His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Sounds heady.”

  “It’s not. The village women would adore to see it closed down. The society is for men who are unmarried. It has gone on for years. I’m told there was a time when many didn’t marry just because they enjoyed being part of the society. That isn’t the case today. Their numbers have dwindled. Mr. Thurlowe is the chairman of the group and he wants to add to the membership.”

  “When the two of you marry, their numbers will go down by one.”

  “Yes,” Miss Taylor said, drawing the word out. “It is a conundrum for him. I know he means to marry me . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “How long has he been courting you?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “And you haven’t grown impatient?” Kate wondered.

  A pensive look crossed Miss Taylor’s lovely face. “I was a foundling, left on the parsonage doorstep. I have few options available to me. Mr. Thurlowe was extremely kind to offer for me.”

  “There are other options beyond marriage for women.”

  Miss Taylor gave a start. “I didn’t mean to insult you—”

  “You haven’t,” Kate replied calmly. “It is just that you are promised to a man who is making you wait? For nearly two years? While he participates in a club that encourages bachelorhood?”

  “That sums it up.” Miss Taylor lowered her voice to confide, “In truth, I’m not that anxious to marry.”

  “I can understand why.” Kate shook her head. “Is there anything men won’t join? Can you imagine us having a spinster club? Why, no woman would want to be a member.”

  “If we held our own special lecture on rocks, we could shut the men out.”

  “Shut them out?”

  “Yes, on the morrow, Mr. Thurlowe has arranged a lecture by a Mr. Remy. He is a natural philosopher who will discuss a theory on how rocks were formed. I should find that very interesting.”

  “Will not Mr. Thurlowe include you?”

  “He says he wishes he could,” she answered as if quoting him. “He fears my presence might offend those in attendance.”

  Kate had heard these arguments all her career. There were actors and the managers of other troupes who left her out of discussions or closed off opportunities to her troupe because they claimed to fear offending anyone by having a woman give orders. Or her opinion. Or sit at the same table.

  She looked around the room. Most of the men, if they weren’t on the dance floor were gathered around the punch table, laughing with each other, gossiping, bragging . . . all the traits men criticized women for but practiced in abundance themselves. Several kept looking over at her, their thoughts plain on their faces.

  “Mr. Thurlowe says the Logical Men’s Society was formed to support men and their minds,” Miss Taylor added.

  Kate could not stop herself. “I think he’s speaking rot.”

  Miss Taylor blinked as if stunned at Kate’s audacity. “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly.

  “Do you know many men?” Kate responded, matter-of-fact. “There is very little on their minds.” Save for the dress she was wearing. “Your presence would be an improvement.”

  Her words sparked a laugh out of her new friend who quickly quieted as if ashamed of herself. “Mr. Thurlowe is truly quite kind. If not for his offer, I’d have to support myself as a companion or a governess. I cannot stay with the squire and his wife indefinitely.”

  “Or you could be like me,” Kate pointed out. “There are other things women can do to fend for themselves. We just have to be bold.”

  Miss Taylor’s gaze took in Kate’s dress. “I don’t think I am as daring as you.”

  “You might have more courage than you believe you have. When one doesn’t have a choice, one becomes whom she was meant to be.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll tell you right now that you have shown great fortitude standing next to me. We have been the focus of all the wagging tongues.”

  Miss Taylor laughed agreement. “They are all trying to overhear us. Especially the group of women to my left. I grew up with gossip. There has always been speculation over my birth, the names of my parents. You will have to work much harder to create more gossip than I have.”

  Now it was Kate who laughed.

  “Oh dear,” Miss Taylor said under her breath, changing the subject. “I wondered why the men haven’t returned. The dowager has intercepted her son with Miss Judith Hollingsworth. Her father is a chancellor at Trinity. Her aunt lives here and they must have brought her to the dance.”

  “To meet the duke.”

  “Of course.” Miss Taylor cast her a glance.

