His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  Well, his logic demanded he face the truth. What he’d shared with Kate all those years ago had been lust. Pure and simple. His overactive imagination had believed it something deeper and more meaningful. He’d been young and naïve. She’d been his first grand passion. Of course he would romanticize it.

  Except, he’d never felt the same way about any other woman.

  When at last he found his bed, his mind was exhausted and though he finally slept he didn’t wake rested. The only way he would find any ease, he realized, would be to get Kate and her troupe to move on—far away. He had failed her years ago. Now, he owed her some restitution—and one that would not only ensure her future but safely steer Winderton away from her as well.

  To that end, shortly after dawn, he dressed and went down to the stables. He instructed the stable manager to take Smythson’s best wagon and deliver it to Kate. “Tell her it is a gift.” He handed the man a note he’d written instructing Kate to accept this wagon and go live her dream. He felt quite noble for the gesture.

  An hour later, the apologetic stable manager returned. “The lad did as you instructed, sir. The lady would not accept the wagon. She sent it back with a note of her own.”

  It was not sealed but folded neatly. Bran waved the man away, sat at his desk, and unfolded the missive. In a feminine hand, she’d written, On my own terms.

  He stared at the words for a long time, aware that her response was exactly what he would have replied.

  Chapter Nine

  Old Andy had outdone himself on the rook pies. There were five large pies, each with a pastry crust that would have put London cooks to shame. They were cooling on a table that had been set out under the trees outside The Garland.

  Bran discovered quite a crowd of gentlemen gathered for the Logical Men’s Society lecture. Perhaps Ned was right and their tidy village community was ready for scientific stimulation.

  Or they might have come for the free ale and pie.

  In truth, Bran had almost forgotten he had promised Thurlowe that he would be in attendance. Fortunately, Mars came by to see if Bran wanted to accompany him, and he agreed, eager to do anything to take his mind off of Kate—headstrong, uncompromising Kate.

  From the moment he’d received her terse reply, his thoughts had turned dark. First, there had been the sting of losing the bridge commission—and then she had walked back into his life. He needed a diversion, even if it was an academic expounding on rocks.

  His sense of peace was short-lived. While riding the distance to the village, Mars, with a studied casualness, said, “Your nephew was at The Garland last night after the dance. He almost finished the keg himself.”

  So. That was where Christopher had been instead of saying farewell to the revelers or in Kate’s bed. Bran was both relieved and unsurprised. Kate could drive any man to drink. That was certainly what she was doing to him.

  He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and instead grunted as if the duke’s whereabouts were of no importance to him. As if he hadn’t charged through the night to be certain Christopher hadn’t been with Kate. As if, as if, as if . . .

  “He hasn’t given up on his actress,” Mars continued. “When I mentioned I might have a go at her, he was ready to put his hands around my throat—”

  “Stay away from her.” The words had shot out of Bran before he could question their wisdom.

  Startled, Mars’s mount took a hop step to the side. Bran kept Orion moving forward.

  With a quick trot, Mars caught up with him. There was a beat of silence. Bran wanted to pretend he hadn’t spoken.

  Finally, Mars said, “There is more here, isn’t there?”

  Bran didn’t answer. In fact, he was sourly realizing that Mars could have a go at Kate. There was nothing to stop him, well, except for both Winderton and Bran threatening murder.

  “I sensed it last night,” Mars said. “Something in the air.”

  When Bran didn’t answer, his friend wisely shut up.

  After a few minutes of riding, Bran recovered enough good sense to say, “I just don’t want animosity over a woman to build between you and my nephew.” That sounded reasonable, and he didn’t mention himself.

  He could sense Mars didn’t believe it, however, the earl was good enough of a friend to keep his suspicions to himself.

  Fortunately, they had reached The Garland and the promise of a lecture, pie, and drink.

  At least twenty gentlemen were gathered around the tapped keg Andy had set up. Ned’s grin was wide and welcoming as he saw Bran and Mars handing over their reins to some village boys. They crossed to the keg. Ned met them halfway.

