuals from their containers, chatting artlessly as Frazier let Mr. Mulgrew in. When they both returned to the kitchen, each was armed and definitely dangerous. Before any of the villains could think to move, Mr. Mulgrew had shot one in the foot and asked who would like to be shot next. There had been a scuffle anyway, several more shots, and quiet at last. Angus had packed lengths of rope in the boxes, which he used to lash the fellows together in a bloody heap, their own neckerchiefs serving as makeshift gags. Mr. Mulgrew had gone to fetch a constable. Mrs. Kelly surveyed all the wasted food, but she was not about to try to save any of it. She hoped the men had got their fill, for it would be a long while before any of them had a decent home-cooked dinner again.

  She turned at the clunking and shuffling on the stairs. A pale Sir Michael came down, supported by Angus. He looked rather ridiculous in the shabby clothes that hung off him, and smelled worse, but she flew to him and gave him a kiss.

  “Ah, Mrs. Kelly. You are a sight for sore eyes.” One of the men growled from the floor, but stopped when she gave him a dark look. “I say, is that your famous apple pie?”

  “We havena time for you to eat, Major. The sooner we get out of this hellhole, the better.”

  “Pish posh, Angus. We’ve got to wait for the constable anyway. Some cheese to go with it, Sir Michael?”

  Mrs. Kelly watched as he forked a huge wedge into his mouth. “Heaven. These gentlemen were not very adept in the kitchen.”

  Bay polished off the plate and was about to ask for another when there was a knock at the kitchen door.

  “Blast. Mulgrew wouldn’t knock. It can’t be him. Hand me one of your guns, Frazier.”

  Bay positioned himself against the wall. “Mrs. Kelly, you answer it. Don’t open the door too wide—we don’t want our guest to see the trash on the floor.”

  Mrs. Kelly opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

  “Message from Lady Whitley for a Mr. Smith.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “I’m James. The second footman at Whitley House.”

  Bay leaped forward and dragged the young man in by his neckcloth. James’s white wig took a tumble, revealing soft yellow curls beneath.

  “I say!” James sputtered. “Unhand me!” He caught sight of the gun and fainted dead away.

  “All looks and no backbone,” Angus Frazier grumbled.

  Bay eased him down. “Tie him up, too. He looks like an innocent lamb, but one never knows.” He scooped up the letter that had fluttered to the floor and broke the seal. “It seems I am to be temporarily released and escorted by Mr. Smith and his cronies to Whitley House. We’ve just anticipated the orders by a few minutes.”

  He toed James with a borrowed cobbled boot. “Out like a light. I hope Anne’s carriage is waiting. I confess I’m rather anxious to see her again.”

  “You’re not going alone!”

  “Come now, Frazier. I don’t believe I’m in danger any longer. I doubt she’s enlisted the Whitley House staff in this farrago. You stay here to protect Mrs. Kelly. If any harm comes to her, I could never forgive myself. Not to mention I would waste away to nothing. My French chef cannot hold a candle to her in the kitchen. When Mulgrew returns, explain the situation.” Bay put the pistol into the pocket of the tattered jacket. Crime must not pay very well—there was a hole in the sole of each oversized boot as well.

  Bay didn’t want Anne arrested, even if she was the mastermind of this kidnapping scheme. If he could persuade her to begin her travels on the Continent early—as in immediately—he would consider himself satisfied. For all that they had meant to each other once upon a time, he was willing to forget the past few days. Although he couldn’t chalk up her actions to an odd form of grief for her detested husband, he supposed she did grieve—grieved for what had been between them so long ago, when they were young a
nd so besotted with each other. Well, Bay had been besotted anyway. But he was clearly over that now.

  Anne’s driver cast him a skeptical glance as he strode toward the carriage parked on the street. James had been foolish enough to come in a crested conveyance. Every neighbor would soon be talking of the doings in the house. The driver snapped to when he heard Bay’s orders delivered in his impeccable upper-crust accent and recognized him as the gentleman his mistress had dallied with over the years. Clothes here did not make the man.

  Frazier had told him Charlie had been sent to make sure Anne was kept away from the fracas. He hoped she was safely back on Jane Street by now. As much as he longed to make love to her one more time to erase the shameful memory of Anne, it was his duty to return her to her home in Little Dustup. She had been abused quite long enough.

