Mistress By Mistake Page 12

  She swept through the wooden door, her exit made a little less regal by the sodden patch on her backside. Charlotte needed to change herself, then figure out a way to spend her days waiting for Bay to come back.

  Could she persuade him to keep her on Jane Street? Charlotte knew she wasn’t the usual run of mistress. She hadn’t heard of half the things on Bay’s to-do list, although they had proved very pleasant. She was a fast learner. The raspberry fool was proof of that. Her mama would be appalled, but Charlotte hoped Bay would change his mind. She was perfectly content to remain in Bay’s bed, or against a wall, or on a carpet, or in that wicked tub. She was completely fallen into folly and felt fine, if a bit alliterative.

  Bay jerked awake hearing footsteps beyond the door, although they were not the heavy thud of boots like his captors had been wearing. He stilled his body as a jingle of keys preceded the turning of the lock. The room was still gray and dim, but he had every intention of showing Charlie Fallon just what he thought of her by the contempt in his eyes. Although perhaps the contempt could wait—he had an imperative need to relieve himself. How that was to be managed if she refused to untie him didn’t bear thinking on.

  The door edged open slowly and a veiled female figure, garbed head-to-toe in black, glided in, stopping just short of the bed. Bay took a deep breath. No whiff of oranges, Charlie’s signature scent. Instead, he detected roses. My God. Anne. It was Anne who had arranged for him to be beaten and secured to this bed. Anne, who did not want to take no for an answer. Anne, who had obviously lost her mind.

  His own mind raced, reevaluating every thought he’d had since midnight. Of course it was Anne, who had a substantial widow’s jointure from her husband, arranged in the marriage settlements long before Whitley discovered Anne had been unfaithful. She had the money to hire the thugs. To rent a house in which to keep him imprisoned. He most certainly was not at Whitley House, or anywhere near Mayfair if his reliable nose still worked. The roses blended with cabbages and sewer. He grunted around the gag. She lifted her veil, looked him up and down, gave him what he knew to be a well-practiced smile.

  “I’m sorry to be so late. I only just got word of last night’s success.”

  Anne held her black-gloved hands primly before her. There was no attempt to remove the rag from his mouth or untie his bonds. Certainly no attempt to clothe him or cover him with a blanket. He lay naked, feeling himself flush in anger and embarrassment.

  “You were not especially amenable to my proposal the last time we spoke. I thought I’d take this opportunity to change your mind.” She reached for him with her black kid gloves, enveloping his cock in their warmth. Despite his every effort, he responded to her expert touch.

  “How gratifying.” She bent, teasing her lips against him for a fraction of a second, then set to work with her hands.

  He screwed his eyes up, thinking of Spanish ditches and cold rain. That week he spent truly imprisoned by a small group of renegade French soldiers. Maggoty bread. Lying in his own piss and shit. Getting cleaned up only to be beaten and bloodied as the men took turns holding him down. His grandmother’s funeral and old Mrs. Poole, who brought her smelly, snappish dog into the church. The winter morning he had to shoot his favorite horse as he lay heaving in snow, his eyes so trusting as Bay stood shaking over him. Learning of the loss of his child. It was useless. Anne stroked him until he spent onto the filthy sheets.

  “I will send one of the men up to assist you. Or maybe several. They told me you put up quite a fight last night.”

  He had no recollection of it, just the humiliation of being bested on the street by some brutes. All his years of fighting, of killing, and his instincts had gone soft. It seemed his instincts were the only soft thing—to his horror his manhood had been rigid as he allowed Anne to manipulate him to ejaculation.

  “I will be back tomorrow. And I’ll speak to someone about tidying up this room. Its condition is not ideal in which to conceive our child. Just a month, Bay. That’s all I’m asking. If we cannot accomplish the thing, then I’ll let you go back to your little whore on Jane Street.” She left the room, the key turning with finality in the lock.

  A month. A month tied to this bed. Charlie thought he was in France, and would never question his whereabouts. Frazier might, if Charlie encountered him belowstairs and asked about his trip. His batman would know not so much as a shaving brush had been packed. Bay’s fate depended upon the accidental meeting of his mistress and his manservant. It was not good enough. With a muffled howl of frustration, he waited for what was to come next.