  “Good. He is a very nice young man.”

  “Who likes you very much.”

  “In this dress, they all like me,” Kate sagely noticed. “And I don’t blame his mother for doing her level best to interfere with his pursuit of me.”

  “Miss Addison? Are you saying you aren’t interested in His Grace—?”

  Before Kate could answer, two gentlemen of the same age as the duke barged right in between she and Miss Taylor. One was the short dancer who’d stared rudely at Kate’s bosom. The other had a long slender neck and an even longer head.

  “Good evening, Miss Taylor.” They didn’t even look at her. They had their backs to her.

  “Mr. Michaels, Mr. Shielding.”

  “May we be introduced to this fascinating creature?” The short Mr. Michaels smiled. His teeth were brown. Kate tried to hide her shock and took a step back. The time had come to leave.

  She’d made her point to Mr. Balfour. Contrary to her early hopes, she would have to warn Silas that sales for the performance tomorrow might be sparse. Given the stares she’d received this evening with her stunt, she doubted if any woman in the parish would allow any member of her family to attend her plays.

  Such was life.

  Miss Taylor spoke as if having doubts about introductions. “Miss Addison, this is Mr. Michaels and Mr. Shielding. They are both solicitors.”

  “Ah, the lawyers,” Kate said, amused by Miss Taylor’s reluctance and the gents’ eagerness. Then again, of all the species of men, lawyers could be the most worthless.

  “I want this next dance,” Mr. Shielding said without preamble or manners. He was obviously intoxicated.

  Before Kate could politely refuse, Mr. Michaels hit his friend’s arm with his fist. “We agreed that I dance with her first.”

  Mr. Shielding ignored him. “May I?” he pressed, bowing clumsily.

  The next punch was to the side of Mr. Shielding’s head. The force behind the blow was impressive because of the height disparity. Mr. Shielding fell back, tumbling against the tight-knit group of women who had no doubt been jabbering about Kate. They were caught by surprise. Mr. Shielding landed on the floor and tried to rise by pulling on skirts. There was the sound of ripping material. Women screeched their alarm. Several started to fall and punch cups, fans, and an impossibly red wig went flying.

  In a blink, Mr. Shielding and Mr. Michaels were caught up in their own drama. Regaining his feet, Mr. Shielding, with a shout of, “You are an unruly bastard, Douglas!” dived into Mr. Michaels.

  They plunged into the next group of people. Behind them, a frantic woman started screaming, “My wig. Where is my wig?”

  Those who attempted to separate the fighting friends ended up in the middle of it as they retaliated for fists being thrown at them. Men left the punch table, their hands forming fists. The music stopped as more women began screaming.

  Outright chaos broke out. It was as if the room had separated into warring tribes.

  Kate was jostled this way and that. She became separated from Miss Taylor. She tried to back away from two men who were shoving at each other.

  A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. “You,” the woman who had lost her wig snapped. “You are the cause of all this.”

  “I wasn’t—” Kate said, but her words were cut short.

  “Whore.”


  Few had ever dared to say such a word to her face. “You are mistaken, madam,” she shot back. Her palm itched to slap the older woman’s face for her impertinence, except Kate had better manners.

  Unfortunately, that word was a rallying cry for the women. Kate found herself surrounded. The lady whose dress had been torn by Mr. Shielding’s clumsiness reached for Kate’s bodice and would have grabbed it save for Kate forcefully pushing her away. With a cry, the grand dame fell back against a man ready to throw a fist. It almost connected with her chin. He stopped himself in time and was rewarded by the woman fainting into his arms like a deadweight.

  Kate had to leave.

  This was madness.

  Tables and chairs were being overturned. There was shouting, grunts, crying, and, yes, she would be blamed.

  Kate searched for an escape. She would not be able to reach the entrance. Battles were being fought everywhere.

