Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 16

Despite Charlotte’s misgivings, she fell back asleep, drifting into sensual dreams. In no time at all, Mrs. Kelly was shaking her awake.

“You’ve got company downstairs. Angus-Mr. Frazier and another gentleman, Mr. Mulgrew.”

Charlotte groaned. “What time is it?”

“Just on seven. Why didn’t you get me up last night?”

Mrs. Kelly’s tone was accusatory. She obviously believed Bay was being held hostage by four ruffians under the direction of Lady Anne Whitley. Charlotte was not yet prepared to agree.

“I’ll dress as quickly as I can. Please go downstairs and offer them breakfast.”

Mrs. Kelly looked even more aggrieved. “And just what do you think they’ve been doing this past hour waiting for you, Miss Slugabed? There’s no time to lose!” With that warning, she turned on her heel as quickly as an elderly cook could and left Charlotte with a basin of hot water. Within fifteen minutes Charlotte was dressed in her usual gray, a neat cap covering her curls. She could do nothing about her pale lips or shadowed eyes, but perhaps a cup of strong tea could clear her thoughts. She followed the masculine bellowing down to the kitchen. Mr. Frazier was even more disheveled and agitated. He paced the room while a very large man sat placidly drinking a cup of coffee at the table. The only sign of the early hour was a stubborn cowlick of grizzled gray hair that stood up on the back of his head. He rose the instant he saw her.

“Good morning. Mr. Mulgrew, I presume.” Charlotte extended a hand. He clasped it briefly between two huge ones. A prizefighter, Charlotte thought, looking at his genial face with its broken nose, or a man very unlucky with someone else’s fists. Mulgrew caught her stare and rubbed his nose reflexively. “The Duke of Egremont’s daughter,” he said, sheepish. “One of my most famous cases, but alas, the little b-er, witch had a spectacular right hook. Angus has convinced me his lordship has fallen into a spot of trouble.”

“Sir Michael,” Charlotte corrected.

“Aye. Too bad my assistant is still in France, or we’d have better odds.” He squinted at Charlotte, then took out a pair of spectacles from his tweed pocket. “I can see it, Angus. With the right attire, Miss Fallon might be the answer to our prayers.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and was saved from speech when Mrs. Kelly slapped a plate of toast and eggs on the table.

“Here is the plan, Miss Fallon. Mrs. Kelly here is going to beg for an interview with Lady Whitley, keep her at home as long as she can. You and I and Angus will go to Islington and break into the house where Lord Bayard is being held.”

“Sir Michael,” Charlotte muttered through a mouthful of poached egg.

“Right. You’ll be dressed as a strumpet, o’course, and go round the back door, keep the boys occupied while Angus and I do the rescuing.”

Charlotte’s toast lodged in her throat. After an alarming series of coughs whereupon Mr. Mulgrew was prompted to pound her rather forcefully on her back with one of his large red hands, she was able to object.

“Look here. Why don’t I go see Lady Whitley, and Mrs. Kelly bring round a basket of food for these men? That makes much more sense to me.”

Angus’s bushy red brows drew together. “Hmm. That’s not a half-bad plan. They were complaining last night about the local pie shop. Rosemary, no one would suspect you of anything underhanded, and your cooking is ambrosia from the gods. What do you say?”

Mrs. Kelly pinked in pleasure. “I’ll be happy to go into the gates of hell itself if it will mean saving Sir Michael from Anne Whitley. My sister never did care for her.”

Mulgrew clapped his hands. “Excellent. One of us can help you tote in the victuals. Let’s say Lady Whitley is supplying the house for a few days or so. It would only make sense for you to have a helper.” He looked across the room at Angus, who despite his bright red hair, was a much less conspicuous figure than Mulgrew. “You can wear a cap. One of those chef things. Let me in when the coast is clear and then we’ll see what’s what.”

Charlotte swallowed her tea, hoping she had chosen the less dangerous mission. Bay’s staff did not think highly of Lady Anne Whitley. She admitted to herself she was curious about Bay’s choice of a wife, even if the ceremony had not been altogether legal. She watched as Mrs. Kelly spun around the kitchen, tucking food into boxes and baskets. Mulgrew pulled out a watch. “Can you be ready by ten o’clock, Miss Fallon? Too early to be calling, but also too early for Lady Whitley to be out and about.”