  Chapter 13

  Charlotte wondered what one wore to a Courtesan Tea. Probably not one of her gray gowns. Definitely not a little white linen cap. She fingered Deb’s cherry-red dress, rather stunning in its naughty way. Charlotte was surprised Deborah didn’t take it with her until she tried to wrestle it on. Charlotte was a good stone heavier than Deborah, and this dress was very tight, too tight even for her sister. Deb had always liked to be comfortable. Charlotte had always liked to be safe. Well, to hell with comfort and safety. For one afternoon, she would flaunt her body with the other birds of Paradise. She would just not be able to eat much at Lady Christie’s or the seams would split.

  The afternoon had turned very fine after this morning’s rain. It seemed no expense or trouble was spared for the party. Charlotte had watched from her bedroom window as Lady Christie’s servants had set out little linen-draped tables and chairs in the back garden, placing standing umbrellas about for shade. Silver tea and coffee services gleamed in the bright sunlight, and fine bone china place settings adorned the tabletops. There were several guests already partaking of tea and conversation, Lady Christie flitting among them like a periwinkle-blue butterfly, a pearl and sapphire necklace about her throat. Undoubtedly real, unlike Deb’s. Lady Christie had rescued her garden from its neglect and, like her, her roses were in healthy bloom.

  It was a pity that Irene was not here to dress her hair into something suitably courtesanish. Charlotte did the best she could, raising her arms over her head as the sleeves pinched. She gathered her gloves and her shawl for the short walk through the garden door, leaving her battered straw hat behind. She had noted most of the other guests had opted not to wear a hat, and those that did would laugh out loud at her ancient bonnet.

  “I’m visiting with Lady Christie, Mrs. Kelly,” she called down the kitchen stairs. “Right next door. I promise I’m not running off.”

  Charlotte waited patiently until the housekeeper was at the bottom of the stairs. “You can check up on me through the garden door.”

  Mrs. Kelly sneezed. “Dratted pepper. Don’t spoil your appetite. I’ve a delicious dinner planned.”

  “You do know that Bay—that Sir Michael has gone to France, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Kelly frowned. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “He mentioned it yesterday. I’m sorry. I thought he would have told you.”

  “So that explains why he didn’t come last night and you’ve been so mopey.”

  “I have not been mopey!” Charlotte cried. “Well, maybe a little. And you won’t have to worry about me anymore once he returns. I’m to go back home.”

  Mrs. Kelly sneezed again. “I can’t say I’ll miss you, although you’re a sight better than your sister.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said dryly. “I don’t think I’ll be gone all that long.”

  Mrs. Kelly gave her a baleful look. “You look a proper tart.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m meeting the other mistresses. I thought you had some sympathy for the women of Jane Street.”

  “I do, when they’re honest.”

  Charlotte sighed. She really didn’t know why she was bothering talking down the stairs to the housekeeper anyway. “I am honest, Mrs. Kelly. Usually. I only acted out of desperation to leave. I’m not pinching any more paintings.”

  “You’d best not.” Mrs. Kelly looked ready to arm herself with one of h
er vaunted knives and turned back into the kitchen.

  Charlotte nervously tugged on her gloves, then nervously tugged up the bodice of her dress. She did look like a tart. Her arms were ever so much better covered than her breasts. But for this afternoon, she was a Jane, an acclaimed courtesan of “Courtesan Court.” She would mix and mingle with really fallen women, not novices such as she. An opportunity like this didn’t come along every day, certainly not in Little Hyssop. She went out into the garden, lifted her chin and marched through the wooden door.

  “Charlie, my dear!” Caroline gave her a hug. Charlotte was pleased to see her new friend’s dress showed even more shocking cleavage than her own. “Red suits you. How I love the color, but one is never supposed to wear it when one has red hair as I do. At least that’s what Edward always said.” A brilliant flash flew across her face. “But really, why should I care what Edward thinks? For these six years, I’ve denied myself red gowns. Well, to hell with that! Tomorrow I shall go to Madame Duclos and order an entire new wardrobe! Red. Vermillion. Rose madder. Scarlet. Alizarin. Crimson. Ruby. Cardinal. Ah! What fun I shall have! Come and meet some of my other guests.”

