Charlotte sat on the stone bench and lifted her face to the sun. Her mama was not there to warn her of freckles, although Laurette served as a living example of complexion misfortune. “It’s rather a long, sordid story. Let’s just say that one’s family obligates one to do things that are distasteful if not downright repugnant.”
“Exactly so. How long have you been in residence?”
“Long enough. It seems like I’ve been here forever. An eternity. But at least I won’t have to look at the damn cherubs any longer.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard my little fit. The smashing and the screaming. I just broke what are no doubt valuable but entirely vulgar little naked statues that belonged to my predecessors. There are still more in my bedchamber. Would you like to help me finish off the rest?”
Laurette looked a bit frightened of her, and no wonder. It was not at all ladylike to destroy property, particularly when the property was not your own. Charlotte gave her a benign smile. “Truly, I am not usually so bloodthirsty, not that there’s any blood in gilded plaster, mind you. But when you see them, you’ll understand. Come.”
Laurette nodded toward her house. “I’m not sure-they might miss me.”
“Oh, you poor dear. I’ve heard all about the strange and mysterious Conover. I saw the
“No! Not really.”
“Well then. Come along.” Charlotte looped an arm through Laurette’s. “Is he stingy, your Lord Conover? Your dress looks seasons old.”
Laurette laughed. “That’s because it is. It’s my own. I assure you, Conover has filled my closets. I just chose not to be tempted today.”
“Very wise. I myself will not wear what Sir Michael has bought.” Bought for her
They ducked into the kitchen entryway. “My servants are out, otherwise I would not have had the courage to kill all the little angels. Follow me.” Since the Painting Incident, she had been watched like a hawk by Mrs. Kelly. Charlotte had sworn she had learned her lesson. Being tethered to the bed had its charms, but was not to be repeated if she could help it. But in a day or two she’d be on her way with the full approval of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.
Laurette stopped in her tracks to admire the artwork along the hallway. It was Charlotte’s opinion all the subjects could do with more clothing. She was getting very tired of plump breasts and buttocks, but she knew now Bay’s collection was famous. Bay knew his nudes. And every art dealer knew Bay and knew his pictures. She was lucky he didn’t clap her in Newgate after her abortive attempt at theft, but his punishment had been almost as bad, minus the rats. The paintings would continue to hang on the walls, taunting her and making her nipples stiffen with cold just looking at them.
“None of them are my doing. Sir Michael is quite the connoisseur. He has excellent taste in all things, except mistresses. What they did to the bedroom-well, you shall see for yourself.”
When they stood in the doorway upstairs, Laurette gawped.
“You understand, don’t you? How can one possibly live in a room where so many plaster eyes are on one? And they look far from innocent. They are not proper angels. See their leering little faces?” Charlotte poked a dimpled cheek and shivered.
“I’ll help you. A pity we cannot borrow a wheelbarrow and roll them down the stairs.”
“I daresay the exercise will do us good, but I’m grateful you’re here. We’ll have the job done in half the time.” Charlotte gathered up her skirt and started depositing the little Cupids in the fold. Laurette followed suit.
It was a heady experience, dropping the plaster angels on their heads and shattering them on the bricks. Wings flew everywhere. Charlotte imagined each tiny neck was Bay’s as she strangled the statues first before she dashed them to the ground. Laurette was getting into the spirit quite nicely, whooping with sympathetic vengeance. She taught Charlotte how to skip the smaller angels like stones. Laurette showed an excellent arm bouncing each baby to its doom.
Eventually the angels had all gone to heaven. Charlotte and her new friend were glowing with perspiration where they weren’t coated in dust. The brick path looked like a battlefield, the odd elbow and foot blown off by the enemy and scattered. Charlotte sent Laurette back through the wall so she could sweep the bits of plaster under the foliage. Before she left, Laurette invited her for tea tomorrow, which would make a nice farewell party from Jane Street. She was not about to be rushed out before she was ready, Bay be damned. What difference did a day or two more make, when he was undoubtedly in the arms of some French floozy?
Charlotte was nearly ready to go next door when Mrs. Kelly knocked at her bedroom door. “Lady Christie is downstairs, Miss Fallon.”
“She is?” This was most unexpected. Such a flurry of friendship for her, when she had spent most of the past ten years in solitude with her undependable cats. She tied her battered bonnet over her usual cap. Perhaps it was time to give them up, but they had annoyed the annoying Bay so very, very much. It was too bad he would not see her one more time.
She followed Mrs. Kelly downstairs. Caroline was sitting in the parlor, frowning over a little notebook in her lap. She was crossing out something with a silver pencil.
“Caroline! I didn’t expect you, but I’m so happy to see you.”
“Are you going somewhere? My, forgive me for being blunt, but that is an atrocious hat.”
Charlotte flopped down on the settee beside her. “I know, but it’s all I have. I’ve been invited to the Mad Marquess’s house. His mistress Laurette and I engaged in a bout of vandalism yesterday.” Charlotte proceeded to tell Caroline the particulars, and to her discomfort, watched Caroline take notes as she did so. She was very much afraid that an obituary for the cherubs was being written, to be included in a future volume of Lady Christie’s shocking novels. Charlotte’s fit of pique would be made famous, or more accurately, infamous. Hopefully no one in Little Hyssop would ever connect the quiet Mrs. Fallon with the wild woman who smashed statues on Jane Street and slept with her sister’s lover.
“Fascinating. This Laurette sounds like a splendid girl. Do you think I might come with you?”
“I suppose. She seems quite lonely. She hasn’t a thing to do but wait for Lord Conover to come. And when he does arrive, she wishes him to the devil.”
Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Another unhappy mistress? You two will give Jane Street a bad reputation.”
“You needn’t worry about that. There will be no gloom cloud over Number Eight. I received my conge in yesterday’s mail. I’ve sent for Bay’s Mr. Frazier and will meet with him tomorrow. The sooner I can make arrangements to leave, the better.”
Caroline’s pencil rolled onto the floor. “But no!”
“Oh, but yes.” Charlotte felt her lip tremble.
“And I was just getting to know you.” Caroline patted her hand. “You understand I’m fond of all the girls here-most of them, anyway. I’ve had to be careful of Lucy Dellamar, though. Things seem to disappear when she comes calling. The odd silver teaspoon, the brooch I left on my dressing table, that sort of thing. It’s said her protector keeps her on a very short economic leash, so the poor girl is probably only supplementing her income. One day her sticky fingers are bound to get her in trouble. If only she would come to me, perhaps I could help her. I try to help them all, you see.” Caroline twisted a rather spectacular topaz bracelet over her glove. “But the Janes are not quite the thing. You seem so nice and normal. Refined. It’s been a while since I had such a friend.”
Charlotte swallowed back her tears. “But I’m a fallen woman.”
“Well, all of us have made a mistake or three, I expect. Your family was gentry, was it not?”
“Yes, but at the end we were quite ruined. When my parents died, they were one step away from the workhouse.”
“Then we have something in common. My father always had more pride than pounds. Papa would have been thrilled to know Edward proposed. Our relatives found bailing him out over the years tedious in the extreme. Papa spent every bit of mama’s settlement money and then some. He’s dead, else he would be hovering about wondering
