Mistress by Mistake

is all that’s been in my bed for five years except my cat Harold, in case you were wondering.”

Charlotte stuttered over her good-byes. There was a crash and a curse on the other side of the wall. “The Marquess of Conover,” Caroline whispered. “Known as the Mad Marquess. They say he lost his soul in the desert.”

“Does he have a tattoo?” Charlotte whispered back.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Thursday, then. Anytime between three and five. I look forward to seeing you.”

Dear Lord. She had just been invited to sip tea with Cyprians. Her mama would have fainted-gracefully-dead away.

Chapter 10

Bay was beginning to think his luck was finally running out. He stood in front of his shaving mirror, blotting up the blood that coursed under his chin to his bare throat. He was clumsy this morning-a sleepless night lubricated with a bottle of whisky accounted for the tremor in his hands. His black eyes looked even blacker than usual, surrounded as they were by darkened circles. He should have allowed Frazier to finish shaving him, but wasn’t in the mood for the lecture.

Nor had he been in the mood to see Charlie last night. His reluctant mistress was proof that he had somehow, somewhere gone far astray from the ideals he had when he was twenty.

At twenty, Bay had believed in love. That marriage was forever. That he would somehow avenge the death of his child.

But his life had gone on, loveless, childless. No matter the risks he took, he survived them. He’d had no thoughts of marriage or other children for years, just careless pleasure. Now he had a chance to change that. And he wouldn’t.

Not with Anne. She still stirred his blood, but he couldn’t give her what she needed.

Frazier rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Don’t bite my head off. Your Mr. Mulgrew is here, Major.”

“Bloody hell. I haven’t even had breakfast.” Not that he was remotely hungry.

“It’s noon, sir. Time to be thinking about lunch. Shall I stash him in your study and bring in a tray?”

“I suppose.” Bay pulled a clean shirt over his head, taking care for it not to touch his chin. He applied some sticking plaster, dispensed with a neckcloth, and shrugged into a dark blue jacket. Each step down the stairs rattled what was left of his brain.

Mr. Mulgrew was in his same tweed coat, a squashed hat on his lap. “Good afternoon, my lord. Sorry I was unable to come any earlier.”

“Thank God for that,” Bay murmured. He didn’t bother to correct the man again about his title.

“I expect your man told you I was by yesterday. Had a nice chat with the old Earl of Cranmore. He seems to think his son and the missus have gone to France.”

“Well, that would be the logical destination. You didn’t, I hope, say a word about the necklace?”

Mr. Mulgrew looked aggrieved. “I’m a professional, your lordship. Said I owed his son some money and wanted to repay it, kind of a wedding present, don’t you know. Seems that Arthur has a school chum with a chateau, or what’s left of it, in the Loire Valley. The Vicomte Bienville. Beans.”

“Pardon?”

“The friend. Known as Beans. You know these silly nicknames boys pick up in school. If my given name were Patrice I might prefer Beans, too. So I’m sending someone to Patty’s house in Vouvray with a message from Cranmore. And you, of course.”

Bay imagined Mr. Mulgrew had accepted a second fee from the Earl of Cranmore, but that didn’t matter. “When will you know anything?”

“Not for a day or three yet. I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a touch peaked this afternoon. Steady habits, sir, steady habits. A pint at lunch is fine, but you’ve got to watch out for overindulgence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Just then Frazier entered with a tray. Bay hoped the coffeepot would provide a cure for both his hangover and Mr. Mulgrew’s unsolicited advice. There was a thick beef and cheese sandwich on a plate. Bay’s French chef would never have assembled such a prosaic meal.

“Apologies, Major. Monsieur David has gone to get a tooth pulled. I hope this will do.”

Mr. Mulgrew looked at the sandwich with some respect. “I’ll leave you to your luncheon then. Good day, Lord Bayard.”

Bay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a bite. It would do. It would have to.

Charlotte had washed her face and hands, and was now lying on her bed, a cool cloth across her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. She had looked an absolute fright in the garden. What must Lady Christie have thought of her? Granted, the baroness was liberal in her thinking, but no one could excuse Charlotte’s shameful tangle of hair or her tear-stained face. Charlotte had braided and pinned up her hair, covering it with her usual cap. Bay must be tired of her already, as he hadn’t come last night or even early this morning. Why should she try to look alluring? She was an old maid and might as well face the facts. Just because the fiend had tapped into her heretofore hidden reservoirs of passion didn’t mean he was in the water doing the breaststroke with her. Men were as easily aroused by a naughty painting of a female as the female herself. Charlotte was just a living painting in Bay’s collection.

She had almost convinced herself of her utter worthlessness when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She flung the wet cloth from her face and sat up against the pillows, steepling her fingers on her lap. She knew she resembled a woman in prayer, and she was. She prayed he would send her back home and extricate himself from her heart. She could not afford another ten years of useless regrets.

Bay entered, minus the usual spring in his step. He was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed. He was ill! That’s why he hadn’t come to her last night. If she were home she would give him her special infusion of herbs from her garden. Perhaps that marquess next door had a few leaves she could snip. His garden seemed to have everything.

“Are you unwell, Bay?”

“Not you, too. I should have come out with a sack over my head.” Instead of sitting down on the bed with her, he went to one of the chairs at the fireplace. “Take off the stupid napkin, Charlie. I told you I won’t stand for it.”

His words were rude, but there was no fight to him today. Charlotte fiddled with the strings under her chin. “How was I to know when to expect you? Our original agreement was for every evening, but then you said you were coming last night and didn’t.”

Bay raised an eyebrow. “Missed me, did you?”

“Certainly not,” huffed Charlotte. “Mrs. Kelly was disappointed, that’s all. Dinner was most delicious.”

Bay stretched his long legs out in front of him. Although his face was careworn, he was dressed to sartorial perfection as usual. “I drank my dinner, I’m afraid. Had an unexpected encounter with a woman from my past.”

“Oh?” Charlotte pretended disinterest, but her heart kicked up a bit. She imagined there were a great many women in Bay’s past.

“You’ve had lovers, Charlie. What’s your past?”

“I’ve hardly had lovers,” Charlotte snapped. “You make it sound like I’m a concubine. And I can’t see why it should concern you. We hardly know each other.”

Bay stared at her and then threw his head back, laughing. She was pleased to see the melancholy wiped from his face, but did not want to be the butt of his joke. “What I mean to say is, we may know each other in the Biblical sense, but you know nothing about me and I know nothing about you, except you keep a series of mistresses. And you were in the army.” And you were married and are surprisingly poetic.

“Exactly so. I thought I’d remedy that situation this afternoon. Say, ten questions apiece. You may ask me anything you like and I shall do the same.”