Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

“Let her go home, Anne. Home to pack. I can’t believe she’s still lurking about Jane Street to begin with.” He watched as Charlie’s white face crumpled. There would be time later for apologies. He had to get her out of here as quickly as possible.

“There! I told you so,” Anne said in triumph. “And I’ve changed my mind, Bay. I will marry you, and then our child will have a normal home.”

“Child?” Charlie whispered. “You are enceinte?”

“Not yet, but I will be, I assure you. Bay is everything a man should be, but then I suppose you know that.”

“All very flattering, I’m sure,” Bay drawled. “But let the little whore go, sweetheart. She means nothing at all to me. Why, she’s just a poor imitation of you. The hair, the eyes-I’ve been a sad fool for you since I was a lad. Let’s go upstairs, love. I’m in sore need of a hot bath and a change of clothes. Your men seem to have misplaced mine.” He walked slowly toward Anne, smiling. “And put the pistol away, Anne. We don’t want anyone getting hurt, even inconsequential courtesans.”

For a fleeting moment, Anne clung stubbornly to the gun. He fixed his face into what he hoped was lustful admiration. “Your little trick convinced me, my darling. You’ve brought me to my senses. All my senses. There’s never been another woman who could hold a candle to you. I cannot wait to have you in my arms again.”

He didn’t turn when Charlie gave a strangled cry, didn’t hesitate as he heard her fleeing footsteps, didn’t start to breathe until Anne’s pistol joined the other in his pocket. “There now, that’s better.” He laid a finger on Anne’s cheek. “Let me just make sure the whore has enough money to leave. I won’t be but a moment.”

Anne frowned. “Let Frazier handle that.”

“Have a bath readied for me. I cannot come to your bed like this. I’ll be right back, I swear.”

He kissed her then, hoping his lips and tongue could lie. Anne clung to him despite his filth, wasting moments better spent chasing after Charlie. At last he disengaged and walked calmly out of the room, as if he had all the time in the world. Once he shut the door, he plunged down the stairs and out into the street.

There was no splash of red anywhere, just the dull gray of fashionable stone houses marching up the street. Blast. Could she have found a cab already? Though Jane Street was not all that far from Whitley House. She might be on foot. Bay bolted down the sidewalk, giving no thought to the image he presented, disreputable jacket flying behind him, pistols clunking into his hip. He’d better do something about that before he shot off his own foot. Pausing to stuff the guns into a planter filled with scarlet geraniums, he turned the corner and was rewarded by the sight of Charlie’s determined back.

“Charlie!”

Her tulle headdress had unwound. Batting it away, she continued her furious pace.

“Charlie! Please stop!”

She didn’t, of course, the stubborn minx. He hadn’t run like this since he was a boy, but he caught up to her, pulling her into his arms. Tears had coursed down her face, spoiling her makeup, but she was the loveliest thing he’d seen in days. He didn’t appreciate her fists, though, beating a tattoo on his chest.

“Let go of me! Have you come to insult me further?”

“Hush, love. Listen to me. Anne is quite mad. Surely you know that. I said what I did so she’d let you go.”

Her hands stilled, then she pushed him backwards with all her might. Bay stumbled in his awkward boots and found himself ignominiously on his arse in the middle of a Mayfair sidewalk.

“Since the first moment I laid eyes on you, my life has been nothing but one catastrophe after the other! I am going home! And nothing you can do or say can stop me!” The fringe wound around her head quivered in indignation.

“Whatever you want, Charlie.” Bay made no move to get up. Exhaustion was catching up to him. A couple walking toward them crossed the street in haste. He and Charlie as currently attired made an unlikely pair to be in this part of town. If their public disagreement wasn’t over soon, a constable was sure to come and end it for them.

“I sat there for hours. She kept smiling, pointing that gun at me.” Her voice shook.

“I know, Charlie. She’s mad. I just said so. I’m sorry you got in the middle of my mess. I had no idea the lengths to which she’d go.”

He watched in dismay as Charlie stepped forward to walk down the street. But then she pivoted.

“Was Frazier right? Did she keep you a prisoner?”

Bay sighed. “Does it matter? You’re free now. I’ll give you whatever you need to get back to Little Hyssop and more.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You do know the name of my village.”

“Of course I know it. But it’s so much fun to tease you.”