  However, she did notice a side door close at hand. Quickly, she dodged combatants and pushed it open. It led into a small dark room that had been used as storage at one time or another. The light from the other room revealed a half door only three feet high. This explained why no one else had tried this escape. They probably all knew it would not be simple.

  Her heart pounding in her ears, Kate attempted her escape. She could not go back out there into the melee.

  Fortunately, the door wasn’t locked. With a good hard shove of her shoulder, she pressed it open, feeling the cool night air with its hint of freedom.

  Dirt had built up against the door on the outside making it hard to open. Using all her strength, and heedless of what her efforts were doing to the dress, Kate put mind and body to the door. With another mighty push, she moved it open wide enough for her to wedge her shoulders through and then ungracefully climb out of it.

  She had to crawl a few feet. All was dark here. She shakily rose up. The green shoes were really pinching her toes now, but she did not care. She was more worried about what was popping out of her bodice. Businesslike, she pushed herself back into some semblance of order, and she was safe.

  “Thank you, God,” she whispered fervently.

  A voice answered, and it was not God’s.

  “Well played, Miss Addison. Well played,” Mr. Balfour said. He leaned against a tree not more than five feet away, her shepherd’s crook in his hand.

  Chapter Seven

  At the sound of his voice, Kate Addison jumped like a schoolboy caught in a prank, and Bran smiled, pleased.

  It was dark on this side of the building. However, Kate stood outlined against the barn’s white walls. There had been no mistaking her disarray. What little moonlight was here highlighted the naked curve of her breast.

  Images of Kate entwined in his sheets shot to his mind. God, he had dreamed of her breasts—

  Bran stepped back into the shadows as something on him grew prominently, putting him in disarray. Who knew what Kate would do if she knew she still held power over him?

  Sounds of what had become a brawl came from the front of the building where it had apparently spilled out into the front yard. Horses in the care of servants or the local lads called out alarms. The Reverend Summerall’s voice could be heard over the din shouting, “Order! Good order!”

  However, here, it was quiet. They were hidden by the building, moonlit darkness, and a line of trees and shrubs.

  Kate straightened, her stance defiant. She looked around as if realizing they were alone. “How did you know to find me here?”

  “I saw you escape through that doorway. It is an old storage room with only that small door. I wondered if you would try it or be foolish enough to risk making your way through the crowd.”

  She frowned in the direction of the noise at the front of the building. “I did not intend for this to happen. It isn’t my fault.” She spoke as if to herself.

  He had to answer. “I don’t see why we can’t blame you. As I remember it, fights usually broke out around you.”

  She glared at him then. He could feel the heat of her anger through the cool night air. “That was many, many years ago. And I did not start any of those fights either. You gentlemen tore at each other all by yourselves. I also did not start this nonsense.”

  “Next you will be telling me old Mrs. Warbler began everything.”

  “Does she wear a wig?”

  Bran had to smile, he couldn’t help himself. “The worst in the country.”

  “Well . . . I won’t tell you what you don’t want to hear.” Kate shook off her skirts as if either ensuring she was all at rights or warding him off. Perhaps both. She began walking as if to leave him. He wasn’t ready for her to go.

  It was a heady thing having her alone.

  “Don’t you want your shepherd’s crook? I was tasked to watch it.”

  She stopped, frowned, released her breath. “Yes, I do need it.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take it now.”

  “Your manners, Miss Addison,” he chided. “Where is your gratitude?”

  “You are an ass, Mr. Balfour.”

  “There is a children’s story about a lovely princess who would say and do such ugly things toads would hop out of her mouth every time she went to speak.”

  That caught her attention—and for a second, they both stood as if transported in time. Back then, he’d earned her attention by telling her stories. After her theater performances, he would linger by the building’s back door with all the other men besotted with her. Once, she’d paused in front of him. It was his chance to catch her notice. Instead of praising her beauty like everyone else, he’d surprised himself by blurting out a story. It was one of Aesop’s Fables about Venus and a cat. Bran collected stories. He found them charming.

