Mistress by Mistake

But if she had six thousand pounds, she could buy jars of jam at any church fair.

Charlotte mentally slapped herself. She had her pride. She had her dignity. She had her modesty, what there was of it. It was one thing to be an accidental and then blackmailed mistress, quite another to acquiesce to the position in broad daylight.

So preoccupied with her born-again virtue, she nearly walked right by Mr. Trumbull’s bentwood gate before she noticed the old gentleman hailing her. He was crouched over his stick, a smile splitting his wrinkled face. Mr. Trumbull’s pride and joy was his garden, although he’d had to cut back its size severely the past few years since his wife had died. His roses in particular were to be admired. Because he was quite lame, Charlotte often shopped for him as well when she went for provisions. She had an eye for a bargain, which suited them both in their straitened circumstances.

“Hi there, Mrs. Fallon!”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Trumbull. I’m on my way to the shops. May I get you anything while I’m there?”

“No need, no need. I have an acquaintance of yours here who has already been and back. Turned up on my doorstep bright and early this morning. Good fellow. Wouldn’t take a penny for his trouble but wants some China rose cuttings in exchange. Told him he was getting a bad bargain-why, he bought me so much I don’t believe I’ll live long enough to eat it all.”

Charlotte’s heart thudded. “An acquaintance?”

“Aye. Said the vicar introduced you in church yesterday. Sir Michael Bayard. Military man, but now he’s a man of leisure, going about the country looking at gardens. He’s planting a memorial to his old granny. Fond of roses, she was. Don’t quite know what brought him to our neck of the woods, but I’m happy to help.” Mr. Trumbull grinned in pride, revealing several yellow teeth. “He’s out back, clearing out all the brush that got away from me. Can’t do what I used to, and that’s a fact.”

What on earth? Why was Bay working at her neighbor’s, if not to spy on her?

“I would hardly call Sir Michael an acquaintance, Mr. Trumbull. He wanted to see my garden after church yesterday, but the rain prevented it. He admired the flowers I did for the altar.”

“I’m sure they were lovely as always. Didn’t get to see them myself, you know. Too wet. Makes my old bones ache. Vicar Kemble came round last night after evensong, so I reckon I’m still in good standing with the Lord. I’ll tell Sir Michael you’ll receive him after you get back from your errands. He’s got a powerful interest in your garden. Keeps peeking over the wall. Seems to like your Cuisse de Nymphs.” The old man chuckled at the name. Thigh of nymph roses did sound naughty. Whatever one called them, they were a beautiful, lush, blush rose.

Charlotte couldn’t very well forbid a garden tour today. The sky above was a brilliant blue. And even if she lingered in the five tiny shops in Little Hyssop, there was no way she could postpone the inevitable without attracting suspicion. One could only stare at thread so long, or debate the virtue of one lamb chop versus one pork chop. The thought of eating a chop of any kind made her nervous stomach nauseous. “Please tell Sir Michael I have time to see him at four o’clock. I suppose I can spare him a cup of tea.”

The old man nodded. “That’ll give the boy a chance to clean himself up. He’s a handsome one, Mrs. Fallon. I suppose you noticed that yesterday,” he said, his rheumy eyes twinkling. For an ancient, nearly blind man, Mr. Trumbull was entirely too astute.

“I had not noticed,” Charlotte said, nose in the air. “The only man I ever noticed was Mr. Fallon, God rest his soul.” Her imaginary dead husband had taken on rather mythic proportions in the ten years he’d been invented. Charlotte sometimes wondered if she’d gone a bit overboard. No man could ever measure up, but that had been the point. She’d been successful turning away the handful of unsatisfactory suitors who’d shown any interest in a pretty young widow. She was not about to get mixed up with another Robert, for all men were Robert at heart-ambitious and fickle, always looking over the next garden wall.

