Mistress by Mistake

Charlotte could barely understand the man’s Scots burr. “Come in, Mr. Frazier, and take a breath.”

“I havena time to breathe! Anne Whitley has got the major locked up in a house with four guards!”

Charlotte blinked. Frazier rather resembled a charging bull. “Come into the parlor. I’ll get you something to drink-some sherry or brandy-and we can talk about this sensibly.”

“There’s no sense to be made of it!” He paced the hall, slapping his hand on the wallpaper so Bay’s paintings jumped. “I went to see Mulgrew after I left you this morning. He’s had word from his man on the Continent. Your sister turned over the necklace-only after her new husband showed her some gumption from what I ken-and he’s on his way back to England with it. Mulgrew was all set to report to Major Bayard with the news when I went to his offices. He knew nothing about the major turning up in France, so we went down to the docks. Major Bayard never booked passage anywhere. Mulgrew and I both checked. He knows what he’s about, Mulgrew does. So then I went to Whitley House this evening, watched as Lady Whitley went off in her carriage to her aunt’s. Hung about until she left. And did she go home?” the man barked. “No, she didna! I attached meself to the carriage like a barnacle and we wound up at a wee shabby house. Two strong lads let her in. There was talk about the ‘prisoner’ misbehavin’ right there on the front steps for all the world to hear. So she goes upstairs. I watched the candle flicker until I saw a dim light in the front room upstairs. Mind you, the shutters are closed right and tight. I crept round to the alley, and three of the blokes were smokin’ and laughin’ at the fourth, who’s wearin’ a sling and looks mad as hell. They kidnapped him, Miss Fallon! The major is tied up at Anne Whitley’s mercy!”

Charlotte sat down on a stair step. “Mr. Frazier,” she said softly, “there might be some other explanation. Did they mention Bay-the major-by name?”

“They didna have to! Who else could it be? That Whitley woman wants Major Bayard’s seed, she does. He told me so himself.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte wished someone would bring her a large glass of brandy.

“That woman came to the major’s house days ago with some crazy idea that he get her with child. I fought with him over it.”

“Bay wants to marry her?”

“Och, no no. But if she falls pregnant, he would wed her all over again, poor fool.”

Charlotte wrapped the robe tightly around her, feeling suddenly chilled for such a warm spring night. “Mr. Frazier, forgive me, but none of this makes any sense at all.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” He stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair, upending it further. “I’ll get hold of Mulgrew at first light tomorrow, see if he’ll help us. We’ve got to get the major out of there.”

Charlotte shivered. “You keep saying ‘we.’”

He glared at her. “You won’t help? You’re happy enough to live in his house and eat his food, aren’t you?”

Charlotte felt her face go warm. “You may not know this, Mr. Frazier, but I was an unwilling participant in this folly, and I’ve begged and begged you to help me go home. For all we know, Bay and Anne have a little love nest and don’t want to be interrupted. The men you saw could just be ordinary servants.”

“Not bloody likely. They’re hired thugs. I’ve seen their like all over Europe. You’d know I’m right if you saw them.” He smacked the wall. “Maybe you should see them. Divert them while I get the major out of there. We’ll talk to Mulgrew and see what he thinks.”

Charlotte stood up. “Now see here, Mr. Frazier. If these men are so dangerous, I hardly think I can be diverting enough. I’m not exactly a femme fatale.”

Frazier looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. Charlotte was acutely aware of her old gray robe, her braided hair, and her nightcap. “You’ll do. Now go back to bed and rest up. I’m going back to Islington to keep watch. Someone needs to have a clear head tomorrow.” He slammed the front door behind him.

Charlotte leaned against the wall. Her head was most certainly unclear tonight. Mr. Frazier had convinced himself that Bay was in danger, when in reality the man didn’t even know if Bay was in the house that Anne Whitley visited. Just because Frazier and this Mr. Mulgrew couldn’t find evidence that Bay went to France didn’t mean that Bay wasn’t someplace else enjoying himself in high style. There could be a hundred different explanations for his whereabouts.