“I’m ready right now.”

Mrs. Kelly paused from wrapping up a round of cheese and frowned. “Oh, no, dear. You want to make Lady Whitley jealous and keep her off balance. You are Bay’s mistress, after all. She won’t ever believe he offered you his protection if she sees you like this. You look like a Sunday school teacher.”

“I am a Sunday school teacher,” Charlotte grumbled.

“The red dress,” Mrs. Kelly said firmly. “You can wear that again. Shocking, it is. I’ll help with your hair. You two”-she pointed at Frazier and Mulgrew-“pack up the rest. Go into the wine cellar, too. I’ll fix those brutes a lunch they’ll be too drunk to remember.”

Charlotte was pushed upstairs by Mrs. Kelly before she had a chance to wipe the breakfast crumbs from her lips. She was stuffed into the red dress again, her bosom glaringly obvious for daytime. Mrs. Kelly was a bit of a miracle worker with her hair, creating an effect that looked like she had recently risen well-satisfied from bed. Charlotte owned no appropriate hat for a visit to Lady Whitley’s, but Mrs. Kelly went upstairs and came down with ribbon, a length of tulle, some fringe, and a paste pin that she somehow twisted around Charlotte’s head. In addition, she brought cosmetics left over from Bay’s former mistresses that Irene had squirreled away in her room. Charlotte’s lips and cheeks were rouged, her already dark eyelashes blackened, and the corner of her mouth patched. Mrs. Kelly could have rivaled any dresser on Drury Lane. Charlotte scarcely recognized herself.

“Is-is not all this a bit much?”

“Exactly so. You look a proper whore now, Miss Fallon, if you don’t mind me saying so. Lady Whitley will be outraged you’ve come to call, but won’t be able to resist quizzing you. And if Angus is right, she must have made Sir Michael write that letter to get rid of you. You’re going to tell her you’re not leaving Jane Street until you hear it from his own lips.” She yanked down Charlotte’s bodice another inch. “There. Perfect.”

Charlotte felt a bit faint, and not only because the dress was so constricting. It was decided that they would go in two vehicles, with Mr. Mulgrew dropping Charlotte off in Mayfair before journeying on to Islington. He peppered her with instructions, reminding her of the day not so very long ago when Deborah lectured her about Bay. A great deal had happened since then.

Self-conscious, she stepped out of the hack, wrapping her shawl as high as possible. Whitley House was a middling-grand property, with as stiff-necked a butler as she had ever encountered, who opened the door before she had trod on the lowest step. It was clear he admitted her into the hallway with great reluctance, confused by her cultured accent, which clashed so with her attire.

“Please inform Lady Whitley that Miss Charlotte Fallon has come to call.” Charlotte looked down her nose at Denning, the butler, no mean feat as he topped her by several inches.

“Your card, miss?” he held out a white-gloved hand.

Charlotte’s homely reticule was quite empty save for a vinaigrette, a handkerchief, and the cab fare back to Jane Street. “It is too early for calling cards, sir, as you must know. Were it not a matter of the gravest urgency, I would not dream of disturbing her ladyship at this hour,” Charlotte bluffed. The fringe on her headdress wavered as she spoke.

“May I inform Lady Whitley of the nature of this so-called emergency?”

“You may not,” Charlotte snapped.

The butler sniffed. Charlotte found herself shut up in a little room off the hall, no doubt intended for pesky tradesmen or those seeking charitable donations. She tossed her shawl aside and sat in the only chair, a spindly affair designed to hasten one out of Whitley House as quickly as possible. The room was white, bare of ornamentation. Charlotte wished for a mirror to see whether her eyelashes were flaking black bits onto her crimson cheeks. Her face was so hot now rouge was completely superfluous. She fished out her handkerchief and wiped away the worst of her maquillage. She had been doubtful she should appear as sluttish as Mrs. Kelly had painted her. Bay was a man of taste and restraint. Her lips twitched when she remembered exactly how restraining he could be.

