Mistress by Mistake

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