Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 14

Mrs. Kelly came into the dining room bearing a rather grubby note. Charlotte put her fork down. The truce between her and the housekeeper was fragile at best, and right now Mrs. Kelly was frowning at her with some ferocity quite putting her off her coddled eggs.

“A letter for you, Miss Fallon. From Sir Michael, I believe. The urchin who delivered it to the kitchen door didn’t say and didn’t even wait for a coin. Now before I give it to you, you must promise me that you’ll be up to no funny business. I’ve got to leave the house for an hour or two on some errands, and Sir Michael will have my head if you get up to your old tricks.” The woman actually held the letter behind her back, as if withholding a sweet from a child.

A letter of her own! She had practically worn holes in Deb’s dozen letters, mooning over Bay’s unexpectedly romantic turns of phrase.

“I promise I will be right here when you come back, Mrs. Kelly. Is there anything you’d like me to do for you while you’re gone?” Charlotte asked sweetly.

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you? I suppose if you want fresh flowers for your room and the downstairs parlor you might cut some.” She placed the letter on the opposite end of the dining table and left the room. Shortly thereafter, Charlotte heard the slam of the back door as the woman left for the market.

Charlotte was up in an instant, all thoughts of finishing breakfast gone. Her fingers trembled as she broke the red wax seal on Bay’s letter.

Dear Deborah,

Charlotte sat down on a dining chair so fast she nearly fell. Dear Deborah! Dear Deborah! How could the man write such a thing? She was tempted to tear the paper into a million little pieces, then stomp on them. Even if he were distracted by travel, he should know her name. He’d shouted it loudly enough when he emptied himself inside her time after time. Her face grew hot and her pulse quickened in anger.

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.

Eventually the angels had all gone to heaven. Charlotte and her new friend were glowing with perspiration where they weren’t coated in dust. The brick path looked like a battlefield, the odd elbow and foot blown off by the enemy and scattered. Charlotte sent Laurette back through the wall so she could sweep the bits of plaster under the foliage. Before she left, Laurette invited her for tea tomorrow, which would make a nice farewell party from Jane Street. She was not about to be rushed out before she was ready, Bay be damned. What difference did a day or two more make, when he was undoubtedly in the arms of some French floozy?

Charlotte was nearly ready to go next door when Mrs. Kelly knocked at her bedroom door. “Lady Christie is downstairs, Miss Fallon.”

“She is?” This was most unexpected. Such a flurry of friendship for her, when she had spent most of the past ten years in solitude with her undependable cats. She tied her battered bonnet over her usual cap. Perhaps it was time to give them up, but they had annoyed the annoying Bay so very, very much. It was too bad he would not see her one more time.

She followed Mrs. Kelly downstairs. Caroline was sitting in the parlor, frowning over a little notebook in her lap. She was crossing out something with a silver pencil.

“Caroline! I didn’t expect you, but I’m so happy to see you.”

“Are you going somewhere? My, forgive me for being blunt, but that is an atrocious hat.”

Charlotte flopped down on the settee beside her. “I know, but it’s all I have. I’ve been invited to the Mad Marquess’s house. His mistress Laurette and I engaged in a bout of vandalism yesterday.” Charlotte proceeded to tell Caroline the particulars, and to her discomfort, watched Caroline take notes as she did so. She was very much afraid that an obituary for the cherubs was being written, to be included in a future volume of Lady Christie’s shocking novels. Charlotte’s fit of pique would be made famous, or more accurately, infamous. Hopefully no one in Little Hyssop would ever connect the quiet Mrs. Fallon with the wild woman who smashed statues on Jane Street and slept with her sister’s lover.

“Fascinating. This Laurette sounds like a splendid girl. Do you think I might come with you?”

“I suppose. She seems quite lonely. She hasn’t a thing to do but wait for Lord Conover to come. And when he does arrive, she wishes him to the devil.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Another unhappy mistress? You two will give Jane Street a bad reputation.”

“You needn’t worry about that. There will be no gloom cloud over Number Eight. I received my congé in yesterday’s mail. I’ve sent for Bay’s Mr. Frazier and will meet with him tomorrow. The sooner I can make arrangements to leave, the better.”

