I don’t want to take meals
Bay stifled his grin, which would only inflame her further. She was adorable in her umbrage. He could play along for a bit. “Every
“Every Saturday then.”
“Every night of the week. Including Sunday. And possibly some afternoons when I’m not otherwise engaged.”
She turned white for a change. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Evenings only.”
“Every weeknight. I’ll give you weekends off if you behave yourself.” He’d have to eat red meat and swill beef tea all Saturday and Sunday to restore his prowess for Monday. Charlotte Fallon was a tigress.
She looked as if she wanted to say more, a lot more. Instead she nodded curtly. “Very well. I am not hungry. Or thirsty. Kindly tell Mrs. Kelly.”
Well, the pendulum had swung and the tigress was now a cranky cat with fleas. Bay couldn’t bother to cajole her back to bed. Perhaps she was suffering from a bizarre brain manifestation that enabled her to turn from scorching hot to frigid, blushing red to icy pale, courtesan to spinster. There was a possibility he’d been unfair to challenge her with such suggestive suggestions and she was regretting her complicity. Too bad.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then. I’ll just dress and eat downstairs if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Kelly since she’s gone to the trouble of cooking us dinner. It doesn’t do to annoy a woman with access to sharp knives.”
Chapter 4
The nerve of him! He was still downstairs, smoking a cigar in the house instead of the garden if her nose was any judge. What had gotten into her? Well, besides him with his absolutely enormous member and his skillful tongue and fingers. Charlotte had never in her life behaved in such a fashion, wasn’t aware that there was such a fashion in which to behave. She’d blocked out Deb’s ‘helpful hints’ over the years, swearing never to lie with another man again after Robert. Two days on Jane Street and she was a confirmed slut. There must be something in the air.
She was so hungry she regretted turning away dinner. The house was small enough for her to smell it too, and each clink of cutlery and Bay’s groans of pleasure and lipsmacking had driven her over the edge. He had been so audible deliberately, she was sure, making her suffer for her prideful refusal to share a meal with him. When oh when would he leave so she could raid the kitchen?
He was a fiend. An archfiend. A malevolent incubus dressed as a benign baronet, infecting society with lust and sin. Infecting her, anyway. She had spent the last ten years driving lust and sin right away with the biggest stick she could find. It helped that her heart had been shriveled. And that Robert was lost to her forever.
Charlotte hung her robe up in the armoire and lifted her nightgown from the shelf. She glanced at her satchel in the corner. She supposed she ought to unpack whatever she had crammed into it before she caught the London stage. When she was frantic to rescue Deborah. Ha. Who was going to come to rescue her? To get her out from under the thumb and every other inch of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard?
Charlotte put her few belongings in Deb’s drawers. No, not Deb’s. Deb had ceded her role as mistress quite permanently, and somehow Charlotte had been persuaded to assume it, with a fervor that she found incomprehensible and embarrassing. She loathed the man who called himself Bay, as if he were a tropical turquoise body of water or a chestnut horse or the howl of a demented dog. He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions-if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment.
Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room. Tiptoeing down the carpeted stairs holding a candle, she stopped at the painting of a half-clad virgin fleeing from a roue who bore no little resemblance to the picture’s owner. She had seen that smile over her not long ago.
And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks. Not to Little Hyssop, but a completely foreign destination where she knew no one and no one knew her.
The pitfalls of her almost-midnight madness were immediately apparent. She would actually be stealing this time, and she could, she supposed, hang if she was caught. Bay didn’t seem to be the type of man who forgave and forgot-look at what he was putting her through with Deborah’s folly. If she suddenly appeared in some out-of-the- way country village, she might as well take out an advertisement in a newspaper. Strangers were always the gleeful target of gossip; she would not go unremarked. It had taken her years to worm her way into Little Hyssop’s good graces, and she didn’t have the patience now for the subterfuge. But the most troublesome aspect was if Deb contacted her-or even, miracle of miracles, returned the bloody necklace-she wouldn’t know it. She might be on the run for the next six months.
The candle wavered as she heaved a sigh. She would think better on a full stomach. But when she reached the top of the steps that led down to the kitchen, she nearly tumbled straight down when she heard the laughter.
And then Irene giggled, a perfectly pure tinkly sound.
Good Lord. Charlotte’s stomach flipped. He was having it on with the maid, who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Men were beasts, disgusting, diabolical dogs, and that was an insult to canines everywhere. When she heard Mrs. Kelly say, “That’s quite enough for one night, Sir Michael. You want to keep us awake all night to have your fun, don’t you? You’ll get another chance tomorrow to try your luck again,” she had heard enough. If Irene was young enough to be his niece at the very least, Mrs. Kelly could be his grandmother.
Clutching her candle with both fists, she flew down the stairs. Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Bay and his servants sat at the long pine table, the devil’s deck of cards scattered on its surface. Mrs. Kelly had a little pile of walnuts in front of her, and Irene and Bay had nothing. Charlotte stared at them stupidly.
“Care to join me, Charlie? These two want to go to bed and deny me my revenge.”
“Oh, go on with you, Sir Michael. Don’t be a poor sport. What can I do for you, Miss Fallon? I hope you’ve changed your mind about a meal. There’s some lovely chicken left, and cherry tart.” The housekeeper rose from the table and headed toward the larder.
Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. “No, no. I’m perfectly content, Mrs. Kelly. Don’t trouble yourself. I heard voices and thought there might be an intruder.” Her explanation sounded lame even to her own ears.
“Don’t you be worrying about the safety of Jane Street, Miss Fallon. Sir Michael will be here most nights to protect you. And the Jane Street gentlemen hire a night watchman. No one visits who doesn’t belong, if you get my meaning.”
Oh, she got it. If people couldn’t get in without an entree, people couldn’t get out without notice, either. She was already in a prison cell, only with tasteful decor-except for the paintings.
Bay stood, rolling down his sleeves. “Well, if I have no takers, I’d best be off. I’ll see you ladies tomorrow. Late. I’m afraid Miss Fallon doesn’t care to dine with me, Mrs. Kelly, but I’ll probably rustle up a midnight snack. Good night.” He blew them all a kiss and let himself out the tradesmen’s door.
Mrs. Kelly’s lips were set in disapproval. “That man needs to eat proper after all he’s been through, Miss Fallon. He has a fool of a French chef at the other house. Muck and rubbish he cooks and calls it
