Mistress by Mistake

from Anne Whitley. My sister never did care for her.”

Mulgrew clapped his hands. “Excellent. One of us can help you tote in the victuals. Let’s say Lady Whitley is supplying the house for a few days or so. It would only make sense for you to have a helper.” He looked across the room at Angus, who despite his bright red hair, was a much less conspicuous figure than Mulgrew. “You can wear a cap. One of those chef things. Let me in when the coast is clear and then we’ll see what’s what.”

Charlotte swallowed her tea, hoping she had chosen the less dangerous mission. Bay’s staff did not think highly of Lady Anne Whitley. She admitted to herself she was curious about Bay’s choice of a wife, even if the ceremony had not been altogether legal. She watched as Mrs. Kelly spun around the kitchen, tucking food into boxes and baskets. Mulgrew pulled out a watch. “Can you be ready by ten o’clock, Miss Fallon? Too early to be calling, but also too early for Lady Whitley to be out and about.”

“I’m ready right now.”

Mrs. Kelly paused from wrapping up a round of cheese and frowned. “Oh, no, dear. You want to make Lady Whitley jealous and keep her off balance. You are Bay’s mistress, after all. She won’t ever believe he offered you his protection if she sees you like this. You look like a Sunday school teacher.”

“I am a Sunday school teacher,” Charlotte grumbled.

“The red dress,” Mrs. Kelly said firmly. “You can wear that again. Shocking, it is. I’ll help with your hair. You two”-she pointed at Frazier and Mulgrew-“pack up the rest. Go into the wine cellar, too. I’ll fix those brutes a lunch they’ll be too drunk to remember.”

Charlotte was pushed upstairs by Mrs. Kelly before she had a chance to wipe the breakfast crumbs from her lips. She was stuffed into the red dress again, her bosom glaringly obvious for daytime. Mrs. Kelly was a bit of a miracle worker with her hair, creating an effect that looked like she had recently risen well-satisfied from bed. Charlotte owned no appropriate hat for a visit to Lady Whitley’s, but Mrs. Kelly went upstairs and came down with ribbon, a length of tulle, some fringe, and a paste pin that she somehow twisted around Charlotte’s head. In addition, she brought cosmetics left over from Bay’s former mistresses that Irene had squirreled away in her room. Charlotte’s lips and cheeks were rouged, her already dark eyelashes blackened, and the corner of her mouth patched. Mrs. Kelly could have rivaled any dresser on Drury Lane. Charlotte scarcely recognized herself.

“Is-is not all this a bit much?”

“Exactly so. You look a proper whore now, Miss Fallon, if you don’t mind me saying so. Lady Whitley will be outraged you’ve come to call, but won’t be able to resist quizzing you. And if Angus is right, she must have made Sir Michael write that letter to get rid of you. You’re going to tell her you’re not leaving Jane Street until you hear it from his own lips.” She yanked down Charlotte’s bodice another inch. “There. Perfect.”

Charlotte felt a bit faint, and not only because the dress was so constricting. It was decided that they would go in two vehicles, with Mr. Mulgrew dropping Charlotte off in Mayfair before journeying on to Islington. He peppered her with instructions, reminding her of the day not so very long ago when Deborah lectured her about Bay. A great deal had happened since then.

Self-conscious, she stepped out of the hack, wrapping her shawl as high as possible. Whitley House was a middling-grand property, with as stiff-necked a butler as she had ever encountered, who opened the door before she had trod on the lowest step. It was clear he admitted her into the hallway with great reluctance, confused by her cultured accent, which clashed so with her attire.

“Please inform Lady Whitley that Miss Charlotte Fallon has come to call.” Charlotte looked down her nose at Denning, the butler, no mean feat as he topped her by several inches.

“Your card, miss?” he held out a white-gloved hand.

Charlotte’s homely reticule was quite empty save for a vinaigrette, a handkerchief, and the cab fare back to Jane Street. “It is too early for calling cards, sir, as you must know. Were it not a matter of the gravest urgency, I would not dream of disturbing her ladyship at this hour,” Charlotte bluffed. The fringe on her headdress wavered as she spoke.

