Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

“Well?” she asked somewhat shrilly.

Bay gathered himself from his fantasy. “I beg your pardon. What is the question?”

“Milk or lemon? If it’s lemon, I haven’t any. I’m sure they have lemons at the Pig and Whistle. Barrels of them.” She slopped a white pottery mug of tea on the table. The Welsh dresser had some lovely blue and white dishes, but he had been given this rude, misshapen cup with a significant and deadly looking chip right where he might place his lips.

“Just sugar, Charlie. I’ll need something sweet if I’m to sit here being harped at.”

“Harped at? I’ve not begun to harp!” She shoved a sugar bowl at him and tongs clattered after it. “You will ruin me! There are probably twenty people staring out their cottage windows waiting for you to emerge. I don’t know why I let you in, I really don’t.” She sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands.

They were a bit rough, he noted, probably from the gardening and doing for herself in her little house. He should have known that first night when he felt them on his back and buttocks that they were not the hands of a cosseted mistress. But he’d been rather too busy to think.

“Charlie,” he said carefully, “there is no reason for you to be upset.”

“No reason? Because of you I was almost killed!”

“Well,” he replied, dropping a small lump of sugar into the mug, “I suppose I could say the same. But here we are, sharing a comforting cup of tea.” He stuck his finger in and swished, as she hadn’t provided him with a spoon. It was tepid at best. She really must be trying to rush him out of here.

Charlie got up and went to her sideboard. She took down a fragile cup and saucer set and poured her own cold tea, still looking troubled. He wanted to ease the little v that appeared between her dark brows, lift the clouds from her blue eyes, turn her rosy lips up in a smile. “Six thousand,” he said.

Charlie choked on her tea. She set the china down with a crash. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

Bay smiled. “I’m afraid not. I was too busy watching you storm around the kitchen in high dudgeon. You are very captivating when you’re angry.”

Charlie gave a disgusted sniff. “Please. Do be original.”

“It’s true. You are so full of pique and passion, you’ve made an indelible impression on me. I would not be here otherwise.”

“Let me see if I understand you. You will pay me six thousand pounds to go to Dorset with you.”

Bay folded his hands and nodded. This was not entirely how he wanted to woo her to Bayard Court for a romantic interlude. Offering money was so crass. But he was in sore need of comfort, and it seemed Charlie was the only one who could provide him succor. She was not the only one who’d been terrified recently. The sooner he wiped Anne Whitley from his consciousness, the happier he would be.

“You truly have six thousand pounds to throw away for a few days of sexual congress?”

“I had hoped you would spend the summer with me there actually,” Bay said calmly.

Charlie got up as if she were sleepwalking. She came back to the table with a jar of golden plum jam, centering it in front of her. Bay’s stomach rumbled. Surely she was not going to eat without offering him anything. The knife still lay on the floor where she had dropped it earlier. He rose, picked it up, and sliced another piece of bread. “Where do you keep your cutlery?”

She pointed silently to the Welsh dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a spoon from the modest collection of coin silver and tin. Grabbing two plates, he went to work making a jam sandwich for each of them. He gobbled his in three bites while she stared at hers as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Why?”

Bay swallowed the last chunk. The jam was delicious. He’d seen the plum trees in her front garden. He actually did have an interest in gardening; he was Grace’s grandson, after all. This jar was probably the last of the previous summer’s bounty. A few more mysterious glass containers were lined up on the dresser. Charlie probably put them up herself. “Why what?”

“You have your pick of any lightskirt in London. You own a house on Jane Street, for heaven’s sake, a guarantee that you can attract the most discriminating whore. And I know there is such a thing. I got to know the neighbors a bit. It was-they were astonishing.”

Bay smiled to think of Charlie in the midst of a group of courtesans. He knew there were regular entertainments on Jane Street. He just hadn’t imagined his Charlie being entertained.

“I prefer you, Charlie. We were becoming well used to each other, and not in any sort of boring way, I might add. If you are worried about your reputation, don’t be. Bayard Court is somewhat isolated. Frazier and Mrs. Kelly and Irene will be on hand to provide discreet service. I let most of my grandmother’s staff go when I shut up the house-and found them all employment, so you can wipe that sneer off your face, Mrs. Fallon. The neighbors will respect that I’m in mourning and not expect me to partake in the social scene, what there is of it. We’ll have time to get to know each other better.”