There was no way to measure the time she sat, save for the increasing wetness under her armpits and at her hairline. The longer she waited, the more nervous she became. She thought of her sister, ever at home in any circumstance. Deborah would have no difficulty dealing with Anne Whitley. Deborah would be saucy, flirtatious even with another woman. She was capable of great charm, and was diamond-sharp in intelligence, even if their schooling had been less than lengthy. Deb did read, hung on to every word her powerful protectors had uttered. She could hold her own in any conversation when it suited her to appear intelligent. Conversely, she could seem to be the merest bit of attractive fluff if the situation called for it. Which Deborah should she channel, Charlotte wondered. Gradually, she sat taller in the uncomfortable chair.

Her composure faltered a bit when Lady Whitley opened the door. To say she was shocked was an understatement. It was almost as if she was looking in a distorted mirror. Anne’s black hair, blue eyes, and buxom figure were very like Charlotte’s own. No wonder Bay had selected Deborah from the bevy of available courtesans. He was reliving his time with Anne with each mistress he chose. The woman confirmed it with the first words out of her mouth.

“I see Bay is running true to form. You look like all his other Jane Street whores. Angela and Helen or some such. But neither of them had the gall to come to my home. What is it you want?”

Charlotte detected a certain wariness behind the rudeness. She swallowed and stood, throwing back her shoulders and thrusting her exposed chest before her. If she was not mistaken, she was slightly better endowed than Anne Whitley.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Whitley. I didn’t know where else to turn. Bay has told me so much about you, you see. So many…wonderful things. I’m very worried about him.” She rubbed her hands together nervously, giving credence to her words. She was Deb at her most helpless. Perhaps Lady Whitley would take pity on her.

Anne looked about the little room, as if she wished to conjure up another chair. “Let’s discuss this in the parlor.”

Charlotte followed her across the hall to a lovely white and blue salon with touches of black lacquer, a setting that showed Lady Whitley to great advantage. She realized, however, that there was a newer Lady Whitley somewhere in the country, who was probably planning to redecorate first thing. In the meantime, Anne sat regally on a blue wing chair and indicated Charlotte should do the same opposite. A china clock on the black marble mantelpiece chimed the half hour.

“I have very little time. I repeat, why are you here?”

Charlotte’s mission was to keep Anne Whitley away from Islington as long as possible. If the woman could hire four thugs, she had resources to hire even more. Mr. Frazier and Mr. Mulgrew needed time.

“This is a very beautiful room, my lady. Very tasteful. It suits you.” Charlotte gave her most deferential smile.

“Come to the point, Miss Fallon.”

Flattery was not working. Charlotte placed a hand over her heart and looked as pitiful as possible. “Very well. I don’t wish to shock you, my lady, but I have nowhere else to turn. I’m quite alone in London, you see. Without friends or family. I’m very much afraid that Sir Michael is missing. I am in hopes you might know his whereabouts.”

“Missing? How absurd.” Anne arched a perfect brow. “He’s in France, I believe. Didn’t he write to you?”

Charlotte stuck to her script and wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “No, ma’am. I’ve received no word at all from him.”

“Impossible! I know for a fact-” Anne flushed and closed her lips. Charlotte knew then that Anne was hiding something. Whether Frazier’s fears were grounded or not, something was off.

“He promised to write, he did,” Charlotte confided, batting her thickened eyelashes. “His letters are a perfect treat. How he does go on in the most romantic fashion. But then, I expect you know that.” Bay had probably written hundreds of letters to Anne over the years.

Anne plucked at her skirt. “Perhaps he is just very busy.”

Charlotte shook her head, fringe flying at the corner of her eye. Really, she wanted to rip Mrs. Kelly’s concoction right off her head. “His manservant, Mr. Frazier, came to me yesterday. It’s most unlike Bay to travel anywhere without him. It’s his opinion Bay has met with foul play.”

Anne tittered. “How ridiculous. The man has just gone off on holiday. And,” Anne said, looking disdainfully at Charlotte, “before he left he told me he was quite committed to me. He intends to end your association, Miss Fallon. He has no need of a mistress any longer.”

Charlotte’s heart fell. The dismissive words of Bay’s letter came back to haunt her. But if she accepted Anne’s version of events, she would have no reason to stay here. “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. He couldn’t be so cruel after all we’ve meant to each other.”

“I watched him write the letter himself! He has broken with you completely and wants you to go back to Little-Little, oh, it’s some sort of vegetable.” Anne’s eyes glittered in triumph.

If Anne was present when Bay wrote the letter, then he certainly was not in France. “But I never received a letter. I won’t leave until I read it from his own hand,” Charlotte said stubbornly.

