“Sir Michael.”

He rolled off and grinned at her. “My dear Deborah, I think we might dispense with the formalities. I’ve asked you to call me Bay. That is what my friends and relations call me, and we are certainly friends, are we not?”

“No, Sir Michael, we are not.” She reached for the sheet and tried to stuff it between them. He pulled it away from her easily.

“Don’t cover yourself. I love looking at you.”

She glared at him. “But I do not wish to be looked at. If you would just listen to me for a moment-”

He sighed. He hadn’t counted on her being a talker, and certainly not so stern. Before they’d come to their arrangement, she was playful, flirtatious, like a fluffy black-and-white kitten. But it seemed her claws weren’t retracted now. He hoped she would not be too tiresome. Even if she was the most skilled harlot he’d ever fucked, it would be a dead bore if she lectured him afterward.

He tried charm. “I am all ears. In fact, my angel, every part of me is at your disposal.”

“Do not call me angel.” She looked around the room with loathing.

“What shall I call you then, Deb?”

“Not Deb! That is what I was trying to tell you when you-when you-took such liberties with my person.”

She was angry, beet red now, not a good color on her. Not any sort of color a man’s mistress should have. He preferred her translucent white skin, so pale she glowed like a pearl. He’d never heard she had a temper. Vanity, yes. That was understandable. Perhaps a bit of pique when she wanted something and didn’t get it soon enough. Perfection in bed, and that she’d already proven. Deborah Fallon was allegedly a paragon among mistresses. Everybody said so. Could it be she had the entire ton fooled? He was becoming irritated with her and himself at the moment. If he had wanted a shrew in his bed, he would have gotten married again.

“I was under the impression, madam, that my attentions were not unwelcome. You have accepted my astonishingly large bank draft and lived in my house for the past six weeks. You are wearing the clothes I bought you. Not at present, I grant you, but they hang in your closet. You have my grandmother’s necklace and my good faith. Are you telling me you wish to renegotiate our agreement?”

“That is what I’m trying to tell you, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah Fallon. Deborah is my sister, and if I see her again I am very likely to strangle her on the spot.”

“Rubbish. What kind of ruse is this?” Bay stared hard at her. She was Deborah Fallon, in his bed, well-fucked, his marks on her lush body, hers on his. The glossy hair, the blue eyes, the tits-he’d pursued the woman for months. Surely he could tell whom he was shagging. He watched as she stumbled out of bed and opened up the armoire. There was very little to choose from. Where the hell had all the gowns he’d ordered from Madame Duclos gone to? She reached for an ugly gray velvet robe, belted it tightly, and turned to him. Her braids lay like sentinels over her bosom daring any man to touch.

“My name is Charlotte. Deborah is my younger sister. I’m sorry to inform you she has eloped with Mr. Arthur Bannister. Perhaps you know him? Running to fat? Gormless? But recently he has come into some money, a house in Kent, and is stupid enough to want to marry her. She got me here under completely, completely false pretenses,” she muttered. “I was meant to tell you what she had done and smooth your ruffled feathers. I suppose I have gone over and above my duty in that regard.” She raised her chin, a rather charming chin with just the tiniest dimple. Deborah had no dimple there that he could recall.

He heard the unmistakable ring of truth in her voice. Good God. He had practically raped a stranger.

No, not raped. She had been willing. Twice. And this Charlotte so resembled her sister they could be twins. Bay shoved the enticing thought of the two of them in his bed out of his mind at once. He opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming.

She raised a white hand, a hand that not long ago had scored his back, sifted through his hair, caressed his stones. “Do not apologize for this morning. And I suppose last night. That wasn’t a dream after all, was it?” she asked rhetorically. “We are both at fault. But in my opinion you are well rid of any association with my sister. She is not-thoughtful.”

Bay barked out a laugh. The absurdity of the past few hours would not be duplicated if he lived to be his grandmother’s age. “Nevertheless, I do apologize, Miss Fallon. It is Miss Fallon, isn’t it?”

Charlotte nodded, looking acutely uncomfortable. Bay frowned. “Forgive me for being so blunt. But you were not a virgin, were you? I would hate to think that this-this mistake resulted in your losing your innocence.”

She stood very straight, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “My innocence was lost long ago, Sir Michael. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to wash and dress and make arrangements to return to my home.”

“Of course. Allow me to assist you in any way possible.” He reached for his discarded trousers. “I presume your sister made off with the clothes I bought her.”

“She may have,” Charlotte said evasively.

“What about the necklace?”

Charlotte went to the dressing table and picked up something glittery. She held it to the sunlight which was now slanting brightly through the shutters. “I should have known.” She turned to him. “I’m afraid this is paste, Sir Michael. And the workmanship is inferior at that. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”

“What?” He strode across the floor in two steps and ripped it out of her hand. “No, not this bit of trumpery. The ruby and diamond collar. With a large pigeon’s blood ruby drop at the center.”

Charlotte bit her lip, reminding him of earlier. But the woman who had been so responsive-so hot beneath him-had disappeared behind a gray shroud. “I-I don’t know. She packed several jewel bags, but surely she wouldn’t take a family heir-loom.”

“Oh, wouldn’t she,” he said, grim. He began to pull open drawers. Empty, every one of them, save for one torn stocking, a packet of pins, a broken fan, and all the romantic letters he’d written to Deborah Fallon the past six weeks, ass that he was. “I’ll be damned. Where else could she have put it? It’s very valuable.”