“Whatever makes you think I want to get to know you better?” Charlie’s face was bright red again, not a good omen.

Bay shrugged. “You must admit we were getting on quite well toward the end. I was on my way to visit you when I was kidnapped that night, you know.”

“Rubbish. You were going to France to see my sister.”

“No. I changed my mind. I decided to let Mr. Mulgrew’s operative earn his fee. I didn’t want to leave you, Charlie. Didn’t want to leave your bed.”

She was silent, her hands trembling around the teacup. She must have heard the sincerity in his voice, must understand that he wasn’t ready to leave her behind in Little Fillup forever just yet. A summer idyll would be just the thing for both of them. They’d had a difficult time and deserved some restoration of their spirits. Even if it cost him the earth.

A part of him wished she’d come even without the enticement of a fortune. He glanced around the simple room that was dominated by the large stove. A streak against the whitewashed wall showed where the stove smoked, but the rest of the kitchen was spotless. A gleaming copper teakettle sat atop its surface. The space was cheery without being one bit ornate, much like the parlor he’d had trouble standing upright in. Perhaps her head wouldn’t be turned by money-she was nothing like her sister.

“You tempt me,” she said at last.

“Good.” He grinned at her.

“Oh, not you,” she said scornfully, finding her bite. “It’s nearly impossible to turn down that kind of money, as well you know. I could do a lot of good in the village.”

“I mean the money for you, Charlie, for your future.”

“Little Hyssop is my future. It’s not as though you’re offering me marriage.”

A prickle of unease swept from his neck down his spine. Of course he couldn’t offer to marry her, not that she wouldn’t make some man a happy husband. Judging from the condition of her cottage, she was an excellent housekeeper, not that any wife of his would ever have to lift a finger-his nabob grandfather had ensured that. And he knew from experience her performance in the bedchamber was every man’s dream. She’s certainly bedeviled his nights since they’d been apart.

She stacked and carried her dishes to the slate sink. He pushed his arctic tea aside and stood. “Think about my proposition, Charlie. I’ll be at the Pig and Whistle until I hear from you.”

She continued the washing up, not acknowledging his departure. Fine. Let her stew over it for a day, a week, however long it took. He’d wander about the countryside on his garden tour until she came to her senses and into his arms.

Charlotte spent a sleepless night, counting the raindrops as they fell on her roof. The man was impossible, the devil himself, to taunt her with such an enormous amount of money. She would be set for life, never wondering whether she should sell one of Deb’s castoffs, never tatting another inch of lace if she didn’t want to. The banknotes she had in the ginger jar could fall into the fire and she needn’t deign to singe her fingers to rescue them.

A summer by the sea as well as a fortune-she realized she missed her childhood home, hearing the slap of waves against the rocks, feeling the sharp wind against her face, seeing the gilded ribbon of moonlight on the water on a calm night. When her parents had drowned, she’d turned her back to the ocean, hating what she once had loved. But a decade had passed. She would love a beach holiday-she’d even contemplate going for a sail should the opportunity present itself.

But if she had felt guilty taking money from Mr. Frazier, however could she reconcile herself to Bay’s offer? She would be a true prostitute, bought and at his every beck and call. No one could possibly refuse any demand he made after he had paid such a wicked sum. She would be completely at his mercy. The situation was absurd.

Let him cool his heels at the village inn. He’d soon grow bored waiting to hear from her. He’d simply have to find another woman to captivate. She would not succumb to his allure. Not again.

Grumpy, Charlotte tumbled out of bed and straightened the covers. She always made the bed first thing. She had her routine, and she stuck by it. Today was Monday, which meant she would clean her clean kitchen, then walk to the village shops. It had turned out to be a fine day for a change. She could finally get at her overgrown garden this afternoon, work up a sweat, and work out the irritability she still felt for Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. She wrapped her hair in a clean kerchief, tied an apron on over an old brown calico work dress, and entered her kitchen.