His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Ah, then it will be entertaining,” Sir Lionel declared.

  The earl took the chair opposite Bran’s. “I thought I heard you out here.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Plucking birds. It turns out I am a capital feather plucker.”

  “That is only part of what people say about you,” Bran assured him with a laugh, and downed the rest of his ale. A bit of the tension inside him started to ease.

  Mars nodded when Andy silently asked if he wanted a drink. “Apparently Balfour is ready for another as well.” There was a deceptively light tone to his words. Bran ignored it, but nodded his head that, yes, he wanted another.

  “So was your dear sister’s concern urgent?” Mars stretched his long legs in front of him.

  Beyond urgent. Bran kept the thought to himself.

  “And apparently you haven’t slept yet. Up all night, weren’t you—riding?”

  Bran did not trust the quizzing. Or the way Mars studied him. He kept his silence, relieved that Andy didn’t waste time coming out with two tankards. The old man set the drinks in front of them, and Bran had a powerful urge to suck down the second tankard as quickly as the first.

  Mars’s presence stopped him. Bran sat, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his shoulders hunkered as he watched the earl take a drink. Mars wiped the corner of his mouth with the edge of his thumb. He looked from the untouched tankard to Bran and his brooding. “Come out back.” He didn’t wait for Bran but rose and walked through the taproom door.

  Bran itched to drain his tankard. It was uncharacteristic of him, yes, but right now he felt ready to crawl out of his skin. Instead he followed Mars, taking his untouched ale with him.

  The taproom was a small antechamber leading to the kitchen. Tankards hung on the wall and several kegs, at least enough to keep the men of Maidenshop happy, were stacked neatly in a corner.

  In the kitchen, a few boys were cleaning up after the plucking. The naked and cleaned birds had been stacked on a great tray on the center aisle table. Andy nodded to them as Mars and Bran came through.

  “Will you start cooking now, Andy?” Mars asked.

  “In a few hours. I’ll steam them before baking them in the pie,” Andy said. “Keeps the meat tender.”

  Bran nodded dumbly. He was not a cook and right now, he didn’t have an appetite for anything save the ale he carried.

  In truth, he envied Mars’s easiness with people from all walks of society. The boys would never wave and bow to him the way they did to the earl, even when the man wasn’t paying them pennies to help with a hunt. Thurlowe was much like Mars. As the local doctor, he was extremely popular and welcomed into every home in the parish.

  Only Bran seemed ill at ease when it came to social situations, and that had always been true—except with Kate. For her, he’d called on all his courage and overcome his natural reserve.

  “Whatever you do will be appreciated,” Mars answered Andy. “Expect a crowd. I’ll talk it up tonight. We’ll have a good turnout on the morrow if those who have traveled for the dance don’t leave early.”

  “I hope so. Mr. Thurlowe is anxious over the matter,” Andy answered.

  “All the more reason to do what we can to make his seminar a success. We want Ned happy.” Mars nodded for Bran to follow him through the back door.

  Several chairs and a table were outside the back door. Two chairs were close to the stream where the sound of water would prevent any conversation from being overheard. Mars led them there. He sat and indicated Bran should take a chair.

  Bran didn’t sit. He was too unsettled.

  “Go on, spill it,” Mars ordered. “Something is bothering you. Is it the bridge commission? Your sister?”

  Bran was not one for talking about himself.

  “Either tell me or down that ale you’ve been carrying as if you would like to throw it at me.” Mars took a pull from his own drink for punctuation.

  “Christopher has his eyes on an actress.” The words flowed out of Bran, surprising him with their ferocity. God, he sounded like Lucy.

  And Mars’s response had been his. “As we all should.” The earl tilted his chair back.

  “Not this one. I’ve ordered her gone. I want her away from Winderton.”

  “I never thought you one to discourage a man from sowing his oats. What is he? Almost twenty-one? What are actresses for?”

  Bran had a strong urge to throttle his friend, and realized it was jealousy. He did not like hearing Kate spoken of in that manner, even though she’d proven it to be true. “Not with her.” He spoke slow and deliberately.