Charlie growled. Bay thought if she had a parasol she might have bashed him on the head. He supposed he’d better get up. The sidewalk was meant for walking, not sitting, although truthfully his legs didn’t want to cooperate. He’d been inactive and useless for days, save when they let him up to relieve himself. The last time he had any range of motion at all, he’d managed to dislocate one of the thugs’ shoulders. There had been unpleasant consequences for him, but it had been worth it.

“Look. Go straight to Jane Street. Tell Frazier I said to give you all you ask for.”

Charlie snorted. “As if he’ll believe me. He doesn’t like me at all.”

“He likes Anne less, I assure you. Tell him I’m dealing with her, and that I’ll be home tonight. And get him to send a new suit of clothes to Whitley House, would you?”

Charlie gaped down at him. “You’re going back there? You’re as unhinged as she is!”

“Very likely.” He pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. “I cannot apologize enough for what you’ve gone through. Everything, not only this business with Anne.” He looked up, hoping to see a softening in her countenance. He was disappointed. Charlotte Fallon was still a little Fury, and he wished he could kiss the contempt from her lips. “Go home, Charlie. God be with you always.”

For a moment, Bay thought she would speak. Instead, she pulled the trailing fabric from her head. Bay watched it float down to the sidewalk, the paste pin twinking in its folds. She turned away, her spine stiff. He sat until her red-clad figure disappeared around a corner. Slowly pulling himself up, he picked up Charlie’s headwear and stuffed it into his pocket. He retraced his steps, stopping only to retrieve the weapons from the geraniums and layering them in tulle.

The tomcat’s yowl awakened her. Soon he was joined by the female’s grating song. It was still fully dark, damp and grim with the torrents of rain that had fallen for days. The weather had matched Charlotte’s mood perfectly. Since her return home, she had been unable to appreciate her snug little cottage or the sudden profusion of flowers and vegetables in her garden. Instead she saw bare whitewashed walls and a tangle of weeds that would have to wait until the sun shone. If it ever did. Perhaps Deb had left some paintings upstairs with which she could beautify her humble house. No nudes, of course, although absolutely anything could be in the crates that Deb had shipped to her over the years. Charlotte should sit down and write to her, offer to send everything off to Arthur’s estate in Kent. Bard’s End. She knew that now.

She wondered if Deb had even returned home yet, or was still honeymooning with her new husband. Charlotte’s precipitous disappearance from Little Hyssop had been duly noted and remarked upon. When accosted in the village shops, Charlotte staunchly told the tale of her sister’s wedding, not that she had witnessed it. She discovered she had a flair for dissembling, right down to the color of her sister’s wedding gown (rose pink, she decided, mostly because it would be her own choice in the unlikely event she ever married) and choice of flowers (white lilies, for the same reason). This fictitious version of her London trip seemed to satisfy the local tabbies, who always had time for a good gossip, even if the protagonists were unknown to them. Charlotte had trudged home with her meager supplies, the brim of her old straw hat dripping rainwater, but she was not struck by a bolt of lightning for telling her lies. Despite Mr. Frazier pressing quite a lot of money into her hands, far more than she asked for, she had set it away for a rainier day and was determined to resume her quiet life on her restricted budget.

Now she really was a whore, bought and paid for, even if she didn’t intend to touch all the pound notes Mr. Frazier had conjured unless major calamity befell her. The money was sitting in a chipped ginger jar on her mantel. No self-respecting thief would be tempted to remove such pottery from the premises. She supposed if the cottage ever caught fire, she’d force herself to rescue it.

Having a bit of a financial cushion was a help. She might not be able to depend on Deb to keep herself and the cats afloat now that Arthur controlled the purse strings. And Deb had been indifferently generous anyway, depending on the gullibility of her past patrons. Months could go by before she remembered that she had a sister buried in the country. The last ten years had been a test for Charlotte to live within exceptionally modest means. The little she got for her lace had put food on the table, although it was not generally known in Little Hyssop that Mrs. Fallon supplied the ton with trimmings for their unmentionables and evening gowns.

Despite the early hour, Charlotte rose. There was no point in tossing and turning while Tom was fornicating under her bedroom window. The blasted cats had been contentious ever since she returned, punishing her for their abandonment. When they weren’t rutting, they were strutting and slinking and squalling around the kitchen door like beggars. Maybe if she tossed a few sardines into the dark, the racket would quiet down.