“What if you heard it from his own lips?”

Oh dear. Surely Anne didn’t intend to drag Charlotte to Islington and interrupt Bay’s breakout.

“I-I suppose.”

“Wait right here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”

Charlotte couldn’t give Anne the opportunity to warn those who were keeping Bay prisoner, for she was now fully convinced that’s exactly what the situation was. There was something entirely mad about Anne Whitley. She reached out a hand and Anne recoiled.

“What do you mean to do?”

“Why, send for Bay, of course! I do know where he is, actually. We’ve had a little interlude away from that interfering Frazier. And you. Bay will come here and tell you to go and leave us in peace.” She gave a ghastly smile and left Charlotte seated on her chair.

Oh, but she had muffed her mission. She looked around the room wildly, hoping to find a spare pistol or brass candlestick. Disappointed, she set to praying that Anne’s messenger would arrive once Bay was freed, tripping over the subdued bodies of the four guards. Bay would come here and straighten all this out. There was nothing to do but continue her conversation with God as she waited for Anne to return.

And when she did, Charlotte was dismayed to see that it was Anne who had discovered a spare pistol and had it pointing straight at her ill-clad head. Charlotte’s conversation with God took on more urgency.

“We’ll just see which one of us Bay chooses,” Anne said, smug. “This might help him make up his mind a little faster.”

Mrs. Kelly put the empty wine bottle down. Never had she enjoyed herself so much in any kitchen. An enormous spread of food covered the dinged table. Chairs were overturned, and three large men were trussed like chickens on a spit on the floor. The wine bottle had assisted one man into unconsciousness after he made an especially rude remark. The fourth man was currently being divested of his clothes upstairs so that Sir Michael would have something with which to cover his body when he returned home. There wasn’t time to search for his own things.

Angus and Mr. Mulgrew had been mercilessly efficient in dispatching the brutes as they sat at the table like slavering wolves. Mrs. Kelly liked to think that her rabbit pie had a hand in bespelling them into letting down their guard. They had dutifully helped her bring in the food from the carriage, allowing Frazier to disappear upstairs in all the confusion. She had their full and undivided attention as she had unpacked the victuals from their containers, chatting artlessly as Frazier let Mr. Mulgrew in. When they both returned to the kitchen, each was armed and definitely dangerous. Before any of the villains could think to move, Mr. Mulgrew had shot one in the foot and asked who would like to be shot next. There had been a scuffle anyway, several more shots, and quiet at last. Angus had packed lengths of rope in the boxes, which he used to lash the fellows together in a bloody heap, their own neckerchiefs serving as makeshift gags. Mr. Mulgrew had gone to fetch a constable. Mrs. Kelly surveyed all the wasted food, but she was not about to try to save any of it. She hoped the men had got their fill, for it would be a long while before any of them had a decent home-cooked dinner again.

She turned at the clunking and shuffling on the stairs. A pale Sir Michael came down, supported by Angus. He looked rather ridiculous in the shabby clothes that hung off him, and smelled worse, but she flew to him and gave him a kiss.

“Ah, Mrs. Kelly. You are a sight for sore eyes.” One of the men growled from the floor, but stopped when she gave him a dark look. “I say, is that your famous apple pie?”

“We havena time for you to eat, Major. The sooner we get out of this hellhole, the better.”

“Pish posh, Angus. We’ve got to wait for the constable anyway. Some cheese to go with it, Sir Michael?”

Mrs. Kelly watched as he forked a huge wedge into his mouth. “Heaven. These gentlemen were not very adept in the kitchen.”

Bay polished off the plate and was about to ask for another when there was a knock at the kitchen door.

“Blast. Mulgrew wouldn’t knock. It can’t be him. Hand me one of your guns, Frazier.”

Bay positioned himself against the wall. “Mrs. Kelly, you answer it. Don’t open the door too wide-we don’t want our guest to see the trash on the floor.”

Mrs. Kelly opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Message from Lady Whitley for a Mr. Smith.”

“And who might you be?”

“I’m James. The second footman at Whitley House.”

Bay leaped forward and dragged the young man in by his neckcloth. James’s white wig took a tumble, revealing soft yellow curls beneath.

“I say!” James sputtered. “Unhand me!” He caught sight of the gun and fainted dead away.