  Mars brought all four legs of his chair down. “Balfour?” His brows came together. “Is it possible that you know this woman? You . . . and an actress?”

  “You act as if such an association is perplexing.”

  Mars shrugged. “I mean no offense. It is just that, well, you are rather conservative.”

  “Not dashing enough for you, eh?”

  “Don’t take a bite out of me. I’m on your side. Still, I must be honest, there isn’t a single woman between here and the coast who wouldn’t like your ring on her finger. And most of them think you are as poor as a church mouse and live off of Winderton, versus the other way around. Don’t worry. Neither Thurlowe nor I have told anyone,” Mars said in answer to Bran’s frown. “Although, I think you are foolish for not telling Winderton the truth.”

  “And let him know what a fool his father was?” Bran shook his head. “I wasn’t ready for that conversation, especially with Lucy swimming in her mourning black.”

  “You can’t put it off forever.”

  “I can for another month or two. When the time is right, I’ll sit him down and explain. He actually isn’t that bad off. I’ve done well in rebuilding the Winderton coffers.”

  “Except you still own the deed to Smythson. His family were fools not to have it entailed.”

  Bran agreed. “Everything I have will go to him upon my death,” he answered.

  “Unless you marry and have a child.”

  Bran snorted his opinion of that suggestion. “I see no reason to marry . . . unlike you who will need to do so sooner or later to breed an heir.”

  “I pray it is more later than sooner.”

  “Do you think about it? Marriage, that is?”

  Mars shrugged. “No, in fact I don’t know how most men do it. How can I settle on just one woman when there are so many waiting to be sampled?”

  The earl routinely kept a mistress in London although he cycled through them frequently. He did have fickle tastes. And Bran had noticed that his friend seemed of late to prefer the country life. His trips to Town were becoming less frequent—a complaint his latest paramour made to anyone willing to listen. Usually when a mistress complained she was being neglected, it was a signal she was looking for a new protector. Seeing Mars stretched out in his chair, apparently enjoying the sounds of the running stream, Bran doubted if he cared if his current lady bird flew away.

  Mars looked over at him. “So how did Winderton meet the actress? He hasn’t left Maidenshop that I know of.”

  “She is in a traveling troupe. Their wagon broke down right at the edge of the estate.”

  “Ah, fate.”

  Yes, fate. Bran took a pull on his ale. It no longer tasted good to him. “I knew her once. We met years ago. Before I went off to India.”

  “Was she yours?” Mars asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  His? A memory came to him, of that one very special afternoon and the aftermath, his noticing the bloodstains. His pride in recognizing that she had chosen him. His silent vow to protect her with his life, with all he had to offer . . .

  He weighed how much to say. “No.”

  Mars leaned forward. “But you wished her to be?”

  “I was young. A fool.” And daffy in love. Enough so that when she went off with Hemling she crushed his heart. He’d been stunned that she could turn to another as quickly as she d
id—

  He’d never understood it . . . save for the other man was a marquis. She’d thrown Bran over for a title. For rank and privilege, although look at her now.

  “And now she is setting her hooks into Winderton?” Mars asked.

  “That is the reason I ordered her to leave. I said if she didn’t, I would have the magistrate on her.” He shot a guilty glance at Mars who groaned.

  “God, I hate the job. How did I end up with it?”

  “We appointed you, remember? You were in London and they asked Ned and me what we thought.”

  “Well, what are friends for?” Mars’s brows came together in concern. “Does she know of your connection to the duke? Perhaps even before she came?”

  “And this was all planned? I don’t think so.” The question surprised Bran. “Kate didn’t react one way or the other when I mentioned my relationship to the duke. In truth . . .” This was humbling to admit. “She didn’t recognize me.”

  In the trees along the bank, a pair of sparrows were hopping from limb to limb. It was peaceful here—and completely at odds with the turmoil inside him. “Christopher told his mother he plans on marrying Kate. He wants to make her a duchess.”

