His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  Some hit their target. Kate gave a soft cry as one bounced off her hip. She ducked another. “Tart,” came a cry. “Bitch,” yelled another.

  And there was laughter. Husbands, gentlemen, farmers, yeomen, stable hands—they all thought it was great fun.

  Aesop and the crow came running out. However, before they could get there, Winderton jumped up on the stage like Kate’s savior.

  “Stop it,” he commanded. “Stop now.” His young voice rang with authority through the air.

  There was a pause in the throwing—until a turnip hit him right in the chest. Christopher fell back, his hat falling off his head. People were shocked and yet there was nervous laughter—

  Another turnip was thrown.

  “This is out of hand,” Mars muttered, surging forward but Bran was already ahead of him.

  “You grab the man who threw that turnip at Winderton. I’ll take care of Kate.”

  However, just as he was ready to jump up on the stage, Kate stepped forward. She had helped Winderton to his feet and pushed him toward the safety of the tent, but she had not run herself.

  Instead, shoulders back, she faced the crowd, bravely warning with her hands for her actors and even Bran to stay back.

  Lifting her chin, she began, “The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth—”

  A turnip hit her shoulder.

  There was laughter. She did not back down. If anything, she stood straighter, making herself a perfect target, and continued, her voice strong and carrying, “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.”

  A turnip missed her. It hit the stage and rolled.

  Kate gave it no mind.

  In fact, it was as if she had gone into a different world. One could almost imagine a light from heaven shining upon her.

  Her actors gathered at the back of the stage, watching as if they were witnessing something rare and wonderful . . . as did the crowd.

  Kate continued Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice.

  She was regal, mesmerizing.

  Her expression had turned serene. “That, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.”

  The turnip missiles had stopped.

  Everyone, even the children, listened and Bran knew that it wasn’t just her performance, but also her incredible courage that held them spellbound.

  They could have hurt her. They wanted to run her off.

  She was letting them know she was unafraid.

  Her last words hung in the air, fading into a proud silence.

  There was a thunderclap of applause.

  Even the most boorish rustic in the crowd knew they had witnessed an uncommon talent. Kate had swept them away. She had captured their imaginations, and changed them from within.

  She fell into a deep curtsey, acknowledging their praise, and they clapped louder, stomping their feet.

  Mars spoke beside Bran. “She is magnificent.”

  She was. The Aphrodite of London had risen again.

  And there wasn’t a man around who didn’t agree with him. Even Montcreiffe and the Reverend Summerall were applauding enthusiastically.

  Taking charge, Kate signaled for quiet. She ordered her actors to their places, and finished out her play. It was brilliant. Her performance as Juno was no less riveting than her presentation of Portia’s soliloquy. She did belong on the London stage.

  Afterward there was a surge toward her. She was surrounded not only by male admirers, all wanting to be closer to her, but also female ones, including the matrons. Mrs. Warbler in her bad wig acted as if she had not instigated the assault on Kate. She oozed compliments.

  Even Lucy praised Kate’s performance. Her lips tightened at the sight of her son standing so close to the actress, and yet she kept her peace.

  Mars and Winderton both flanked her protectively. The young duke understood that he had to stake his claim. He frowned at Mars, then sent a glance at Bran as if ordering his uncle to grab the earl by the scruff and toss him away from Kate.

  Which was something Bran was tempted to do, except he wanted Winderton gone as well.

  And just that simply, history was repeating itself.

  He remembered those evenings of waiting for Kate and having her attention claimed by other men. The bite of jealousy was just as mean now as it had been then—especially when he realized he had no right to feel it—

  “You are the one Kate spoke to last night, are you not, sir?” a man’s voice said close to Bran’s elbow. He turned to see he was being addressed by Aesop. The actor was a good head and a half shorter.

  “Last night?” Bran decided to play ignorant.

  “Out in the woods.”

  Bran could have sworn. He had hoped that his nocturnal visit had not been noticed.

  “You sent the wagon this morning as well,” Aesop said. “You made her angry.”

  “That was not my intent.”

  “Oh, you knew what you were doing.” The man held out his hand. “My name is Silas Leonard. I have been with Kate for all of fourteen years.”

  Wary, Bran took the man’s hand. Silas had a firm grip and he held Bran’s hand fast so that to free it would be a bit of a struggle. They stood close to each other.

  “I want to warn you away from Kate, sir. I don’t know all that happened last night, but I love that woman as I would my own daughter. I’ll not let the likes of you after her any more than I would the likes of Nestor.”

  “I don’t know who Nestor is.” Bran kept his face expressionless.

  “You don’t need to, sir. What you need to do is heed my words.”

  “What of Winderton?”

  Leonard made a dismissive sound. “I’ve no fears.”

  “And what makes you think I’m the danger to Kate?”

  “I saw the look in her eye when you sent that wagon.”

  That was interesting news. “If she accepted it, she could be gone from here by now.”

  “She could have. That is why I’m warning you away. Leave her alone. She’s happy in her life.” He released his grip on Bran’s hand and walked away as if the matter was solved.

