could feel at home here, she supposed. But she would be homeless for the indeterminate future. She’d get word to Deb somehow, if she could remember the name of the dead uncle’s estate in Kent. Something End. It began with a B, although it wasn’t Bannister. She wished she’d paid more attention when Deborah had lectured her.
Charlotte had done a very shameful thing packing, somehow worse than taking the paintings. Bay’s letters to Deborah were tucked in her case. They were the closest thing Charlotte would ever get to a romantic correspondence, and she was impressed how someone like the fiend had such an unfiendish turn with words. The bit about the rubies reflecting the light was quite lovely. It was all wasted on Deborah, of course, who didn’t have a romantic bone in her body.
Straightening her shoulders as she hefted the luggage, she was glad she’d been in too much of a hurry to pack much. The bag was light, and it gave her the perfect reason to send Irene off for necessities.
She knew exactly where to go. Her papa had kept the lines of communication open with a Mr. Peachtree, who at one time owned more of the Fallon objets d’art than the Fallons did. According to Papa, he was sharp but fair, and they had even become friends of a sort. Mr. Peachtree had an address she could recall at least, and she marched toward it.
Several hours later, Charlotte was sitting in her stocking feet in Mr. Peachtree’s office. There was a hole that exposed her left pinky toe, which was mortifying. He had locked her old boots in his safe, after telling her to remove them. At gun-point. Mr. Peachtree possessed a tiny silver pistol, but he assured her that size did not matter. The paintings were locked in the safe as well. He’d sniffed at Deb’s paste necklace but threw it in for good measure.
He had repeated his scolding five times now by Charlotte’s count. That he was a reputable businessman, that Sir Michael had a standing order to acquire Italian life studies, that he in fact had sold one of the paintings she brought to Sir Michael himself. That any dealer in London would know that Sir Michael was the owner of record and that she was a vicious little thief. That it was an excellent thing her parents had been dead these past ten years. That the only reason he had not called for Bow Street was the affection he felt for her papa all those years ago. How ashamed he would be to discover his daughter’s dishonesty, not to mention her lovely mama, who had tried to raise her daughters as ladies despite the family’s impecunity. One sister a whore, Mr. Peachtree had opined, the other selling that which did not even belong to her. Deborah, at least, sold only what was hers to sell. There were a few Bible verses tossed in just in case Charlotte didn’t fully understand his diatribe.
Bay came at last, resplendent in a deep brown coat and buff trousers. His topboots were blindingly polished. Charlotte would bet her walnuts there were no holes in his stockings.
“Good afternoon, Peachtree, Charlie.” Bay seemed unruffled, which frightened Charlotte to her core. Mr. Peachtree removed the key from his waistcoat pocket and walked to his safe. He presented Bay with the paintings, her boots, and the worthless necklace. Charlotte decided it was best just to say nothing until they were out of Mr. Peachtree’s earshot. For then he would know her to be a thief and a liar and a whore. Mr. Peachtree had not believed for one minute that her ‘cousin’ Bay had deputized her to sell the paintings.
Charlotte buttoned her boots with trembling hands. Bay’s civility was unnerving. She half thought he was going to get down on one knee and expedite the donning of her footwear. When she overheard him smoothly explain that his country cousin had misunderstood his intentions about the paintings, she didn’t know whether to be grateful or thoroughly alarmed.
Mr. Peachtree returned the silver pistol to his desk drawer. “Then I do apologize, Sir Michael. I was under the impression Miss Fallon had no living relatives save her sister. Her father never mentioned you, you see. And when she came here looking guilty as a priest peeking under a choirboy’s robe, I thought it best to inform you. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, she was. I’ve seen my share of crooks in this line of work as you can imagine. I know the signs.”
“You did the right thing, Peachtree. And I’m ever so grateful that the authorities weren’t called. Wouldn’t want to cause further family scandal. The Fallon sisters have always been a bit of a trial to us.”
Mr. Peachtree glared at her in triumph but was wise enough not to speak.
Bay adjusted his gloves. “Do keep an eye out for me, won’t you? I won’t rest until I’m in possession of another Maniero. That man knew his women, what? Come along, Cousin Charlie. It’s time for your medicine.”
Charlotte followed him out of the shop with a sinking heart. Bay flagged down his carriage as it made its way around the corner with one hand, gripping Charlotte’s elbow with the other. “Where precisely were you planning to go, Cousin Charlie? Little Jessup? France? You do know you could have booked passage to India and lived like a ranee for a year if Peachtree had fallen for your scheme.”
“Deb said the paintings at the house were minor works.”
“Ah. Deb. I should have known she had a hand in this. Charlie, you continue to disappoint me. What may be minor to Deb is still very major, I do assure you.” He helped Charlotte into the carriage with unnecessary force.
“Then why do you keep such valuable things at Jane Street?” Charlotte knew she was being perverse. She’d never get Sir Michael to justify her theft.
“Because, my dear, until I met you and your sister, I never had any reason to suspect my mistresses of criminal behavior. Except in the bedchamber,” he added wickedly, “at my direction. I spend a great deal of time at Jane Street. Why should I not surround myself with beautiful things?”
“I—I’m sorry. But I wanted to go home! I don’t belong on Jane Street.”
“You certainly don’t, wearing that hideous hat and the abomination under it. I’m going to burn those caps.”
Charlotte checked under the brim of her hat and felt the comfort of her very own lace. “You cannot! I made them myself!”
“Well, you won’t be making any more. You won’t have the time. Or the hands.”
Charlotte had a truly terrible feeling. The Bible encouraged selling thieves into slavery, but the Qur’an advocated cutting off the hands of thieves. She had learned that at the Little Hyssop Women’s Guild when that missionary came to talk. Either way, it would be no picnic for Charlotte. Surely Bay wouldn’t be so barbaric.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, my dearest Charlie, I’m going to tie you to the bed until I tire of you and untie you.” He dipped a gloved fingertip into the indentation of her chin. “But I just don’t see that happening any time soon.”
Slavery, then. And it might even be somewhat pleasant.
Bay was beginning to seriously regret ever clapping eyes on Deborah Fallon. If he hadn’t fallen a bit in lust with her some eight or nine years ago, envying Harfield his luck in having such a delicious little neighbor to run off with, he might not be saddled with her sour sister. To think that he had almost convinced himself Charlotte was innocent. As soon as his back was turned, she’d made off with more of his property. His grandmama’s necklace was one thing, but his art—it soothed his soul. It was as necessary to him as breathing. It inspired him to see the perfect form of women, fleshy and dimpled, gilded with apricot and pearl. They were constant, caught in their prime, unchanging. Idealized women who didn’t lie or steal or betray. The original models may have been whores, but the artists who painted them had found their purity and humanity.