  “I wager the dowager needed the smelling salts on that one.”

  “More like the brandy bottle. She wants the actress gone. Meanwhile, Winderton will be furious that I interfered. He is headstrong enough to challenge me.” There was a beat of silence and then Bran added, “That would not be good. My sister would probably load the gun for him. On one hand, she demands her son do exactly what she wishes and yet, her every mother’s instinct will go on the attack if someone upsets him. When he learns what I’ve said to Kate, he will definitely be on fire—and who knows which side Lucy will choose?”

  His comment surprised a sharp bark of laughter from Mars. “Not only have you made me happy that most of my family is dead, but you are an excellent reminder that no good deed ever goes unpunished.”

  That was true. The more Bran had done for Lucy and her son, the more wheedling and demanding she had become. Of course, he had only himself to blame for keeping Winderton in the dark about his late father’s shortcomings.

  Mars leaned forward, cupping his empty tankard in his hands. “So, do you want advice? Based upon what I am observing?”

  “If you will.” Bran was at a point that he’d listen to the devil himself.

  “Bed the actress before Winderton does—if he hasn’t already, that is.”

  Bran almost fell out of his chair. At one time, bedding Kate had been all he could think about, and he definitely wouldn’t mind having her again. His loins leaped at the thought, making his leather breeches uncomfortably tight.

  “My nephew would consider it a betrayal.”

  “He’d see exactly what sort of woman she truly is. Certainly not Duchess of Winderton material.”

  “He’d be furious.”

  “Perhaps.”

  There was a beat of silence. The temptation was strong. Could Bran take her into his bed? And if he did, what price would he pay? Kate was a viper. “I wouldn’t touch her.”

  Mars looked away as if he was biting his tongue, and then his lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Well, if you were forceful enough in your demands today, this Kate will be gone and you won’t have to do anything.”

  “I was forceful enough.”

  The devil appeared in Mars’s grin. “It just struck me. This woman must be—what? Over thirty?”

  “At least thirty-five, however, she doesn’t appear it. I can’t criticize Winderton’s taste. She is a beauty.”

  “Will she be when she is forty or fifty? Women don’t age well. They can turn overnight like a pear gone to mush. Talk to Winderton man-to-man. If he wants an older woman, tell him he would be better off going, say five to eight years older at the most.”

  Bran shook his head. “He should put off even the idea of marriage for five to eight years. Ned and I have both been after him to join the Logical Men’s Society. He needs some depth. There are times I don’t understand him. He seems to float through life.”

  In a helpful tone, Mars said, “If you wish, I would be more than happy to take him aside and suggest he play with his actress, but not marry her. Or, I could take her aside?”

  “I’ll handle the matter,” Bran answered, suddenly realizing what it would mean to let Mars close to Kate. The earl would find her delectable and then Bran would have an even larger problem.

  His friend laughed knowingly.

  And it actually didn’t bother Bran that he was transparent to Mars. In fact, he marveled at how close he felt to both the earl and Ned Thurlowe. He’d not had trusted friends before. “Thank you,” Bran said. “I am in a better mood than when I arrived.”

  “I’ll see you this evening?”

  “This evening?”

  “The Three Bucks at the Cotillion Dance?”

  “If you will be there, I’ll make an appearance.”

  “If we don’t, we’ll be hounded by the biddies.” Mars referred to the Matrons of Maidenshop.

  “I’ll need some sleep.” Both he and Orion had earned it. He handed his tankard to Mars and started walking toward the corner of The Garland instead of going through the building to claim his horse.

  Mars fell into step beside him, dangling the empty tankards in one hand. “By the way, do you think Ned will ever marry Clarissa Taylor?”

  “He said he would.”

  “Wish to put a wager on it?”

  “What side would you be taking?”

  “That he will . . . eventually.”

  Bran shook his head. “Then there is no sense in a wager since we both agree. Thurlowe gave his word.”