  Bran glanced at Kate. Her attention was on the squire’s wife and Miss Taylor who were beaming with their enjoyment of the performance.

  Kate probably didn’t even know he was here. Instead, she was reveling in her success. She’d changed everyone’s opinion of her. She had that power. It was her gift.

  And what did he have?

  The question haunted him as he found his horse and returned to The Garland.

  Ned had already come back. Mr. Remy was still talking about rock formations to the two men who had stayed behind and Old Andy. Natural science was something that interested Bran, but not today. Bran didn’t even know why he was there except that he had no place else to go. Kate certainly didn’t need him, and when she had, he’d not been there for her.

  Bran didn’t remember much of what he said or was said to him the rest of the afternoon. He did not taste Andy’s pie. He didn’t want to drink.

  No, instead, his mind was on years ago when he’d assumed the worst and had thrown away someone who had been more important to him than he could have imagined.

  Even this morning, he’d wanted to insist it had been lust between him and Kate, because, apparently, he had a skill for lying to himself.

  He understood why she had felt betrayed. He also believed she was right.

  Later, instead of returning home, he found himself standing in the woods surrounding the actors’ encampment. They were gathered around a fire and excitedly talking about the success of the day in that way actors had.

  Bran listened, but he could not join them.

  Regret was a bitter medicine.

  Whether he liked it or not, Kate was lost to him. He was not worthy of her.

  He was close.
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br />   Kate sensed his presence. She’d known Brandon was there the moment he had arrived.

  And she remembered hours of whispered promises, breakfast dishes, and the wild, sweet glow of having found love. She remembered having him inside her, his breath against her ear, and believing it was the most marvelous feeling in the world.

  This afternoon, while the duke and the Earl of Marsden had battled for her favors, Brandon had stood apart. He’d not told her what he thought of the play. Or her performance.

  Had he recognized that many of the stories she’d used on stage had been the ones he’d once told her?

  Now here he was, out in the woods like a silent sentry. He did not seek her out. Not this night.

  She wondered what he was thinking. Did he have the same regrets she did? The same questions?

  Years ago, she had wanted him to rescue her. Instead, she’d had to learn how to rescue herself. And yet, there was something deep and empty inside of her, a place that only he had been able to fill.

  She caught herself playing “what if?” What if he’d been there for her? What if there had been no Hemling? Or if she had not been so trusting as to go to that ill-fated meeting spot?

  How different both of their lives would have been.

  Would they have been happy?

  The questions kept her up for most of the night.

  Chapter Ten

  “I write.” Mrs. Warbler spoke to Kate as if she was delivering a dark secret.

  Three days had passed since that first performance. Now Kate was sitting in Mrs. Warbler’s house, in a lovely room with windows all around overlooking a quite substantial rain-soaked back garden. The house was modest and yet, well-appointed. “My husband was a man of some means,” Mrs. Warbler had said proudly when Kate admired the furnishings.

  A maid had served them sherry and biscuits before busying herself elsewhere.

  In truth, Kate had found the invitation for a visit from the matron rather surprising, considering the widow’s earlier animosity. The matrons’ attack had been the first time Kate had ever experienced vegetables being thrown at the stage. It had happened to other actors, and for some with great regularity, but it had never happened to her.

  And she had stood her ground. She was very proud of her courage because it had required all of it. Since that performance, the crowds attending her play were larger than she’d ever had before. The troupe’s coffers would soon be replenished.

  When the invitation had been delivered inviting Kate to call on Mrs. Warbler, Silas hadn’t wanted her to accept it. She felt she must. She’d learned that Mrs. Warbler was a close confidante of the Dowager Duchess of Winderton. The duke still followed Kate everywhere. No matter what she did to discourage him, short of ordering him away, he refused to see that she was not interested in his attentions or his gifts, and definitely not his opinions.

  She didn’t quite know what to do next. His youth made him irritatingly persistent. It was as if he considered her fortunate to have his presence in her life . . . while the man she actually wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of was annoyingly absent.

  Brandon Balfour had gone on about his business with apparently no thought of Kate. After that one night when she’d sensed his presence in the woods, she’d not felt him at all. For the second time in her life, he seemed to have vanished.

  Except she knew he was in Maidenshop.

  Of course, what Mr. Balfour did should be of no interest to her. She was a woman with big dreams. She was returning to London. How many times did she need to be reminded that men only complicated matters? It became their will, their desires.

  Kate did not have time for such rot.

  She hoped today to reassure an anxious dowager by way of her friend that she was not a threat to her precious son. Silas was certain she was walking into a trap, and Kate was wise enough to be wary—but what she’d not expected to hear today was a confession.

  “You write?” Kate repeated.

  Mrs. Warbler was pouring a healthy draft of sherry into Kate’s glass. “I do,” she said, putting down the bottle after topping off her own glass. “Poems.” Lifting a hand to her chest, her wig ever so slightly askew, Mrs. Warbler started quoting, “Dew upon a blade of grass, a maiden’s hopes and dreams. A lock of hair, a memory there, and sadness to all extremes.”

