I hope this letter finds you well.

No, she was most assuredly not well. And if Bay had been here with her, he would not be either, with her hands fastened around his throat.

Please keep it with the others I have written you. Frannce is very hot. I have seen your sister and the emerald necklace is safe. I have gotten tied up and have to delay my return home, so see Frazier for the money to go back to Little Turnip where you belong. Bring this letter to him as soon as possible and he will know what to do.

Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, Bart

Charlotte let the letter slip from her fingers. This was the worst letter in the history of human correspondence. He might have dismissed her gently, thrown in a compliment or two before he so brutally told her to get out of his house. Little Turnip! Yes, she would go back to Little Turnip at the earliest opportunity, and hope the man never remembered the real name of her village. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

To think that she thought they were coming to an understanding. An accommodation. She had convinced herself that being Bay’s mistress was something she could live with, at least for a time. Deborah had been right for a change-Charlotte was in need of amusement, although ravishment was perhaps the more accurate term. She had spent the past ten years being so damned good it was almost a relief to succumb to Bay’s seduction.

What a fool she had been. Still was. She should not be allowed to ever leave her cottage in Little Turnip again, for she could obviously not navigate in the wider world. She had been duped by a devil, and he was so stupid he couldn’t even spell France.

Charlotte looked at her plate of eggs, longing to throw them against the flocked wallpaper. That would be highly unfair to Mrs. Kelly. But damn it, she was in the mood to break something.

An insidious idea popped into her head. Why not? At least she would be sparing Bay’s next mistress the repugnant remains of Angelique’s and Helena’s tenure on Jane Street. With determination, she marched up the stairs.

The clock would be the first to go. Let the next poor girl measure out her days waiting for Bay by some other means. She gathered up a few smaller statues from the bedside table and went into the garden. She pitched the Cupid-clock against the brick wall and smiled as it shattered, springs and metal-works flying into the air. It was child’s play to hurl the others quickly after it.

The splintering sound was most satisfying. “There! That will show the bastard!” Her blood was buzzing so loudly in her ears she almost missed hearing the hesitant voice of the woman next door.

“I say, is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“I am now.” Charlotte straightened her little lace cap and wiped a flake of plaster from her cheek. It was a pity she did not have protective spectacles. Having to squint her eyes closed as she heaved each angel to its destruction lessened the satisfaction to some degree. “Who’s there?”

“Your neighbor. I’m Laurette.”

“How do you do? I’m called Charlotte. When he remembers my name,” she muttered.

There was a long silence, and then a tentative question. “Are you going as mad as I am?”

What an extraordinary thing to be asked. But then Charlotte’s entire life was extraordinary at the moment. She would not be surprised if pigs flew or the mountains came to Mohammed, rock by rock.

“It depends how mad you are. I have always thought of myself as being the steady and sensible one, but lately I have reason to doubt. This is rather absurd, talking through the wall. There’s a wooden door, you know.” Charlotte heard the rustling of leaves. “I imagine it’s covered over on your side, but I’ll rattle the knob.”

“There is? I’ll have to cut back some of the ivy,” Laurette said. “Hold on.” After some vicious snipping sounds, the hinges creaked but the door didn’t open enough for Charlotte to pass through.

“Bother. Can you push?”

“I can try.” Charlotte giggled, filled with a kind of giddy anticipation. She had enjoyed meeting the other mistresses, and this one sounded charming and intelligent. “If this doesn’t work, I suppose I could always come round and ring your doorbell.”

“That would take all the adventure out of the endeavor. Here, I’ll pull, you push.”

After a joint effort and a sore shoulder, Charlotte slipped through into the most magical garden she had ever seen. Put the bastard Bayard’s totally in the shade. There was every kind of flower she knew and many she didn’t. Tiny yellow birds trilled and dodged overhead. A fountain bubbled. It was dazzling.

But Laurette was not. Laurette did not look like anybody’s mistress, or at least not a Jane Street mistress. She was pretty enough, but frazzled. And she was old, at least Charlotte’s age. Her wavy blond hair was pinned back in a messy lump, and she had thousands upon thousands of freckles. Charlotte’s mama would have attacked her with a crate of lemons.

“Oh! How absolutely lovely this is!” Charlotte gazed around the garden. “I watched them put it all in from my bedroom window, you know. They all worked like fiends. Even Lord Conover dug right in.” She lowered her voice. “He removed his shirt. You are a lucky woman indeed.”

Laurette snorted. “He is a fiend.”

“Oh, my dear, you’ve no idea of a true fiend. Sir Michael Xavier Bayard’s portrait is right next to the word in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”

“Then why-” Laurette colored. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”

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 tattoo. Is he keeping you a prisoner, then?” Maybe they had more in common than she thought. Under house arrest. Sisters in forced seduction, although if she were honest, there had been times when she was forcing Bay.

“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 sister, not that she was going to tell anyone that at first acquaintance. It was all too sordid for words. “It drives him to distraction.” She’d leave one of her spinster’s caps on his pillow as a parting gift.

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.