Caroline’s pencil rolled onto the floor. “But no!”

“Oh, but yes.” Charlotte felt her lip tremble.

“And I was just getting to know you.” Caroline patted her hand. “You understand I’m fond of all the girls here-most of them, anyway. I’ve had to be careful of Lucy Dellamar, though. Things seem to disappear when she comes calling. The odd silver teaspoon, the brooch I left on my dressing table, that sort of thing. It’s said her protector keeps her on a very short economic leash, so the poor girl is probably only supplementing her income. One day her sticky fingers are bound to get her in trouble. If only she would come to me, perhaps I could help her. I try to help them all, you see.” Caroline twisted a rather spectacular topaz bracelet over her glove. “But the Janes are not quite the thing. You seem so nice and normal. Refined. It’s been a while since I had such a friend.”

Charlotte swallowed back her tears. “But I’m a fallen woman.”

“Well, all of us have made a mistake or three, I expect. Your family was gentry, was it not?”

“Yes, but at the end we were quite ruined. When my parents died, they were one step away from the workhouse.”

“Then we have something in common. My father always had more pride than pounds. Papa would have been thrilled to know Edward proposed. Our relatives found bailing him out over the years tedious in the extreme. Papa spent every bit of mama’s settlement money and then some. He’s dead, else he would be hovering about wondering why I have not found a rich lover by now to spot him a monkey.”

“Why haven’t you?” Charlotte asked.

Caroline looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps one day I will. It’s not as though I haven’t had offers.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Let’s not keep Laurette waiting. If you are leaving, I shall have to replace you.

Charlotte laughed. “Fair weather friend! I think Laurette is as ill-at-ease here as I am.”

“I got used to it,” Caroline said softly.

They did not go next door via the garden gate but instead stepped out onto the short street, turned right, and lifted the shiny brass star and moon knocker. The butler opening the door was a foreign fellow, very elegant and correct. He announced them both and Charlotte watched Laurette blanch. Charlotte should have sent round a note explaining that she was bringing another guest. Her manners as well as her morals had gone missing.

But Caroline took charge as usual. In the very short time Charlotte had known her, Caroline seemed a force to be reckoned with. Caroline was already holding Laurette’s hands in hers, beaming a smile at her. “Do forgive Charlotte. I invited myself. Your arrival on the street in the Mad Marquess’s house has caused quite the commotion, and when she said she was coming to tea, I couldn’t resist. I am Caroline Christie.”

“How do you do, Lady Christie?”

“Please call me Caroline. The less we hear of my husband’s name, the better.” She settled herself on the settee, smiled, and patted a pillow. Laurette had no choice but to sit beside her while Charlotte arranged her dull gray skirts on a chair. Laurette’s hands were twisting nervously in her lap. “I told you you’d scare her,” Charlotte said. “Would you like me to pour, Laurette? I’m quite used to Caroline now. She’s been a lifesaver.”

“Don’t worry, I shan’t reveal a thing to any of our other neighbors. I can be discreet if I care to be.”

Laurette looked shocked. “You live here on Jane Street?”

“Indeed I do. My husband bought my house five years ago when we separated. He thought to make a point, you see, to let me know what he thought of me. But I find the street suits me very well.”

“Caroline lives next door to me. She heard me in my garden crying one morning and we’ve been friends ever since,” Charlotte said. “I seem to be a noisy neighbor.” She winked at Laurette and passed a cup to Caroline.

“All men are beasts. I am sorry I missed the demolition of those deviant little angels. I should have enjoyed getting my hands around their scrawny necks.”

“It was fun.” Laurette grinned.

The ice broken, they spent the next hour filling Laurette in on the personalities on the street. Charlotte was almost sorry she would be leaving. But leave she must. She left Caroline and Laurette deep in gossip. She was going home to pack-again. This time she would not be secreting paintings into her luggage. Tomorrow morning Mr. Frazier was coming to make the arrangements for her return home. She would be in her cottage before she knew it, her contact with “Courtesan Court” over. It was time to go back to boring.