  She sat back in her chair and smiled hopefully at Kate—who understood her role here. A fortifying drink of sherry gave her a chance to think. “Why, that was astounding. Truly, I’ve not heard anything like it.”

  “My mother was a poet as well,” Mrs. Warbler answered with a pleased blush. “Father never approved. He discouraged both of us. I vowed the man I married would not be so dictatorial. I never understood what was wrong with stringing words together.”

  “And did you marry the right man?” Kate asked. She’d known she’d been fortunate that her father had been one who appreciated intelligence and talent in women.

  “Ah, the colonel. He was rarely home.” For a moment, her pigeon-bright eyes dimmed. “I had all the time I needed. I stopped writing, well, except for letters to my husband. I don’t know that he appreciated my small observations of life in Maidenshop. I would tell him the goings-on and include a little poem. Something cheery. He never mentioned them and only sent back the tersest of replies. Dear wife, I am well. Your husband, Peter.”

  She lifted her glass in an ironic salute and drained it halfway. “Not romantic.”

  “Some men are not that way,” Kate offered, responding to the loneliness in the older woman’s voice.

  Mrs. Warbler poured more sherry into her glass and offered some to Kate who shook her head since she hadn’t touched any of it. “I sent one of my poems to a publisher once.” Mrs. Warbler looked shocked by her own audacity.

  “What happened?”

  “I received a letter from him stating that no woman can write even passably well.”

  Kate jumped to her defense. “That is not true. There are a number of very good writers who are women.”

  “But are there any poets?”

  That question stopped Kate. She could not think of one—in print. “I’m certain that there are dozens,” Kate said with conviction. “I do understand your doubts. I’m often chastised for being too independent,” Kate confessed. “I’ve even had men, always men, rarely women, inform me that I could not have possibly written my plays. They claimed they are too intelligent to have been penned by a woman.”

  Mrs. Warbler huffed her disgust. “Why do they dismiss everything we do?” she asked, sounding more than a bit tipsy. “Anything that is fun, or interesting, or challenging, they tell us we must not do.”

  “We don’t have to listen to them.”

  Her eyes widened at Kate’s suggestion. “You never do, do you?”

  “I did at one time,” Kate answered. That had been a very dark time when she’d failed so miserably in London and her parents had been dying. She’d truly lost sight of herself. “I finally came to realize that I had this need inside of me to perform and to share stories. To make people believe that what they see on the stage could be real. To forget their troubles, or their doubts, or their fears. You see, I believe stories, like poems, are important. They make us think. They make us feel.”

  “You are very good.” Mrs. Warbler uncapped the sherry decanter but did not pour. Instead, she asked thoughtfully, “But are you happy being alone? Is it not hard, especially since you don’t follow convention?”

  “The better question is—am I happy not having a husband who leaves me behind and only sends me frustratingly short letters?” Kate shivered. “Of course I am. I also don’t conform to convention. I’m not the only one in my family. I have a sister who is a wife, a mother, and a chemist. Her husband taught her everything she needed to know and they own their shop.”

  “She works?”

  “Every day. I admire Alice more than any woman I know. She’s intelligent and her husband refuses to let her hide her intellect ‘behind her skirts,’ or
so he says. He is the perfect man.”

  “I can’t imagine my Peter speaking of me that way. When he was home, he called me Bird and liked patting me on the head, but he rarely heard a word I said, unless he wanted a bit of ‘you know.’” Mrs. Warbler pulled a face of distaste and pushed her glass an inch to the side, her brows drawing together. “So messy and very unenjoyable and yet we can’t help but long for someone in our lives. Someone to make me feel useful.”

  To feel useful.

  Kate understood exactly what the older woman meant, and in that moment experienced a bond between them.

  One of the reasons for her crusade to return to London was to stave off those feelings of uselessness. Life had started to become a drudge. Kate had felt age creeping upon her. She’d needed a new challenge, or at least that seemed to be her nature. Alice and her other sisters seemed content. Kate envied them their peace in their homes, husbands, and children, telling herself that wasn’t for her.

  And it wasn’t. She wanted more . . . except she couldn’t define exactly what “more” was.

  “Perhaps I would feel differently if the colonel and I had had children,” Mrs. Warbler said. “Do you regret not having them? I’m certain you have had plenty of men in your life?”

  Immediately, Kate’s guard went up. She drew back and Mrs. Warbler made a sound of genuine alarm. “I did not mean to insult you, Miss Addison. I was just . . .” Her explanation trailed off.

  “Prying?” Kate suggested tartly.

  “No, no. I rather admire you. I invited you here because I owe you an apology. My behavior the other day was appalling. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can be judgmental. That is true. However, to throw things, especially a turnip, well, I am appalled at my behavior. I’m sorry for attacking you.”

  Kate studied her a moment. She’d been given false apologies before.

  The image of Hemling the last time she’d seen him rose as a specter in her mind. His mighty lordship on his knees begging her to return to him. He’d honestly believed he was making an offer she couldn’t refuse.