Mistress by Mistake

gowns. Definitely not a little white linen cap. She fingered Deb’s cherry-red dress, rather stunning in its naughty way. Charlotte was surprised Deborah didn’t take it with her until she tried to wrestle it on. Charlotte was a good stone heavier than Deborah, and this dress was very tight, too tight even for her sister. Deb had always liked to be comfortable. Charlotte had always liked to be safe. Well, to hell with comfort and safety. For one afternoon, she would flaunt her body with the other birds of Paradise. She would just not be able to eat much at Lady Christie’s or the seams would split.

The afternoon had turned very fine after this morning’s rain. It seemed no expense or trouble was spared for the party. Charlotte had watched from her bedroom window as Lady Christie’s servants had set out little linen- draped tables and chairs in the back garden, placing standing umbrellas about for shade. Silver tea and coffee services gleamed in the bright sunlight, and fine bone china place settings adorned the tabletops. There were several guests already partaking of tea and conversation, Lady Christie flitting among them like a periwinkle-blue butterfly, a pearl and sapphire necklace about her throat. Undoubtedly real, unlike Deb’s. Lady Christie had rescued her garden from its neglect and, like her, her roses were in healthy bloom.

It was a pity that Irene was not here to dress her hair into something suitably courtesanish. Charlotte did the best she could, raising her arms over her head as the sleeves pinched. She gathered her gloves and her shawl for the short walk through the garden door, leaving her battered straw hat behind. She had noted most of the other guests had opted not to wear a hat, and those that did would laugh out loud at her ancient bonnet.

“I’m visiting with Lady Christie, Mrs. Kelly,” she called down the kitchen stairs. “Right next door. I promise I’m not running off.”

Charlotte waited patiently until the housekeeper was at the bottom of the stairs. “You can check up on me through the garden door.”

Mrs. Kelly sneezed. “Dratted pepper. Don’t spoil your appetite. I’ve a delicious dinner planned.”

“You do know that Bay-that Sir Michael has gone to France, don’t you?”

Mrs. Kelly frowned. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“He mentioned it yesterday. I’m sorry. I thought he would have told you.”

“So that explains why he didn’t come last night and you’ve been so mopey.”

“I have not been mopey!” Charlotte cried. “Well, maybe a little. And you won’t have to worry about me anymore once he returns. I’m to go back home.”

Mrs. Kelly sneezed again. “I can’t say I’ll miss you, although you’re a sight better than your sister.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said dryly. “I don’t think I’ll be gone all that long.”

Mrs. Kelly gave her a baleful look. “You look a proper tart.”

“Yes, well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m meeting the other mistresses. I thought you had some sympathy for the women of Jane Street.”

“I do, when they’re honest.”

Charlotte sighed. She really didn’t know why she was bothering talking down the stairs to the housekeeper anyway. “I am honest, Mrs. Kelly. Usually. I only acted out of desperation to leave. I’m not pinching any more paintings.”

“You’d best not.” Mrs. Kelly looked ready to arm herself with one of her vaunted knives and turned back into the kitchen.

Charlotte nervously tugged on her gloves, then nervously tugged up the bodice of her dress. She did look like a tart. Her arms were ever so much better covered than her breasts. But for this afternoon, she was a Jane, an acclaimed courtesan of “Courtesan Court.” She would mix and mingle with really fallen women, not novices such as she. An opportunity like this didn’t come along every day, certainly not in Little Hyssop. She went out into the garden, lifted her chin and marched through the wooden door.

“Charlie, my dear!” Caroline gave her a hug. Charlotte was pleased to see her new friend’s dress showed even more shocking cleavage than her own. “Red suits you. How I love the color, but one is never supposed to wear it when one has red hair as I do. At least that’s what Edward always said.” A brilliant flash flew across her face. “But really, why should I care what Edward thinks? For these six years, I’ve denied myself red gowns. Well, to hell with that! Tomorrow I shall go to Madame Duclos and order an entire new wardrobe! Red. Vermillion. Rose madder. Scarlet. Alizarin. Crimson. Ruby. Cardinal. Ah! What fun I shall have! Come and meet some of my other guests.”