  Now he’d have to go through the whole tedious process of finding a new mistress. Or perhaps he should settle down with a wife as Mr. Mulgrew suggested. The thought of some dewy-eyed virgin held no appeal. He was too old for a schoolroom miss. A virtuous widow then, someone young enough to bear him children and know her way around the bedchamber. Bay imagined that given time, he might work up some enthusiasm for the project. A fleeting thought of Charlie’s black hair tangling down her white back gave him pause, but he pushed it away.

  He hadn’t been to Whitley House since shortly after Anne’s husband died. He had resisted her entreaties then, and would have no hesitation after the business of the past few days. Bay was prepared to threaten her with arrest, even if he had no plans to prosecute. It would be folly of the first order to expose what she had put him through. He could imagine the knowing smirks every time he set foot in a ballroom or card-room if it was learned he’d been kept a naked captive by a woman for close to a week. The gentlemen would wonder at his objection, for Anne still cast her spell on society. The women would see him as weak, to be subdued so easily by one of their own. It would be pointless to mention the four toughs who had made his life a living hell lately.

  The carriage came to a neat stop and Bay hopped down, nearly tripping in the large boots. The rank scent of his borrowed clothes permeated his nostrils, but his own clothes had disappeared, probably sold off to buy a pint. Anne would be surprised to see him arrive in this condition, and without his guards. He was looking forward to seeing the shock on her face.

  But the shock was his once Denning announced him and shut the parlor doors. Charlie sat, pale but composed, on a blue wing chair as Anne held a gun neatly in her lap.

  Anne’s nose wrinkled, but the pistol did not waver. “Bay! What are you doing in those dreadful rags? And where are my employees?”

  “What is the meaning of this, Anne?” He hoped his voice did not display his own dread.

  “Why, I thought you’d be pleased to see me. And this little trollop. Tell her, Bay. She didn’t get the dratted letter, or so she says. Tell her what you told me. That you love me and that we’re together now.”

  Bay kept his face impassive, but casually felt for the comfort of Frazier’s gun in his pocket. He had put it there without thinking once the footman fainted, never believing it would be necessary to come to Anne armed.

  “Let her go home, Anne. Home to pack. I can’t believe she’s still lurking about Jane Street to begin with.” He watched as Charlie’s white face crumpled. There would be time later for apologies. He had to get her out of here as quickly as possible.

  “There! I told you so,” Anne said in triumph. “And I’ve changed my mind, Bay. I will marry you, and then our child will have a normal home.”

  “Child?” Charlie whispered. “You are enceinte?”

  “Not yet, but I will be, I assure you. Bay is everything a man should be, but then I suppose you know that.”

  “All very flattering, I’m sure,” Bay drawled. “But let the little whore go, sweetheart. She means nothing at all to me. Why, she’s just a poor imitation of you. The hair, the eyes—I’ve been a sad fool for you since I was a lad. Let’s go upstairs, love. I’m in sore need of a hot bath and a change of clothes. Your men seem to have misplaced mine.” He walked slowly toward Anne, smiling. “And put the pistol away, Anne. We don’t want anyone getting hurt, even inconsequential courtesans.”

  For a fleeting moment, Anne clung stubbornly to the gun. He fixed his face into what he hoped was lustful admiration. “Your little trick convinced me, my darling. You’ve brought me to my senses. All my senses. There’s never been another woman who could hold a candle to you. I cannot wait to have you in my arms again.”

  He didn’t turn when Charlie gave a strangled cry, didn’t hesitate as he heard her fleeing footsteps, didn’t start to breathe until Anne’s pistol joined the other in his pocket. “There now, that’s better.” He laid a finger on Anne’s cheek. “Let me just make sure the whore has enough money to leave. I won’t be but a moment.”

  Anne frowned. “Let Frazier handle that.”

  “Have a bath readied for me. I cannot come to your bed like this. I’ll be right back, I swear.”

  He kissed her then, hoping his lips and tongue could lie. Anne clung to him despite his filth, wasting moments better spent chasing after Charlie. At last he disengaged and walked calmly out of the room, as if he had all the time in the world. Once he shut the door, he plunged down the stairs and out into the street.

  There was no splash of red anywhere, just the dull gray of fashionable stone houses marching up the street. Blast. Could she have found a cab already? Though Jane Street was not all that far from Whitley House. She might be on foot. Bay bolted down the sidewalk, giving no thought to the image he presented, disreputable jacket flying behind him, pistols clunking into his hip. He’d better do something about that before he shot off his own foot. Pausing to stuff the guns into a planter filled with scarlet geraniums, he turned the corner and was rewarded by the sight of Charlie’s determined back.