  Charlotte was dragged to a table where two girls sat, one, a dark Spanish beauty named Victorina Castellano, the other, ethereally fair Sophie Rydell. They were a study in contrasts even beyond their coloring. Victorina was animated and voluble, peppering Charlotte with questions in her charming accent. Sophie was quiet, delicate, and terribly refined. Both were considerably younger than Charlotte’s thirty years.

  “It was so kind of Lady Christie to invite me.” Charlotte fiddled with a sterling fork. She had answered Victorina’s questions as best she could. Both young women were now aware of the accidental aspect of her residence on Jane Street.

  “If you are still here next Wednesday, I host a card party,” Sophie said. “You are most welcome to come.”

  Next Wednesday seemed a long way off. But Bay might even be back by then if all went well, and then she might be gone. “Card parties, teas. It seems you all are a very congenial group here on Jane Street.”

  “It is all Caroline’s doing,” Victorina explained. “I think at first, she was bored, missed the company of her friends in the ton. Her husband the baron made her the insult, putting her here. But she is a woman of strength. She will not just sit back and do nothing. Twiddling her toes.”

  Sophie leaned across the tea table and whispered, “Thumbs, Vicky. We help her keep busy. We tell her everything, and she puts it in her books.”

  Charlotte was confused. “Books?”

  “Do not worry. She changes things all around, the names, the hair colors,” Victorina said. “But her novels, they are very popular. Always the strong, rich man and the innocent girl fallen into sin against her will. A happy ending every time.” Victorina looked a bit wistful.

  Good Lord. Charlotte did not want to read the book about the wrong sister sleeping with the right man. It had all the earmarks of a best seller. She swallowed her bite of muffin.

  “Don’t forget the sex scenes.” Sophie smiled wickedly, dropping her refinement. “Caroline has a way with words. Women from all strata of society buy these books to learn our sensual secrets. Caroline says we are performing a public service, really.”

  Victorina’s dark eyes flashed. “And when a Jane Street gentleman misbehaves, Caroline turns him into a villain. He finds it very difficult to find a new mistress, afterward, I assure you. Lord Pope now resorts to desperate girls on the street. He even had to sell his house. We all know about him.”

  Charlotte had never heard of these books. From their description, they were not apt to be available in the Little Hyssop lending library. She resolved to ask Caroline about them at the earliest opportunity. She was introduced to four more mistresses during the course of the afternoon, and broke her vow, eating a great many tiny finger sandwiches and biscuits. She would have to waddle home carefully and ask Mrs. Kelly to push back dinner a few hours. When she bid good-bye, she was surrounded by a symphony of silk and perfume, kissed on the cheek by every courtesan and given open invitations for advice of all kinds. She had enjoyed herself immensely, shutting away her mama’s objections completely from her head. These women could help her devise a strategy to stay with Bay. It was time to be wicked.

  Bay lay on fresh sheets. He was somewhat fresh himself, having been permitted to wash, surrounded by four men, one with a pistol, two with truncheons, and the fourth a pair of fists that looked like hams. He had not been especially cooperative yesterday when he was helped to the chamber pot, nor when his hands were untied so he could eat the swill that had been prepared for him. His captors were so irritated with him that they had neglected his breakfast and luncheon today, but remembered to tie him fast to the bed after his ablutions, his naked body once again exposed in the dim light. Because they had not trusted him with a razor, his face was itchy with bristles. They had shoved something vile down his throat a little while ago, and his body felt weak as a kitten, his mind numb around the edges. They had not bothered to gag him again. His tongue was too clumsy for speech at any rate.

  But he was alert enough to know he waited for Anne. He imagined her lifting her black skirts and mounting him. He would have no choice but to serve as the sacrifice on her altar of parental ambition.