  His method of catching her attention had worked. From that evening on, she’d always stopped to hear a story from him.

  But that was then.

  “What are you saying about me, Mr. Balfour?” Knives had duller edges than her tone.

  And his memories were dust, the sort of things evil witches used to trick men. “You knew coming to this dance with my nephew would stir the pot. You dressed provocatively, and, I will say, completely out of character, to do what? Set people’s teeth on edge? Give my poor dear sister a fit of apoplexy?” He paused and then added softly, “Humiliate my nephew? My family? Myself?”

  Her hands curled into fists. He braced himself, ready for her ferocity. Kate spoke her mind.

  Then, instead of giving him a lashing with her tongue, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her fingers straightened. “Go on with it, Brandon. Spill out all your venom toward me.” Her voice was quiet and hard. “Warn me off. Tell me I am not suitable. But don’t waste my time with your pettiness. Or pretend that you have done nothing to harm me.”

  “Harm you?” Dear God, he had worshipped her.

  Her eyes slitted like a dragon ready to breathe fire. The corners of her mouth tightened, as if she held back a desire to wish him to Hades, and yet, there was something else he sensed in her attitude, something unsettling—disappointment.

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You may keep the shepherd’s crook. I pray you carry it in good health.” Her words sounded like a curse. She set off around the barn, the white stripes in her dress catching the moonlight and outlining her body.

  And Bran found himself following. Where did she think she was going? “I wouldn’t advise you to go around front. Not until the fighting is over. Your appearance would probably prolong it.”

  She gave a small start as if she hadn’t expected him to be so close. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

  “I merely make a suggestion.”

  She kept walking.

  He trailed behind. “So, where are you going?” he had to ask when she didn’t turn the corner of the building but kept walking forward.

  “To bed, Mr. Balfour. Alone.”

  “I imagine that doesn’t happen often.” The words came from a place deep inside him. An ugly place. An ang
ry one.

  Her back stiffened. He braced himself, ready for battle.

  She walked on.

  Bran knew he should let her go. After this night’s business, Winderton would see the wisdom of avoiding actresses. Or, at least, Kate.

  Why, he would probably never touch one again . . . and neither should Bran.

  Yet, doggedly he followed, her shepherd’s crook in his hand.

  They had to climb a swell of earth to reach the road. She stopped before climbing it. He waited, wondering what was wrong.

  Kate bent over and, to his surprise, removed her frivolous green shoes, the ones he and every other man had gawked at when she’d shown them. She started up the hill in her stockings.

  She’d rip them.

  She didn’t seem to care.

  This time, Bran let her be. “Well, good travels on the morrow, Miss Addison,” he said after a moment.

  She answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. She didn’t even bother to look at him. Instead, she glanced over at the barn hall. Bran followed her line of sight.

  Either Reverend Summerall had been successful in ending the fight or fresh air had led to cooler heads. Everyone was going inside. There was still the sound of tears and a few boisterous voices called out with good humor as if the whole incident had all been in good fun.

  “I’m ruined,” she said almost to herself.

  Bran felt a momentary pang of empathy.

  He quashed it. He’d not orchestrated this evening. She had. “I’m certain you will be a success in the next village you visit.”

  Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared, and in that moment she metamorphosed from a disgraced outcast into a goddess of war. “London. I’m going to London as soon as I fix the wagon. And we can’t leave until it is fixed.” She looked down at him, her shoes in one hand, the swell she stood on giving her the height advantage. “See, Mr. Balfour, you didn’t need to scheme against me. I have no desire to stay in a place like Maidenshop with its smug conceit. The world—the real world—is too big for small minds. But as of now, I have no choice. There is no way out.”

  In many ways, Bran agreed with her, except her charge raised protective hackles. “First, you wore that dress to tease those small minds. And do you truly believe London is more unbiased than Maidenshop?” He almost laughed. “Societies are all the same. What happened tonight could have happened in London, India, Ceylon or any place a group of people gather.”