Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 10

Bay was beginning to think his luck was finally running out. He stood in front of his shaving mirror, blotting up the blood that coursed under his chin to his bare throat. He was clumsy this morning-a sleepless night lubricated with a bottle of whisky accounted for the tremor in his hands. His black eyes looked even blacker than usual, surrounded as they were by darkened circles. He should have allowed Frazier to finish shaving him, but wasn’t in the mood for the lecture.

Nor had he been in the mood to see Charlie last night. His reluctant mistress was proof that he had somehow, somewhere gone far astray from the ideals he had when he was twenty.

At twenty, Bay had believed in love. That marriage was forever. That he would somehow avenge the death of his child.

But his life had gone on, loveless, childless. No matter the risks he took, he survived them. He’d had no thoughts of marriage or other children for years, just careless pleasure. Now he had a chance to change that. And he wouldn’t.

Not with Anne. She still stirred his blood, but he couldn’t give her what she needed.

Frazier rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Don’t bite my head off. Your Mr. Mulgrew is here, Major.”

“Bloody hell. I haven’t even had breakfast.” Not that he was remotely hungry.

“It’s noon, sir. Time to be thinking about lunch. Shall I stash him in your study and bring in a tray?”

“I suppose.” Bay pulled a clean shirt over his head, taking care for it not to touch his chin. He applied some sticking plaster, dispensed with a neckcloth, and shrugged into a dark blue jacket. Each step down the stairs rattled what was left of his brain.

Mr. Mulgrew was in his same tweed coat, a squashed hat on his lap. “Good afternoon, my lord. Sorry I was unable to come any earlier.”

“Thank God for that,” Bay murmured. He didn’t bother to correct the man again about his title.

“I expect your man told you I was by yesterday. Had a nice chat with the old Earl of Cranmore. He seems to think his son and the missus have gone to France.”

“Well, that would be the logical destination. You didn’t, I hope, say a word about the necklace?”

Mr. Mulgrew looked aggrieved. “I’m a professional, your lordship. Said I owed his son some money and wanted to repay it, kind of a wedding present, don’t you know. Seems that Arthur has a school chum with a château, or what’s left of it, in the Loire Valley. The Vicomte Bienville. Beans.”

“Pardon?”

“The friend. Known as Beans. You know these silly nicknames boys pick up in school. If my given name were Patrice I might prefer Beans, too. So I’m sending someone to Patty’s house in Vouvray with a message from Cranmore. And you, of course.”

Bay imagined Mr. Mulgrew had accepted a second fee from the Earl of Cranmore, but that didn’t matter. “When will you know anything?”

“Not for a day or three yet. I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a touch peaked this afternoon. Steady habits, sir, steady habits. A pint at lunch is fine, but you’ve got to watch out for overindulgence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Just then Frazier entered with a tray. Bay hoped the coffeepot would provide a cure for both his hangover and Mr. Mulgrew’s unsolicited advice. There was a thick beef and cheese sandwich on a plate. Bay’s French chef would never have assembled such a prosaic meal.

“Apologies, Major. Monsieur David has gone to get a tooth pulled. I hope this will do.”

Mr. Mulgrew looked at the sandwich with some respect. “I’ll leave you to your luncheon then. Good day, Lord Bayard.”

Bay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a bite. It would do. It would have to.

Charlotte had washed her face and hands, and was now lying on her bed, a cool cloth across her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. She had looked an absolute fright in the garden. What must Lady Christie have thought of her? Granted, the baroness was liberal in her thinking, but no one could excuse Charlotte’s shameful tangle of hair or her tear-stained face. Charlotte had braided and pinned up her hair, covering it with her usual cap. Bay must be tired of her already, as he hadn’t come last night or even early this morning. Why should she try to look alluring? She was an old maid and might as well face the facts. Just because the fiend had tapped into her heretofore hidden reservoirs of passion didn’t mean he was in the water doing the breaststroke with her. Men were as easily aroused by a naughty painting of a female as the female herself. Charlotte was just a living painting in Bay’s collection.