  “Is this not amazing?” he declared. “I knew there was interest in a scientific lecture but this is astounding. We have never had such a crowd. Two of the men here are interested in joining the Society as well!”

  Mars and Bran both murmured something about Ned’s hard work. Still, Bran was surprised. In previous years, most people who attended the Cotillion were well on their way home before noon. However, from the way the gentlemen were filling their tankards, they did not seem as if they would be traveling anytime soon.

  In truth, the day was a good one for being out of doors. The sky was cloudless and blue and the temperature mild. Perhaps that was reason enough for the crowd.

  “Is that our speaker?” Mars asked. He nodded toward a balding man who kept dabbing his high forehead with a handkerchief. “Seems a bit nervous.”

  “He will do fine,” Ned answered, clapping his hands together in anticipation.

  “If he is this anxious now, he might pass out when he has an actual audience,” Bran suggested.

  “If that happens, Ned knows more about the topic than Mr. Remy could ever have thought possible,” Mars assured him and received a grin of agreement from the good doctor who immediately acknowledged a newcomer to their group.

  “Hello, Reverend. It is good that you could join us.”

  “Especially after that rowdiness last night,” Reverend Summerall said. “Ah, thank you, Andy,” he said as the tavern keeper approached him with a brimming tankard. He took a steadying swallow of the brew. “I needed this. I’ve just had a disconcerting conversation with Mrs. Warbler.”

  “Is she complaining as she usually does?” Ned asked.

  “No, she isn’t even paying attention to what is going on over here.”

  “You are jesting,” Old Andy said in his gravelly voice. “She always has her nose in our business. That is, when she is not lying in wait for Sir Lionel. The woman stalks him like a jungle cat.”

  “No, she wished to share her strong thoughts about the actress who attended the Cotillion last night. Of course, I agreed with her,” the cleric said. “I’m most upset that someone would come in from the outside and start a fight the way that woman did.”

  Bran shifted uncomfortably. Summerall spoke in his customary loud voice and it gathered attention. Bran had to say, “I don’t know that you are correct that the actress started the fight. I didn’t see how it began, but I did witness the Dawson brothers take a swing at Landon Bonniwell.”

  Mars nodded in agreement. “And then there was the doctoring of the punch bowl. That contributed to the increased tempers.”

  Reverend Summerall shook his head as if weary of the world.

  A gent by the keg whom Bran didn’t know spoke up. “Oh, no. The tart in the striped dress started the whole thing. My wife saw what happened.”

  The word tart pricked Bran’s sense of justice. Yes, Kate had dressed the part. That didn’t mean he wanted to hear the appellation applied to her.

  He gave the man a cool look. “The ‘tart’ was on the arm of my nephew and ward, the Duke of Winderton.”

  The man did not back down. “Young men do foolish things.”

  Now Bran faced him squarely. “And you are, sir? I don’t believe we’ve met.” He didn’t hide the challenge in his voice.

  “Reginald Montcreiffe. My uncle is Lord Dervil. I believe his property is
near yours.”

  Of course, the man would be a braggart—he was related to Dervil, the man who had upset his chances with the bridge commission out of spite, but who had made his dislike of Bran and his friends well-known. Bran was ready to take after him, except that Summerall had picked up the theme.

  “Not meaning any disrespect to your family, Balfour, I agree that the duke should not have brought her to a village event. That sort of thing should stay in London, eh, my lord?” He directed the last toward Mars, who took a step away.

  “It is not my job to judge other men,” Mars answered.

  “Well, it is my job,” the reverend assured them as he lifted his tankard to his lips. “Young men have been led astray since time began. Eve has always deceived Adam.”

  Bran himself had referred to Kate as a Delilah—however, now he thought of her being kidnapped against her will. Of her being held and used for no other reason than to claim a wager on the betting books at White’s and for some man’s arrogant pride. Of being treated as if she’d had no intelligence or feelings, as if she was a plaything—and he had to come to her defense. “Are we really such cowardly creatures we have no control of our emotions? What happened to logic and reason? Are you saying we are justified in behaving in a boorish manner because a dress is too low cut?”