“All looks and no backbone,” Angus Frazier grumbled.

Bay eased him down. “Tie him up, too. He looks like an innocent lamb, but one never knows.” He scooped up the letter that had fluttered to the floor and broke the seal. “It seems I am to be temporarily released and escorted by Mr. Smith and his cronies to Whitley House. We’ve just anticipated the orders by a few minutes.”

He toed James with a borrowed cobbled boot. “Out like a light. I hope Anne’s carriage is waiting. I confess I’m rather anxious to see her again.”

“You’re not going alone!”

“Come now, Frazier. I don’t believe I’m in danger any longer. I doubt she’s enlisted the Whitley House staff in this farrago. You stay here to protect Mrs. Kelly. If any harm comes to her, I could never forgive myself. Not to mention I would waste away to nothing. My French chef cannot hold a candle to her in the kitchen. When Mulgrew returns, explain the situation.” Bay put the pistol into the pocket of the tattered jacket. Crime must not pay very well-there was a hole in the sole of each oversized boot as well.

Bay didn’t want Anne arrested, even if she was the mastermind of this kidnapping scheme. If he could persuade her to begin her travels on the Continent early-as in immediately-he would consider himself satisfied. For all that they had meant to each other once upon a time, he was willing to forget the past few days. Although he couldn’t chalk up her actions to an odd form of grief for her detested husband, he supposed she did grieve-grieved for what had been between them so long ago, when they were young and so besotted with each other. Well, Bay had been besotted anyway. But he was clearly over that now.

Anne’s driver cast him a skeptical glance as he strode toward the carriage parked on the street. James had been foolish enough to come in a crested conveyance. Every neighbor would soon be talking of the doings in the house. The driver snapped to when he heard Bay’s orders delivered in his impeccable upper-crust accent and recognized him as the gentleman his mistress had dallied with over the years. Clothes here did not make the man.

Frazier had told him Charlie had been sent to make sure Anne was kept away from the fracas. He hoped she was safely back on Jane Street by now. As much as he longed to make love to her one more time to erase the shameful memory of Anne, it was his duty to return her to her home in Little Dustup. She had been abused quite long enough.

Now he’d have to go through the whole tedious process of finding a new mistress. Or perhaps he should settle down with a wife as Mr. Mulgrew suggested. The thought of some dewy-eyed virgin held no appeal. He was too old for a schoolroom miss. A virtuous widow then, someone young enough to bear him children and know her way around the bedchamber. Bay imagined that given time, he might work up some enthusiasm for the project. A fleeting thought of Charlie’s black hair tangling down her white back gave him pause, but he pushed it away.

He hadn’t been to Whitley House since shortly after Anne’s husband died. He had resisted her entreaties then, and would have no hesitation after the business of the past few days. Bay was prepared to threaten her with arrest, even if he had no plans to prosecute. It would be folly of the first order to expose what she had put him through. He could imagine the knowing smirks every time he set foot in a ballroom or card-room if it was learned he’d been kept a naked captive by a woman for close to a week. The gentlemen would wonder at his objection, for Anne still cast her spell on society. The women would see him as weak, to be subdued so easily by one of their own. It would be pointless to mention the four toughs who had made his life a living hell lately.

The carriage came to a neat stop and Bay hopped down, nearly tripping in the large boots. The rank scent of his borrowed clothes permeated his nostrils, but his own clothes had disappeared, probably sold off to buy a pint. Anne would be surprised to see him arrive in this condition, and without his guards. He was looking forward to seeing the shock on her face.

But the shock was his once Denning announced him and shut the parlor doors. Charlie sat, pale but composed, on a blue wing chair as Anne held a gun neatly in her lap.

Anne’s nose wrinkled, but the pistol did not waver. “Bay! What are you doing in those dreadful rags? And where are my employees?”

“What is the meaning of this, Anne?” He hoped his voice did not display his own dread.

“Why, I thought you’d be pleased to see me. And this little trollop. Tell her, Bay. She didn’t get the dratted letter, or so she says. Tell her what you told me. That you love me and that we’re together now.”

Bay kept his face impassive, but casually felt for the comfort of Frazier’s gun in his pocket. He had put it there without thinking once the footman fainted, never believing it would be necessary to come to Anne armed.

“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.