She had almost convinced herself of her utter worthlessness when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She flung the wet cloth from her face and sat up against the pillows, steepling her fingers on her lap. She knew she resembled a woman in prayer, and she was. She prayed he would send her back home and extricate himself from her heart. She could not afford another ten years of useless regrets.

Bay entered, minus the usual spring in his step. He was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed. He was ill! That’s why he hadn’t come to her last night. If she were home she would give him her special infusion of herbs from her garden. Perhaps that marquess next door had a few leaves she could snip. His garden seemed to have everything.

“Are you unwell, Bay?”

“Not you, too. I should have come out with a sack over my head.” Instead of sitting down on the bed with her, he went to one of the chairs at the fireplace. “Take off the stupid napkin, Charlie. I told you I won’t stand for it.”

His words were rude, but there was no fight to him today. Charlotte fiddled with the strings under her chin. “How was I to know when to expect you? Our original agreement was for every evening, but then you said you were coming last night and didn’t.”

Bay raised an eyebrow. “Missed me, did you?”

“Certainly not,” huffed Charlotte. “Mrs. Kelly was disappointed, that’s all. Dinner was most delicious.”

Bay stretched his long legs out in front of him. Although his face was careworn, he was dressed to sartorial perfection as usual. “I drank my dinner, I’m afraid. Had an unexpected encounter with a woman from my past.”

“Oh?” Charlotte pretended disinterest, but her heart kicked up a bit. She imagined there were a great many women in Bay’s past.

“You’ve had lovers, Charlie. What’s your past?”

“I’ve hardly had lovers,” Charlotte snapped. “You make it sound like I’m a concubine. And I can’t see why it should concern you. We hardly know each other.”

Bay stared at her and then threw his head back, laughing. She was pleased to see the melancholy wiped from his face, but did not want to be the butt of his joke. “What I mean to say is, we may know each other in the Biblical sense, but you know nothing about me and I know nothing about you, except you keep a series of mistresses. And you were in the army.” And you were married and are surprisingly poetic.

“Exactly so. I thought I’d remedy that situation this afternoon. Say, ten questions apiece. You may ask me anything you like and I shall do the same.”

“How will I know you’ll answer honestly?”

He waggled a finger at her. “Come, come, Charlie. I am not the one here whose honesty is in question.”

“Up until I had the misfortune to meet you, my honesty was never in question.” Except the once, and she had paid for that lie a long time.

“I’ll begin. I quite thoroughly researched Deborah, you know. I do with all my mistresses. As you were thrust on me so precipitously without proper vetting, I must rectify that.”

“You were the one who was thrusting, as I recall,” Charlotte said tartly.

“Be that as it may. I was under a misapprehension, as you well know. Now then. Where shall I begin?”

“How about ‘When would you like to go home, Miss Fallon?’ The answer, in case you’re interested, is ‘Right this very minute.’”

“That brings your questions down to nine. There’s no point in talking to yourself, you know. You’ll never get anywhere.”

Charlotte aimed a little fringed pillow at him but missed. “How can you be so annoying?”

“Tsk-tsk. That’s eight left for you now. And the answer is, most people don’t find me annoying at all. My grandmother loved me.”

“She’s dead.”

“Ouch. You are cruel to remind me of my loss.” He looked sincerely upset. Charlotte longed to throw the Cupid-clock straight at his head next.

“How many men have you slept with, Charlotte?”

She bit her lip, hating to give him the satisfaction. “Two.”

His face betrayed nothing. “Your turn.”

“How many women have you slept with?” She didn’t really want to know, but it was the only thing she could think of. She already knew his middle name.

Bay made a pretense of counting on his fingers. After more than a minute passed, he grinned and her fury mounted. “Rather a lot. But a gentleman does not kiss and tell. I never keep more than one mistress at a time, if that is what’s worrying you. You’ll have no competition.”