  “Charlie!”

  Her tulle headdress had unwound. Batting it away, she continued her furious pace.

  “Charlie! Please stop!”

  She didn’t, of course, the stubborn minx. He hadn’t run like this since he was a boy, but he caught up to her, pulling her into his arms. Tears had coursed down her face, spoiling her makeup, but she was the loveliest thing he’d seen in days. He didn’t appreciate her fists, though, beating a tattoo on his chest.

  “Let go of me! Have you come to insult me further?”

  “Hush, love. Listen to me. Anne is quite mad. Surely you know that. I said what I did so she’d let you go.”

  Her hands stilled, then she pushed him backwards with all her might. Bay stumbled in his awkward boots and found himself ignominiously on his arse in the middle of a Mayfair sidewalk.

  “Since the first moment I laid eyes on you, my life has been nothing but one catastrophe after the other! I am going home! And nothing you can do or say can stop me!” The fringe wound around her head quivered in indignation.

  “Whatever you want, Charlie.” Bay made no move to get up. Exhaustion was catching up to him. A couple walking toward them crossed the street in haste. He and Charlie as currently attired made an unlikely pair to be in this part of town. If their public disagreement wasn’t over soon, a constable was sure to come and end it for them.

  “I sat there for hours. She kept smiling, pointing that gun at me.” Her voice shook.

  “I know, Charlie. She’s mad. I just said so. I’m sorry you got in the middle of my mess. I had no idea the lengths to which she’d go.”

  He watched in dismay as Charlie stepped forward to walk down the street. But then she pivoted.

  “Was Frazier right? Did she keep you a prisoner?”

  Bay sighed. “Does it matter? You’re free now. I’ll give you whatever you need to get back to Little Hyssop and more.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You do know the name of my village.”

  “Of course I know it. But it’s so much fun to tease you.”

  Charlie growled. Bay thought if she
had a parasol she might have bashed him on the head. He supposed he’d better get up. The sidewalk was meant for walking, not sitting, although truthfully his legs didn’t want to cooperate. He’d been inactive and useless for days, save when they let him up to relieve himself. The last time he had any range of motion at all, he’d managed to dislocate one of the thugs’ shoulders. There had been unpleasant consequences for him, but it had been worth it.

  “Look. Go straight to Jane Street. Tell Frazier I said to give you all you ask for.”

  Charlie snorted. “As if he’ll believe me. He doesn’t like me at all.”

  “He likes Anne less, I assure you. Tell him I’m dealing with her, and that I’ll be home tonight. And get him to send a new suit of clothes to Whitley House, would you?”

  Charlie gaped down at him. “You’re going back there? You’re as unhinged as she is!”

  “Very likely.” He pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. “I cannot apologize enough for what you’ve gone through. Everything, not only this business with Anne.” He looked up, hoping to see a softening in her countenance. He was disappointed. Charlotte Fallon was still a little Fury, and he wished he could kiss the contempt from her lips. “Go home, Charlie. God be with you always.”

  For a moment, Bay thought she would speak. Instead, she pulled the trailing fabric from her head. Bay watched it float down to the sidewalk, the paste pin twinking in its folds. She turned away, her spine stiff. He sat until her red-clad figure disappeared around a corner. Slowly pulling himself up, he picked up Charlie’s headwear and stuffed it into his pocket. He retraced his steps, stopping only to retrieve the weapons from the geraniums and layering them in tulle.

  Chapter 17

  The tomcat’s yowl awakened her. Soon he was joined by the female’s grating song. It was still fully dark, damp and grim with the torrents of rain that had fallen for days. The weather had matched Charlotte’s mood perfectly. Since her return home, she had been unable to appreciate her snug little cottage or the sudden profusion of flowers and vegetables in her garden. Instead she saw bare whitewashed walls and a tangle of weeds that would have to wait until the sun shone. If it ever did. Perhaps Deb had left some paintings upstairs with which she could beautify her humble house. No nudes, of course, although absolutely anything could be in the crates that Deb had shipped to her over the years. Charlotte should sit down and write to her, offer to send everything off to Arthur’s estate in Kent. Bard’s End. She knew that now.