  “Ah, there, you said it yourself, Balfour,” the reverend said. “The dress was too provocative for our gathering. Is it small wonder men lost all good sense?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have bothered mounting cannon against Napoleon,” Bran answered. “Apparently women in low cut dresses would have been enough to make the French stop in their tracks.”

  “She made me stop in my tracks last night,” a gentleman murmured, a sentiment endorsed with a few guffaws from the others.

  Bran struggled to control his temper. Mars spoke up, “I found Miss Addison delightful.”

  “As did I,” Ned chimed in.

  “Well, we won’t have to worry about her if the women have their way,” Montcreiffe announced.

  “What does that mean?” Bran demanded.

  “It means they are going to take care of their own,” Montcreiffe said. “My wife informed me the less I know, the better. And I understand that the duke’s own mother is leading the pack.”

  “What are you saying?” Bran asked. And what was Lucy about now?

  “I’m saying that the women will put one of their own in her place. It is justice.” Montcreiffe looked at the others for confirmation.

  Many nodded. One said, “Yes, let the women deal with it.”

  “Ah, now it all starts to make sense,” Summerall said.

  “What makes sense?” Bran wanted answers.

  The reverend said, “After complaining, Mrs. Warbler said she and the duchess would be attending the play, which I didn’t understand after she’d told me she wanted them gone. And then, as I arrived here, I overheard one of the lads tending the horses bragging to the others that he’d sold a bag of moldy turnips to Mrs. Warbler.” He looked at Mr. Remy who had wandered over. “How do you do, sir? I am interested in your edifying ideas.”

  However, Bran was not.

  Moldy turnips and Lucy taking matters into her own hands, especially with the help of a knotty-brained gossip like Mrs. Warbler did not bode well.

  He looked to Ned. “I won’t be able to stay. Andy, sorry I won’t have a taste of your pie.” He was already moving toward where Orion was tethered.

  “Well, if you are going, I’m going.” Mars fell into step with him.

  “I’m coming as well,” Ned said. “You may need me.”

  They might. Bran was of a mind to throttle Lucy and who knew what her son would do?

  “What about the lecture?” Mr. Remy called.

  “Talk,” Ned called over his shoulder. “There are those who will listen.”

  But that wasn’t true. Most of the men now moved toward their horses and vehicles. Bran wasn’t anxious for the company and yet he was powerless to stop them.

  Putting his heels to Orion, he set the horse flying down the road, Mars and Ned beside him.

  And a pack of curious gentlemen followed in their wake.

  Once they reached the troupe’s encampment, Bran was surprised at the size of the crowd. It appeared as if most of three counties were gathered, with people from all classes, young and old. The air was as festive as a village fair, with even the Widow Smethers selling pies.

  Since Bran had last been to the clearing, a stage had been built, which butted against the tent to provide an entrance and exit for the actors. To his surprise, Fullerton and Sir Lionel had claimed a spot right next to the stage, where they’d set themselves up with chairs, a small table to hold their bottles, and a manservant to see to their whims.

  “I had expected them at the lecture,” Ned muttered.

  “A provocative dress always wins out, especially with old roués like them.”

  Benches were provided for the rest of the audience and they were full. Those lucky enough to have nabbed a seat were not moving. Amongst them was Lucy.

  She sat majestically in her black-and-purple next to Mrs. Warbler, who remarkably appeared more sanctimonious than ever. The other Maidenshop matrons were with their families or friends, but they didn’t appear angry.

  Still, there were a good number of them.

  For a coin, two boys said they would walk Orion and the other horses.

  The Irish actor, a jester’s cap on his head, approached them. “Ten pence, sirs. Ten pence.”

  Bran paid for himself, Ned, and Mars. “We need to speak to Miss Addison.”

