Mistress By Mistake by Maggie Robinson

howl of a demented dog. He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions—if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment.
    Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room. Tiptoeing down the carpeted stairs holding a candle, she stopped at the painting of a half-clad virgin fleeing from a roué who bore no little resemblance to the picture’s owner. She had seen that smile over her not long ago.
    And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks. Not to Little Hyssop, but a completely foreign destination where she knew no one and no one knew her.
    The pitfalls of her almost-midnight madness were immediately apparent. She would actually be stealing this time, and she could, she supposed, hang if she was caught. Bay didn’t seem to be the type of man who forgave and forgot—look at what he was putting her through with Deborah’s folly. If she suddenly appeared in some out-of-the-way country village, she might as well take out an advertisement in a newspaper. Strangers were always the gleeful target of gossip; she would not go unremarked. It had taken her years to worm her way into Little Hyssop’s good graces, and she didn’t have the patience now for the subterfuge. But the most troublesome aspect was if Deb contacted her—or even, miracle of miracles, returned the bloody necklace—she wouldn’t know it. She might be on the run for the next six months.
    The candle wavered as she heaved a sigh. She would think better on a full stomach. But when she reached the top of the steps that led down to the kitchen, she nearly tumbled straight down when she heard the laughter. His laughter. A little rough, as though he was unaccustomed to doing such a thing. Light and shadow flickered in the stairwell.
    And then Irene giggled, a perfectly pure tinkly sound.
    Good Lord. Charlotte’s stomach flipped. He was having it on with the maid, who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Men were beasts, disgusting, diabolical dogs, and that was an insult to canines everywhere. When she heard Mrs. Kelly say, “That’s quite enough for one night, Sir Michael. You want to keep us awake all night to have your fun, don’t you? You’ll get another chance tomorrow to try your luck again,” she had heard enough. If Irene was young enough to be his niece at the very least, Mrs. Kelly could be his grandmother.
    Clutching her candle with both fists, she flew down the stairs. Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Bay and his servants sat at the long pine table, the devil’s deck of cards scattered on its surface. Mrs. Kelly had a little pile of walnuts in front of her, and Irene and Bay had nothing. Charlotte stared at them stupidly.
    “Care to join me, Charlie? These two want to go to bed and deny me my revenge.”
    “Oh, go on with you, Sir Michael. Don’t be a poor sport. What can I do for you, Miss Fallon? I hope you’ve changed your mind about a meal. There’s some lovely chicken left, and cherry tart.” The housekeeper rose from the table and headed toward the larder.
    Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. “No, no. I’m perfectly content, Mrs. Kelly. Don’t trouble yourself. I