  If this situation were not happening to him, Bay imagined he’d think it amusing. He was a love slave, or a sex slave at any rate, love having little to do with anything anymore. Desired so ardently, he had nothing to do but fuck, with no real effort on his part. No words of promise, no casual caresses, no finesse necessary. Only his cock need function, and after yesterday’s embarrassing loss of control, it seemed his member had a mind of its own despite Bay’s abhorrence. He knew, though, that once Anne trapped him into fatherhood, he would have to marry her again. He could never permit his child to disappear in the arms of a madwoman.

  He drifted off to drugged sleep, finding critical thinking far too difficult. When she came to him, he was too far gone to respond, either verbally or physically. Whatever they had given him rendered him incapable despite Anne’s every merciless effort. Furious, she struck his face and left the room shrieking for her goons.

  He had been given a reprieve. A day at least for this lassitude to wear off. Tomorrow he’d have his wits about him. For now, he’d just go back to sleep.

  Bay had no notion of the time. He was washed again, begrudgingly fed, and much more lightly drugged. They had put something in his coffee, he knew. His eyelids were heavy, although his limbs had been livelier when he was permitted to get out of bed. His jailors were taking no chances on his reflexes. Bay wondered if Anne was aware that they still dosed him. He was not looking forward to her frustration if he failed to perform today.

  Anne would never let him contact Frazier. She disliked the man on principle, and would be suspicious that they had some sort of code word between them. Bay only wished that were true. He and Frazier had a very conventional war, with no need of secret ciphers. Bay’s one brief foray into espionage—reconnaissance, really—had cured him forever. Frazier had helped get him out of that debacle, and Bay knew he could count on his batman to get him out of this. If he could get word to Charlie somehow, she might be bright enough to read between the lines.

  Charlie knew his writing. He’d read her that letter about the necklace, and he would bet his walnuts she’d read every single bit of Byronic drivel he’d written to Deborah during the six weeks he was in Dorset. He could easily imagine her coming to his rescue and knocking Anne on the head with a blunt object. But Anne was so unstable he wouldn’t want to place Charlie in harm’s way. Charlie could go to Frazier, however. Bay would make sure of it. Frazier would be delighted to take Anne on, blunt object or bare hands.

  When he heard the jangle of keys, he shut his eyes and feigned sleep. Anne entered alone, the swish of silk the only sound in the grim little room. He felt her rub at his beard. “My. Your beard comes in quite red. I shall have someone shave
you tomorrow.”

  Bay groaned as if he were dreaming.

  “Don’t tell me those fools have miscalculated again. Wake up, Bay.” Her voice was sharp, insistent. Bay wondered how long it would take her before she lost her temper again.

  He kept his eyes resolutely closed, evening his breathing. If she hadn’t touched him, his plan might have worked.

  But touch him she did, with the friction of her gloved hands relentlessly working through his reservations. He would not “wake” for this, not participate willingly in this travesty. Not give her the satisfaction of his conscious complicity. She abandoned any preliminaries of kissing his lifeless lips or cuddling in his leaden arms. He lay absolutely still as she slid onto him, the fabric of her skirts teasing his skin.

  There had been a time when being inside her was all he ever dreamed of. He supposed he was now being punished for all those years of adultery—when he should have accepted his lot and moved on, away from Lady Anne Whitley.

  An image of Charlie flashed in his mind, her bare silky white skin above him, her full breasts bouncing as she rode him. Her delighted, astonished smile as she watched their bodies join. The arch of her back as she reached her peak. The fan of her thick dark lashes on her love-flushed cheeks when she gave herself up to sensation. He felt the tension in his balls release as he spurted into Anne, seeing Charlie all the while.

  But he said nothing, played possum, biting his tongue bloody so his ragged breaths would not reveal he was fully aware of what had transpired. Anne had collapsed upon his sweat-slick body, the scratchy starched ruffles of her dress irritating him.

  “You cannot tell me you are still asleep,” she purred. “You are as magnificent as ever.”

  He did not respond. Would not. The entire affair was a form of necrophilia. Their love was dead and no amount of her sexual scheming would revive it. As long as he was being drugged, he would milk it for all it was worth.