  “She’s a bit busy right now.” With a knowing look, he added, “You gentlemen can speak to her after the performance.”

  “No, we need to talk to her now—”

  “Uncle,” Christopher’s glad voice boomed out, interrupting them. He came out of the tent where he had obviously been with Kate. “You did decide to come,” the duke said. He nodded to Ned and Mars. “What? Is the lecture over? Lucky you. I trust you will be well pleased with what you will see on that stage. London couldn’t boast finer.”

  He acted as if he was the manager of this company . . . and Bran remembered a time when he’d felt somewhat that way. He’d watched so many of Kate’s performances, he could have mouthed her lines. He had taken an interest in all of it.

  Seeing his behavior mirrored in his nephew, he realized he’d been an arrogant sod.

  He also had a stab of jealousy that was crippling.

  “Come, the performance is about to start,” Christopher said. “We will have to stand over to the side. We will see better. Can you believe my mother is here? Maybe this is what she needs to move past Father’s death—”

  “Christopher, we must talk to Miss Addison. It is imperative—” Bran started.

  Anything else he could have said was overridden by the banging of a drum. An old man came out in a cloak with strips of material. He wore sandals on his feet and a half circle of myrtle leaves upon his head.

  The crowd instantly silenced.

  “Here we are, poor players,” the actor began. “Gathered for your enjoyment. Do not believe our tales have no meaning. As you shall soon see, what we share is as old as mankind. I am your guide. The humble Aesop.”

  The mention of the name commanded Bran’s full attention. The actor began talking about his life as a lowly servant with the gift of story.

  Winderton moved closer toward the stage.

  He was not the only one. Child and adult alike jostled their way for a better view.

  But Bran was stunned by what he was hearing. These are the stories he had told to Kate. She had taken them and cleverly woven them into a delightful play of vignettes strung together.

  The first was that of a greedy fox who wanted all the grapes. That story quickly rolled into another where Mr. Crow had a piece of cheese. The fox tricked the bird by playing on his own greed so it could be stolen.

  Each vignette had a recognizable message
that the good folks watching easily embraced. There were even changes of costume as different cloaks turned the actors into a cast of animals.

  The audience laughed knowingly as the hare thought too much of himself and napped, giving the race over to the slow, steady tortoise. A child shouted from the crowd for the tortoise to hurry and everyone started cheering on their favorite, knowing full well the outcome.

  After the race was won, Aesop came to the front of the stage. “The best stories are of the gods and goddesses. To tell them, may I present the lovely Juno.”

  The flap of the tent was dramatically pulled back by animal/actors to reveal Kate standing there—and she was a goddess.

  Her gown was of Grecian cut and sleeveless. Her hair was piled high on her head and held in place with gold cords. The gauzy white dress clung to her curves and her feet were bare save for a single gold ring on her toe.

  Bran’s focus flew like an arrow to that saucy gold ring. He was not the only one who was stunned by her beauty. Beside him, Mars released his breath with a low, “Dear God.”

  And Bran was reminded of how it had been all those years ago. Whenever Kate took the stage, it was as if she was the only one of importance upon it. She was Circe, the enchantress, because no man, once laying eyes on her, could turn away. What Bran remembered was that her eyes seemed to shine with an ethereal light when she was on the stage, as if she was exactly where she was supposed to be in life.

  Today, it was still true. Her beauty was undiminished by her age and her presence alone commanded attention.

  The crowd had gone silent, as if holding their breaths to hear what this stunning creature had to share. Kate raised her arm, preparing to introduce herself—

  The mood was suddenly broken by a woman’s shout, “Doxy.”

  Something was thrown at the stage. The aim was poor and the throw weak. The item hit the edge of the stage front and bounced right at Winderton—who caught a moldy turnip.

  Before Bran could pull his brain from the vision of Kate as Juno to what was happening, several turnips were launched from different areas of the crowd, the areas where the Matrons of Maidenshop had been sitting.