Odious, insufferable man. As if she cared what he did.

“Who was the woman from your past yesterday?”

“You’re out of turn, Charlie.” His voice was level, but she knew she hit a nerve.

“I’ll forfeit another question if you answer now.”

He had the oddest expression on his face. “My wife.”

Black spots danced the mazurka before Charlotte’s eyes. At least she was on a bed this time and wouldn’t hit her head on the floor again when she fainted.

He’d done a stupid thing telling her that way. He found a balled-up wet cloth and wiped her brow. Her eyelids fluttered. He could see each tiny blue vein against the parchment of her skin. She was like his own version of Snow White, minus the dwarfs, of course. Bay was not completely perverted, although he’d indulged in a ménage à trois ou quatre a time or two to try to drive Anne out of his mind. It hadn’t worked, but had been pleasant in its way. Seven dwarfs would be entirely out of the question, however.

He unbuttoned her bodice, watching the pulse leap erratically at her throat. Lord, he hoped she wouldn’t expire in his bed. It would do his reputation no good. And he would miss her.

She’d slept with two men. He assumed she had counted him in that number, although sleeping had little to do with the flames of the past four days. He wondered that they had not combusted, both of them just a shower of sparks scattering on the rumpled sheets, scorching tiny black holes in the linen.

She really was nothing like Deb, although even Deb had been nothing like the idea of Deb that circulated in the ton. The Divine Deborah had been with just four men as far as he knew. Five, probably, if one included gormless Arthur, who had made inroads with Deb while Bay was in Dorset. But an hour in Deb’s company made one feel as if one had been in her bed. She touched, flirted, teased. Befuddled, really. A man felt blessed that she had given him the time of day, and the exaggerations grew.

Charlotte did not have a coy bone in her body. She was a sharp-toothed spinster that someone had hurt. Bay did not want to add to that hurt, nor did he want to get rid of her quite yet. He was the worst sort of cad. He’d driven her to desperation and theft. But he’d make it up to her, and soon.

“Wake up, Charlie. Or I’ll take advantage of your unconsciousness.”

“Just like the first time, you fiend,” she mumbled.

Ah. There were her teeth. “Exactly. I’m going to sit you up now.” He pulled her up onto her pillows. She was as limp as a stuffed doll, still unnaturally pale.

“I didn’t mean to shock you.” He smoothed a wrinkle in her bodice and she slapped him away.

“Well, you did.” Her blue eyes were icy. “Deborah never, ever consents to sleep with married men. You tricked her and me. Bad enough I’m now fornicating, but you have made me an adulteress!”

“Let me explain.”

“What is there to say? Yesterday you spent the evening with your wife! I sat here like an idiot waiting for you. I’ll not be party to breaking some poor woman’s heart.”

Bay smiled. “I don’t think you need to worry about Anne. She can take care of herself.”

“What do you know? You’re a man! You’ve no notion how women are dependent on the occasional goodwill of their fathers and husbands. We cannot keep our own money, own property, vote. Even our children don’t belong to us. Oh my God. Do you have children?”

He gripped her hand hard. “Charlie. I misspoke. I am no longer married. In fact, I never was married. The ceremony was invalid, as the bride had another husband. We thought he was dead but he was not. She went back to him and I went to war.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip, processing what seemed even to him to be the plot of some gothic novel. Whitley Abbey with its gargoyles had served as the perfect setting for sin, seduction, and intrigue. Viscount Whitley had been the perfect villain. Absently Bay rubbed at the scar on his cheek. Most people took it for a war wound, but it was not.

“It was long ago. But Anne and I-we’ve kept in touch on occasion. Her husband died recently, and she-” He could not possibly repeat the reason Anne came to him. “She needs a friend.”

“Do you still love her?”