  “I can’t imagine a duller choice for a wife than Clarissa. She is lovely enough . . .” Mars let his voice drift before saying slyly, “However, the woman I want to meet is the one who has you tied up in knots—”

  Bran rounded on him. “I’m not in knots. I cut her out of my life and I don’t look back. I just don’t wish for my nephew to do something remarkably stupid.”

  He didn’t like the disbelief in his rakish friend’s eye. Mars wisely, for once, stilled his tongue.

  Riding back to Smythson, Bran found Winderton in the stables. The duke was preparing to ride out as Bran came in.

  He greeted his uncle with, “Mother said you had come from Town. For the Cotillion, I take it.” He was so young. So confident, and, yes, so arrogant.

  Bran remembered him as a ruddy-cheeked cherub when he was a child and, in his uncle’s mind at least, Christopher hadn’t changed much. He had an open, trusting attitude about life. That Smythson had been practically falling down around his ears through most of his childhood had never seemed to register on him. In fact, neither Christopher nor Lucy acted aware of the lengths Bran had needed to take to secure their futures. The servants knew. They hadn’t been receiving reliable wages until Bran’s tenure.

  “Yes, I did come for the dance,” Bran answered because it was easier to lie. “Do you mind if I ride with you a moment?”

  “Weren’t you just coming in?”

  Bran looked around the stable and said, “I’d like a word in private.”

  Christopher lifted a brow in question, then nodded. A few minutes later, they were making their way down the drive. Orion put up a bit of a protest over being hauled out of the barn. He was ready for his paddock.

  “Just a few minutes more, old boy,” Bran promised. To Christopher, he said, “Your mother is worried.”

  The duke didn’t prevaricate. “About Miss Addison.”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you didn’t come for the dance. She sent for you, didn’t she? She threatened to do so.”

  “She tells me you wish to marry this actress. I told Her Grace that you would never make such an alarming misalliance. Why, you’ve known her less than two days.”

  There. He’d put the objection out in the air between them.

  And Winderton dismi
ssed it. “Love is something more than just alliances. Besides, my generation takes a more generous view of the classes. The old standards no longer apply.”

  “Tell that to the gatekeepers. There are always standards whether we like them or not.”

  His ward gave a small, self-indulgent chuckle. “Yes, there are standards, except I am a duke. All doors are open to me. Always.”

  “But would those doors be open to your wife? Society can be closed-minded.”

  “Then those people would not matter to me.”

  How simple it all seemed to him. And such was the position of someone who had received too much, too soon, and had little knowledge about the balance of power.

  Bran was tired and his patience thin. He decided to be direct. “Your Grace, you know your responsibilities. You understand the terms of guardianship because I spelled them out to you very clearly.”

  He had Winderton’s attention now. The ducal lower lip turned mulish.

  Bran continued. “Be warned, you are close to receiving your inheritance and the fullness of your birthright—if you have my approval.” There had been at least that caveat in the father’s will. “I will not be turning anything over to you if I fear you would do something that would be considered stupid.”

  That knocked Winderton out of his smug complacency. “Is being in love stupid? Is wishing to choose a helpmate and settling in to take care of my lands and my people stupid?”

  Ah, yes, Kate had made a conquest.

  “You have much to learn about the world,” Bran replied. “She might not want you! Anyway, you don’t want to be tied down too soon.”

  “Says the man who enjoys being a bachelor. I’m not like you, Uncle. I want Kate and I will have her.”

  They were more alike than Winderton thought, but Bran kept his own counsel on that matter. This was tricky business. Christopher was determined to see Kate as an angel. There was also something in his nephew’s voice toward him that Bran had never heard before—mistrust.

  They were almost to the front gate. Bran brought Orion to a halt, realizing it might be wise to leave well enough alone. He’d planted the seed. Now let it flourish. “Your choices don’t have to be mine, Chris. I’ve never set that yoke upon your shoulders. Beware of making promises, especially to women. They are wilier than men.” Especially when a title and promise of a fortune were involved.