Heaving a sigh, she mounted the stairs. Fat chance she would get back to sleep tonight, although Mrs. Kelly was still snoring away in her attic room, each rippling snort a testament. Mr. Frazier was a difficult man to sleep through, with his shouting and slamming. Charlotte thought he was a difficult man to ignore, no matter the time of day. Tomorrow would come too soon.

Chapter 16

Despite Charlotte’s misgivings, she fell back asleep, drifting into sensual dreams. In no time at all, Mrs. Kelly was shaking her awake.

“You’ve got company downstairs. Angus-Mr. Frazier and another gentleman, Mr. Mulgrew.”

Charlotte groaned. “What time is it?”

“Just on seven. Why didn’t you get me up last night?”

Mrs. Kelly’s tone was accusatory. She obviously believed Bay was being held hostage by four ruffians under the direction of Lady Anne Whitley. Charlotte was not yet prepared to agree.

“I’ll dress as quickly as I can. Please go downstairs and offer them breakfast.”

Mrs. Kelly looked even more aggrieved. “And just what do you think they’ve been doing this past hour waiting for you, Miss Slugabed? There’s no time to lose!” With that warning, she turned on her heel as quickly as an elderly cook could and left Charlotte with a basin of hot water. Within fifteen minutes Charlotte was dressed in her usual gray, a neat cap covering her curls. She could do nothing about her pale lips or shadowed eyes, but perhaps a cup of strong tea could clear her thoughts. She followed the masculine bellowing down to the kitchen. Mr. Frazier was even more disheveled and agitated. He paced the room while a very large man sat placidly drinking a cup of coffee at the table. The only sign of the early hour was a stubborn cowlick of grizzled gray hair that stood up on the back of his head. He rose the instant he saw her.

“Good morning. Mr. Mulgrew, I presume.” Charlotte extended a hand. He clasped it briefly between two huge ones. A prizefighter, Charlotte thought, looking at his genial face with its broken nose, or a man very unlucky with someone else’s fists. Mulgrew caught her stare and rubbed his nose reflexively. “The Duke of Egremont’s daughter,” he said, sheepish. “One of my most famous cases, but alas, the little b-er, witch had a spectacular right hook. Angus has convinced me his lordship has fallen into a spot of trouble.”

“Sir Michael,” Charlotte corrected.

“Aye. Too bad my assistant is still in France, or we’d have better odds.” He squinted at Charlotte, then took out a pair of spectacles from his tweed pocket. “I can see it, Angus. With the right attire, Miss Fallon might be the answer to our prayers.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and was saved from speech when Mrs. Kelly slapped a plate of toast and eggs on the table.

“Here is the plan, Miss Fallon. Mrs. Kelly here is going to beg for an interview with Lady Whitley, keep her at home as long as she can. You and I and Angus will go to Islington and break into the house where Lord Bayard is being held.”

“Sir Michael,” Charlotte muttered through a mouthful of poached egg.

“Right. You’ll be dressed as a strumpet, o’course, and go round the back door, keep the boys occupied while Angus and I do the rescuing.”

Charlotte’s toast lodged in her throat. After an alarming series of coughs whereupon Mr. Mulgrew was prompted to pound her rather forcefully on her back with one of his large red hands, she was able to object.

“Look here. Why don’t I go see Lady Whitley, and Mrs. Kelly bring round a basket of food for these men? That makes much more sense to me.”

Angus’s bushy red brows drew together. “Hmm. That’s not a half-bad plan. They were complaining last night about the local pie shop. Rosemary, no one would suspect you of anything underhanded, and your cooking is ambrosia from the gods. What do you say?”

Mrs. Kelly pinked in pleasure. “I’ll be happy to go into the gates of hell itself if it will mean saving Sir Michael