Mistress by Mistake

would take to her bed with brandy and a hot brick. It must be costing her something to make this visit.

“Let me think on your proposal. You’ll have to stay here where we can keep an eye on you.”

“Really, Anne,” he said huffily, “I’m a man of my word. I want nothing more than to have a life with you again.” He sounded so sincere he was beginning to convince himself.

“I’ll tell Karl to bring up some paper tomorrow so you can write to your little doxy. But I warn you, I’ll be reading it.”

“As you wish. I’ve nothing to hide, Anne.” And a day to plan the most important letter of his life.

Chapter 14

Mrs. Kelly came into the dining room bearing a rather grubby note. Charlotte put her fork down. The truce between her and the housekeeper was fragile at best, and right now Mrs. Kelly was frowning at her with some ferocity quite putting her off her coddled eggs.

“A letter for you, Miss Fallon. From Sir Michael, I believe. The urchin who delivered it to the kitchen door didn’t say and didn’t even wait for a coin. Now before I give it to you, you must promise me that you’ll be up to no funny business. I’ve got to leave the house for an hour or two on some errands, and Sir Michael will have my head if you get up to your old tricks.” The woman actually held the letter behind her back, as if withholding a sweet from a child.

A letter of her own! She had practically worn holes in Deb’s dozen letters, mooning over Bay’s unexpectedly romantic turns of phrase.

“I promise I will be right here when you come back, Mrs. Kelly. Is there anything you’d like me to do for you while you’re gone?” Charlotte asked sweetly.

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you? I suppose if you want fresh flowers for your room and the downstairs parlor you might cut some.” She placed the letter on the opposite end of the dining table and left the room. Shortly thereafter, Charlotte heard the slam of the back door as the woman left for the market.

Charlotte was up in an instant, all thoughts of finishing breakfast gone. Her fingers trembled as she broke the red wax seal on Bay’s letter.

Dear Deborah,

Charlotte sat down on a dining chair so fast she nearly fell. Dear Deborah! Dear Deborah! How could the man write such a thing? She was tempted to tear the paper into a million little pieces, then stomp on them. Even if he were distracted by travel, he should know her name. He’d shouted it loudly enough when he emptied himself inside her time after time. Her face grew hot and her pulse quickened in anger.

I hope this letter finds you well.

No, she was most assuredly not well. And if Bay had been here with her, he would not be either, with her hands fastened around his throat.

Please keep it with the others I have written you. Frannce is very hot. I have seen your sister and the emerald necklace is safe. I have gotten tied up and have to delay my return home, so see Frazier for the money to go back to Little Turnip where you belong. Bring this letter to him as soon as possible and he will know what to do.

Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, Bart

Charlotte let the letter slip from her fingers. This was the worst letter in the history of human correspondence. He might have dismissed her gently, thrown in a compliment or two before he so brutally told her to get out of his house. Little Turnip! Yes, she would go back to Little Turnip at the earliest opportunity, and hope the man never remembered the real name of her village. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

To think that she thought they were coming to an understanding. An accommodation. She had convinced herself that being Bay’s mistress was something she could live with, at least for a time. Deborah had been right for a change-Charlotte was in need of amusement, although ravishment was perhaps the more accurate term. She had spent the past ten years being so damned good it was almost a relief to succumb to Bay’s seduction.

What a fool she had been. Still was. She should not be allowed to ever leave her cottage in Little Turnip again, for she could obviously not navigate in the wider world. She had been duped by a devil, and he was so stupid he couldn’t even spell France.

Charlotte looked at her plate of eggs, longing to throw them against the flocked wallpaper. That would be highly unfair to Mrs. Kelly. But damn it, she was in the mood to break something.

An insidious idea popped into her head. Why not? At least she would be sparing Bay’s next mistress the repugnant remains of Angelique’s and Helena’s tenure on Jane Street. With determination, she marched up the stairs.

The clock would be the first to go. Let the next poor girl measure out her days waiting for Bay by some other means. She gathered up a few smaller statues from the bedside table and went into the garden. She pitched the Cupid-clock against the brick wall and smiled as it shattered, springs and metal-works flying into the air. It was child’s play to hurl the others quickly after it.

The splintering sound was most satisfying. “There! That will show the bastard!” Her blood was buzzing so loudly in her ears she almost missed hearing the hesitant voice of the woman next door.

“I say, is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“I am now.” Charlotte straightened her little lace cap and wiped a flake of plaster from her cheek. It was a pity she did not have protective spectacles. Having to squint her eyes closed as she heaved each angel to its destruction lessened the satisfaction to some degree. “Who’s there?”

“Your neighbor. I’m Laurette.”

“How do you do? I’m called Charlotte. When he remembers my name,” she muttered.

There was a long silence, and then a tentative question. “Are you going as mad as I am?”

What an extraordinary thing to be asked. But then Charlotte’s entire life was extraordinary at the moment. She would not be surprised if pigs flew or the mountains came to Mohammed, rock by rock.

“It depends how mad you are. I have always thought of myself as being the steady and sensible one, but lately I have reason to doubt. This is rather absurd, talking through the wall. There’s a wooden door, you know.” Charlotte heard the rustling of leaves. “I imagine it’s covered over on your side, but I’ll rattle the knob.”

“There is? I’ll have to cut back some of the ivy,” Laurette said. “Hold on.” After some vicious snipping sounds, the hinges creaked but the door didn’t open enough for Charlotte to pass through.

“Bother. Can you push?”

“I can try.” Charlotte giggled, filled with a kind of giddy anticipation. She had enjoyed meeting the other mistresses, and this one sounded charming and intelligent. “If this doesn’t work, I suppose I could always come round and ring your doorbell.”

“That would take all the adventure out of the endeavor. Here, I’ll pull, you push.”

After a joint effort and a sore shoulder, Charlotte slipped through into the most magical garden she had ever seen. Put the bastard Bayard’s totally in the shade. There was every kind of flower she knew and many she didn’t. Tiny yellow birds trilled and dodged overhead. A fountain bubbled. It was dazzling.

But Laurette was not. Laurette did not look like anybody’s mistress, or at least not a Jane Street mistress. She was pretty enough, but frazzled. And she was old, at least Charlotte’s age. Her wavy blond hair was pinned back in a messy lump, and she had thousands upon thousands of freckles. Charlotte’s mama would have attacked her with a crate of lemons.

“Oh! How absolutely lovely this is!” Charlotte gazed around the garden. “I watched them put it all in from my bedroom window, you know. They all worked like fiends. Even Lord Conover dug right in.” She lowered her voice. “He removed his shirt. You are a lucky woman indeed.”

Laurette snorted. “He is a fiend.”

“Oh, my dear, you’ve no idea of a true fiend. Sir Michael Xavier Bayard’s portrait is right next to the word in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”

“Then why-” Laurette colored. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”