Charlotte was dragged to a table where two girls sat, one, a dark Spanish beauty named Victorina Castellano, the other, ethereally fair Sophie Rydell. They were a study in contrasts even beyond their coloring. Victorina was animated and voluble, peppering Charlotte with questions in her charming accent. Sophie was quiet, delicate, and terribly refined. Both were considerably younger than Charlotte’s thirty years.

“It was so kind of Lady Christie to invite me.” Charlotte fiddled with a sterling fork. She had answered Victorina’s questions as best she could. Both young women were now aware of the accidental aspect of her residence on Jane Street.

“If you are still here next Wednesday, I host a card party,” Sophie said. “You are most welcome to come.”

Next Wednesday seemed a long way off. But Bay might even be back by then if all went well, and then she might be gone. “Card parties, teas. It seems you all are a very congenial group here on Jane Street.”

“It is all Caroline’s doing,” Victorina explained. “I think at first, she was bored, missed the company of her friends in the ton. Her husband the baron made her the insult, putting her here. But she is a woman of strength. She will not just sit back and do nothing. Twiddling her toes.”

Sophie leaned across the tea table and whispered, “Thumbs, Vicky. We help her keep busy. We tell her everything, and she puts it in her books.”

Charlotte was confused. “Books?”

“Do not worry. She changes things all around, the names, the hair colors,” Victorina said. “But her novels, they are very popular. Always the strong, rich man and the innocent girl fallen into sin against her will. A happy ending every time.” Victorina looked a bit wistful.

Good Lord. Charlotte did not want to read the book about the wrong sister sleeping with the right man. It had all the earmarks of a best seller. She swallowed her bite of muffin.

“Don’t forget the sex scenes.” Sophie smiled wickedly, dropping her refinement. “Caroline has a way with words. Women from all strata of society buy these books to learn our sensual secrets. Caroline says we are performing a public service, really.”

Victorina’s dark eyes flashed. “And when a Jane Street gentleman misbehaves, Caroline turns him into a villain. He finds it very difficult to find a new mistress, afterward, I assure you. Lord Pope now resorts to desperate girls on the street. He even had to sell his house. We all know about him.”

Charlotte had never heard of these books. From their description, they were not apt to be available in the Little Hyssop lending library. She resolved to ask Caroline about them at the earliest opportunity. She was introduced to four more mistresses during the course of the afternoon, and broke her vow, eating a great many tiny finger sandwiches and biscuits. She would have to waddle home carefully and ask Mrs. Kelly to push back dinner a few hours. When she bid good-bye, she was surrounded by a symphony of silk and perfume, kissed on the cheek by every courtesan and given open invitations for advice of all kinds. She had enjoyed herself immensely, shutting away her mama’s objections completely from her head. These women could help her devise a strategy to stay with Bay. It was time to be wicked.

Bay lay on fresh sheets. He was somewhat fresh himself, having been permitted to wash, surrounded by four men, one with a pistol, two with truncheons, and the fourth a pair of fists that looked like hams. He had not been especially cooperative yesterday when he was helped to the chamber pot, nor when his hands were untied so he could eat the swill that had been prepared for him. His captors were so irritated with him that they had neglected his breakfast and luncheon today, but remembered to tie him fast to the bed after his ablutions, his naked body once again exposed in the dim light. Because they had not trusted him with a razor, his face was itchy with bristles. They had shoved something vile down his throat a little while ago, and his body felt weak as a kitten, his mind numb around the edges. They had not bothered to gag him again. His tongue was too clumsy for speech at any rate.

But he was alert enough to know he waited for Anne. He imagined her lifting her black skirts and mounting him. He would have no choice but to serve as the sacrifice on her altar of parental ambition.

If this situation were not happening to him, Bay imagined he’d think it amusing. He was a love slave, or a sex