“May I inform Lady Whitley of the nature of this so-called emergency?”

“You may not,” Charlotte snapped.

The butler sniffed. Charlotte found herself shut up in a little room off the hall, no doubt intended for pesky tradesmen or those seeking charitable donations. She tossed her shawl aside and sat in the only chair, a spindly affair designed to hasten one out of Whitley House as quickly as possible. The room was white, bare of ornamentation. Charlotte wished for a mirror to see whether her eyelashes were flaking black bits onto her crimson cheeks. Her face was so hot now rouge was completely superfluous. She fished out her handkerchief and wiped away the worst of her maquillage. She had been doubtful she should appear as sluttish as Mrs. Kelly had painted her. Bay was a man of taste and restraint. Her lips twitched when she remembered exactly how restraining he could be.

There was no way to measure the time she sat, save for the increasing wetness under her armpits and at her hairline. The longer she waited, the more nervous she became. She thought of her sister, ever at home in any circumstance. Deborah would have no difficulty dealing with Anne Whitley. Deborah would be saucy, flirtatious even with another woman. She was capable of great charm, and was diamond-sharp in intelligence, even if their schooling had been less than lengthy. Deb did read, hung on to every word her powerful protectors had uttered. She could hold her own in any conversation when it suited her to appear intelligent. Conversely, she could seem to be the merest bit of attractive fluff if the situation called for it. Which Deborah should she channel, Charlotte wondered. Gradually, she sat taller in the uncomfortable chair.

Her composure faltered a bit when Lady Whitley opened the door. To say she was shocked was an understatement. It was almost as if she was looking in a distorted mirror. Anne’s black hair, blue eyes, and buxom figure were very like Charlotte’s own. No wonder Bay had selected Deborah from the bevy of available courtesans. He was reliving his time with Anne with each mistress he chose. The woman confirmed it with the first words out of her mouth.

“I see Bay is running true to form. You look like all his other Jane Street whores. Angela and Helen or some such. But neither of them had the gall to come to my home. What is it you want?”

Charlotte detected a certain wariness behind the rudeness. She swallowed and stood, throwing back her shoulders and thrusting her exposed chest before her. If she was not mistaken, she was slightly better endowed than Anne Whitley.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Whitley. I didn’t know where else to turn. Bay has told me so much about you, you see. So many…wonderful things. I’m very worried about him.” She rubbed her hands together nervously, giving credence to her words. She was Deb at her most helpless. Perhaps Lady Whitley would take pity on her.

Anne looked about the little room, as if she wished to conjure up another chair. “Let’s discuss this in the parlor.”

Charlotte followed her across the hall to a lovely white and blue salon with touches of black lacquer, a setting that showed Lady Whitley to great advantage. She realized, however, that there was a newer Lady Whitley somewhere in the country, who was probably planning to redecorate first thing. In the meantime, Anne sat regally on a blue wing chair and indicated Charlotte should do the same opposite. A china clock on the black marble mantelpiece chimed the half hour.

“I have very little time. I repeat, why are you here?”

Charlotte’s mission was to keep Anne Whitley away from Islington as long as possible. If the woman could hire four thugs, she had resources to hire even more. Mr. Frazier and Mr. Mulgrew needed time.

“This is a very beautiful room, my lady. Very tasteful. It suits you.” Charlotte gave her most deferential smile.

“Come to the point, Miss Fallon.”

Flattery was not working. Charlotte placed a hand over her heart and looked as pitiful as possible. “Very well. I don’t wish to shock you, my lady, but I have nowhere else to turn. I’m quite alone in London, you see. Without friends or family. I’m very much afraid that Sir Michael is missing. I am in hopes you might know his whereabouts.”

“Missing? How absurd.” Anne arched a perfect brow. “He’s in France, I believe. Didn’t he write to you?”

Charlotte stuck to her script and wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “No, ma’am. I’ve received no word at all from him.”

“Impossible! I know for a fact-” Anne flushed and closed her lips. Charlotte knew then that Anne was hiding