She bid Mr. Trumbull good-bye and walked into the center of the village. If Bay were coming at four o’clock, she’d better have tea for him, this time hot. There was no time to bake biscuits, so she purchased a half dozen at the baker’s, as well as a fresh loaf of bread. She’d lay out the good dishes, and over a proper table she’d have a civilized conversation, refusing politely to join him and wishing him well in the future. With any luck, he’d pack his bags and rose cuttings and leave Little Hyssop early tomorrow morning and she would never, ever see him again.

Charlotte spent the remainder of the afternoon readying herself and her house for the unwelcome visitor. Perhaps she was foolishly vain, but she put on her best navy blue dress trimmed with her own lace and tied a new cap over her curls. The tea table was set in the parlor with her mother’s transfer-ware, starched napkins covering neatly cut sandwich triangles and cookie rounds. The kettle was simmering on the hob in her little fireplace. The house was still a bit damp and cold after the week of rain. To steady her nerves, she picked up her bobbins and clicked away until she heard the knock at the door, precisely as her mantel clock sounded the first of four chimes.

Bay stooped a bit as she let him into the narrow hallway. He was so very much taller than she was, a fact that had made her feel safe in his arms. But safe she was not-her heart would be at risk if she agreed to his plan.

He bent to kiss her cheek and she darted away. “Mr. Trumbull might be spying in the bushes,” she said lightly. “Thank you for being so kind to him.”

“He’s a nice old gent. Here. This is for you.” Bay handed her a lumpy parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Charlotte frowned. “You needn’t give me presents. I’m not going to accept your invitation, and nothing you can give me will induce me to change my mind.” She tore off the paper only to find the same cracked white mug she’d tossed out the kitchen door. Stuffed inside it was a red velvet drawstring bag.

“I rescued the cup from your back garden. There it was, like a snowball in the grass. I agree it is far too unsafe for ordinary use, but it served as a vessel for my other gift.”

Charlotte put the mug down on the hall table, opened the pouch, and gasped.

“This time, I won’t want it returned,” Bay said, his voice as dark and smooth as chocolate sauce. “You deserve it after all the trouble it’s caused you. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but the circumstances did not seem propitious. You were so very angry you might have strangled me with it.”

Charlotte felt witless. The rubies and diamonds lay heavy in her hand. If she had been dazzled yesterday by the necklace, today she was spellbound. He couldn’t really mean to give it to her after all the fuss he had made about Deb, could he?

Her lips felt numb. “But it was your grandmother’s.”

“Yes, and she wasn’t all that fond of it, to be frank. She never wore it. Its history is not one of undying love, I’m afraid. My grandfather was a bit of a rascal. He made his fortune in the Orient, breaking all sorts of rules. One of them was his marriage vows. The necklace was a gift given out of guilt. I suppose I’m simply continuing the tradition. I truly regret all the indignities I’ve subjected you to. But I can’t regret meeting you, Charlie. You’ve gotten under my skin.”

“Like a rash?”

“Ah. A tongue as sharp as an adder’s. That’s what I like about you. Is your offer still on for tea? I’ve worked up a powerful thirst hacking and pruning away.”

Bay brushed by her and made himself comfortable in a faded chintz-covered chair. She had no choice but to follow him into the parlor, the rubies weighing down her every step. She dropped the necklace in his lap. “I can’t possibly accept this. You know I can’t.”

“Why not? You’ve earned it, Charlie. Every stone.”

Suddenly dizzy, she carefully poured the steaming water into the teapot and set the kettle on a trivet before the little fire. She sat at the tea table, busying herself with strainers and rattling cups, wishing she was in her homey kitchen where Bay hadn’t quite loomed so. It wasn’t as if he was trying to intimidate her-he was sitting back, relaxed, a composed dark presence against the flowery slipcover. His hair seemed a little longer and less kempt. She thought she spied a coppery curl sprouting at his temple. His square jaw was shadowed with the beginnings of his beard, and for an instant she wanted to reach across the table and touch the stubble for herself.

“Bay,” she said in impatience, mostly with herself, “I have told you time and time again I am a virtuous woman. Or I have tried to be. I made a mistake when I was a girl and I have been paying for it every day since. I don’t need