He stood up abruptly and went to the fireplace. “Is this one of your six questions?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

How to answer? A part of him would always love Anne. He had worshipped her, growing up not far from her family’s estate. Then she had made her brilliant marriage when she was just sixteen. She disappeared, becoming sought-after words to him in the gossip columns his grandmother read. ‘Society rejoices as Young Lady W-has returned to Town, having found rusticating at W-Abbey a bore. She and Lord W-were seen at the Somerset soiree Thursday evening.’ He finally had his chance when she returned home five years later, beautiful and tragic and lonely. He’d fought his grandmother tooth and nail for permission to marry before he came of age. If only he’d waited a few months, his life would have been far different.

“My answer would be complicated if I could give it, Charlie. I’m not sure I know it myself.”

“Never mind then. It’s none of my business, really.” She had drawn herself up in a little ball, her arms wrapped around her ghastly gray skirts. He would have to do something about her clothes eventually. If she stayed.

He returned to the bed, removed one hand from her knee and massaged her knuckles. “I’ve told you my tragedy. Now tell me yours.”

She pulled away. “It’s hardly a tragedy. I was engaged once, or thought I was. And then I wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

“Deborah, in a way. She ran off with Harfield. Robert was disgusted. I think at first he hoped Deb would marry George and add to our consequence, and when that did not happen he suddenly discovered his morals and became very priggish. And then my father made a truly bad investment that affected my dowry. My fiancé decided not to align himself with the disgraceful Fallon family.”

“After he had taken your virtue.”

Charlotte flushed. “Yes.”

“Any number of times.”

Her blush deepened. “Yes.”

“The bastard.”

“I could not agree more, but Mr. and Mrs. Chase were in fact married.”

“Robert Chase?”

Charlotte shrank away into the headboard. “Do you know him?”

Bay’s fists bunched up. If Rob were standing in front of him now, he would not be standing long. “Dorset is not so large. We’ve run into each other a time or two.” He cupped her cheek. “I wonder how I could have missed the Fallon sisters.”

“We lived in a tiny village. Bexington. George’s father was the largest landowner, and an absentee landlord most of the time. There was very little in the way of social life. And my parents’ precarious financial position didn’t allow trips to Dorchester, let alone London at the end, when I might have made my debut. Anyway, I’ve not lived in Bexington for a decade.” He sensed her uneasiness talking about her home. She switched the topic. “How long have you been back in England?”

“I resigned my commission after Waterloo. Took the long way home by way of Italy.”

“Where you bought your naked ladies.”

Bay grinned. “You don’t approve of my taste in art?”

“I suppose it is easier to indulge in carnal pleasures surrounded by nudity rather than the martyrdom of saints.”

He looked around the room. “Or angels. I confess when Angel-when the statues first made their appearance, they had a depressing effect upon my ardor.”

“I doubt anything could depress you long, sir. In my limited experience, you seem randy as a goat.”

“A goat? A goat!” Bay put a hand over his heart. “I don’t know when I’ve been so insulted.”

“I believe it’s a classical reference to the god Pan, who was admired for his masculine attributes,” Charlotte said, her pursed mouth prim. He wanted to kiss her and make her un-pucker.

Bay leaned in toward her. “Do you admire my masculine attributes, Charlie?”

She blinked her eyes at his closeness, then gave him a clear blue gaze. “I believe I do. And that’s all the questions I’m willing to answer today.”

He traced her lush mouth with a fingertip. “That was a very good answer, Charlie. I may even forgive you for calling me a goat. If I remember my mythology correctly, Pan fucked every one of the maenads. Orgies left and right.”

“They were madwomen. Drunk,” whispered Charlotte, her lip trembling against his finger.

“Whereas you are so very sane and sober. Even more of a challenge, I expect. Let me drive you a little bit mad, Charlie.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as she turned it up in a rueful smile. They could help each other forget the past for a while.

Her hands brushed through the bristle of his short crop, circling gently. “What have you done with your horns?”

“Gone the way of my cloven hooves. Help me with my boots and you’ll see.”