“Perhaps she hid it. To keep it safe.” Charlotte was worrying the end of one of her braids. Unbidden, the image of it flowing down her back distracted him from his anger. Bay subdued the urge to grab a hairbrush and release all of that black silk.

Threaded with a bit of silver. Deborah Fallon wouldn’t allow such impudence to take root on her head. What a fool he had been this morning. Ass. Ass. Ass.

“If you wouldn’t mind delaying your departure, Miss Fallon, I’d appreciate your help finding my grandmother’s necklace.”

She looked frightened now. “What if it’s not here?” she whispered.

No one could possibly believe La Fallon could prefer Arthur Bannister over him even if gormless Arthur had inherited a moldy old estate in Kent. Deborah would never be satisfied with so little. Unless Deborah Fallon was going to supplement their income with the sale of practically priceless rubies.

But everything had its price.

Damn it. The little witch knew her sister had stolen it. She had probably packed it in the valise herself. They were in it together, fleecing him, scheming to switch places, making him a laughingstock. Charlotte had been accomplished in her ardor. Virtually acrobatic. She was as much a whore as her sister.

He loomed over her. “Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to stay until it’s found.”

Her succulent lips opened. He’d put them to good use later. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. It seems the position of my mistress is currently vacant. You’ll do in a pinch. Perhaps your sister will save you by returning my property. I’ll have you prosecuted for theft and fraud if she doesn’t.”

Bay watched her fall to the carpet. How trite. She was a good little actress, he’d give her that. But the Fallon sisters underestimated him if they thought they could get away with this charade. He’d been burned once and still bore the scars.

Chapter 2

Charlotte stared at the ceiling. There were painted cherubs up there too, cavorting with something that looked very much like Satan in a white fur coat. She blinked and saw she had mistaken a cloud for the Prince of Darkness. She touched the back of her head and felt the lump forming. Mama had tried to teach her daughters the graceful art of fainting. Deborah had taken to the lessons like a duck to water, but Charlotte had discovered an actual blackout could not be choreographed. She had only ever fainted twice in her life and both times had cracked her skull.

She struggled to sit up. No, she was still mistaken. Satan was indeed here, minus the fur coat. In fact, Sir Michael Xavier Bayard was wearing nothing but a pair of buff trousers, his chest rather magnificent with a faint dusting of coppery hair. His arms were corded with muscles, his feet long and bootless, his smile terrifying. His eyes were as dark as the pit of Hell and trapped her in place. On the floor, on her sore bottom, with her old robe splayed open to reveal every inch of her legs and worse. She clutched the fabric shut. Too late. He’d seen it all before anyway. Those very legs had been wrapped around him in ecstasy not half an hour ago.

Oh. She was just as bad as Deborah. Worse. At least Deborah had some business sense before she entwined her limbs around a man. Sir Michael and the others had paid her a fortune over the years for the exclusive right to her body. Deb had once explained to an unwilling Charlotte that men didn’t value what was free. She insisted on an outrageous sum at the beginning of each relationship, a generous monthly allowance, and, of course, shelter, victuals, clothing, jewels, and anything else she was able to inveigle. Both upstairs rooms in Charlotte’s tiny cottage were crammed with the overflow of Deb’s gentlemen’s largesse. There were trunks full of clothes not a year out of season when they were stored, some of them never worn. Mother-of-pearl opera glasses, and Deb hated opera. Four full sets of bone china for twelve. A grotesque sterling silver epergne. Even a stuffed parrot, its brilliant feathers fading. If Charlotte sold every feather and bit of frippery, it would serve Deb right for landing her in such a pickle.

But apparently the money and assorted objets and even an offer of marriage had not been enough. Deb had taken this necklace that had Bayard so furious. Charlotte knew it. She might turn this house upside down, lift every cushion and carpet, but would find nothing. Deb did love her jewelry and had a keen eye. Enough to know the necklace she’d fobbed off on her sister yesterday was worthless paste. Charlotte was not at all surprised by yet more evidence of Deb’s perfidy.

But to be charitable, there might be some mistake about the missing jewels’ provenance. Maybe Deb thought the collar was an outright gift. Or packed it by mistake. Charlotte sighed. Most unlikely. Only a woman as hopeless as she would still be making excuses for her little sister.

The baronet was still fixing her with his gimlet gaze, as though he’d discovered a slug on the silk of his Persian rug. Charlotte stood up with as much dignity as she could muster.

“You cannot hold me against my will.”

He gave her an insolent smirk. “I don’t believe my company will be such a hardship. You enjoyed yourself earlier well enough, Miss Fallon.”

“Don’t flatter yourself! I was asleep the first time.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “And the second time?”

“I tried to tell you!” Charlotte snapped. “But you kissed me.” She felt herself flush. “And then I couldn’t speak for the obstruction of your tongue in my mouth. You were so fast-”

“Hardly what a protector wants to hear, my dear. A mistress should use the word fast very sparingly.”

“I am not your mistress, you insufferable man!” She fisted the worn velvet of her robe before she was tempted to hit him again and be charged with assault as well as thievery. “I am sorry my sister deceived you, but I assure you I had no part in the removal of the blasted necklace. I’ve never heard of it. Never seen it. I wouldn’t know it if I stepped on it.”

“You’d cut your pretty toes.” He shrugged his very broad, bronzed shoulders. “Well, no matter. Unless you want to find yourself in Newgate, you’ll fulfill your sister’s end of our bargain.”

“I am not my sister! I am not a courtesan-not a whore, Sir Michael. I am a respectable woman. A spinster. I live in a cottage in Little Hyssop. With cats.”