His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

She also remembered how his contriteness had turned vindictive, how he’d done all in his power to ensure no theater in London would take her in.

  But Mrs. Warbler wasn’t a powerful lord or even angry. Yes, she had been spiteful. Then again, Kate had often wondered how many women’s judgmental attitudes and general vindictive pettiness, especially toward their own sex, was because they felt a need to exert a bit of authority in their lives. There had been times when she’d caught herself wanting to lash out because she’d felt powerless. It had been just such an incident that had pushed her to start her own troupe. She’d grown tired of feeling as if her opinion did not matter.

  “I’m sorry for the incident myself,” Kate answered. “I had not realized the impact my appearance would have on the social gathering.”

  “It was the dress,” Mrs. Warbler assured her. “You looked magnificent, and there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t notice. Or woman. We pay attention to those things more than the men do.”

  Kate had dressed to tweak the nose of one man, and it hadn’t made any impression that she could see on Brandon Balfour.

  Mrs. Warbler took in Kate’s simple muslin day dress with its modest décolleté. The material had small flowers woven into it. “You are the very image of a genteel lady today.”

  “I always thought it was manners that made a woman genteel.”

  “You know that is not true. It has to do with who her husband is or if she has male family members to protect her.”

  Kate raised her sherry glass. “Mrs. Warbler, that is the most astute observation I have heard for some time. I also believe you should write.”

  “I’m too old—”

  “Men write when they are old. What is to stop us?”

  “Ourselves.”

  “Exactly. There is no excuse.”

  Her hostess lifted her own glass. “You are right. Absolutely right.” She downed her sherry.

  Kate took a small sip and then asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d first met the lady. “Why do you wear a wig?”

  Mrs. Warbler touched the hairpiece. “It was the fashion when I was young. Because I look better. Is there any other reason?”

  “Let me,” Kate said. She leaned forward. Was it the sherry making her so bold? She lifted the ancient wig off of Mrs. Warbler’s head. The hair beneath was matted to her head and white. Mrs. Warbler closed her eyes as if ashamed. She even seemed to grow smaller.

  Gently, Kate touched the hair and it sprang to life. It was actually very good hair. After years in the theater creating hairstyles for characters, she knew quite a bit about hair. “Do you have scissors?”

  “What? No.” Mrs. Warbler brought her hands up to protect her hair. “I’m losing it. I don’t want it cut.”

  “Trust me,” Kate said. “If you don’t like it when I’m done, then you can put the wig back on.” Mrs. Warbler’s brows came together. Gently, Kate said, “The wig seems to swallow your face. It overshadows your character.”

  Ever so slowly, Mrs. Warbler lowered her hands. “Do you think?”

  “I know. I have a good eye.” Now that she’d started, Kate was anxious to see if her hunch was true. “Trust me?”

  Perhaps it was the sherry that lowered Mrs. Warbler’s inhibitions, but she did ring for the maid. “Scissors, Janie. Fetch the scissors.”

  The moment Kate cut a lock of Mrs. Warbler’s hair, she knew she had the right of it, in spite of the maid wincing at the sight. The hair curled as if set free. Kate kept at it, trimming the hair until it was a mass of small, bouncing curls that framed Mrs. Warbler’s face in the most becoming manner and gave her a youthful, and modern, expression.

  “Oh, miss, miss,” Janie said.

  “What?” Mrs. Warbler said in alarm. “Is it terrible?”

  Instead of answering, the maid said, “Let me bring you a mirror.”

  “And a scarf,” Kate called.

  “Do I look horrible?” Mrs. Warbler demanded, panicked.

  “You will see.”

  Janie returned with the hand mirror and, with great ceremony, Kate flipped it so that her hostess could see her reflection.

  Mrs. Warbler gasped her surprise. “Is this my hair?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Kate answered, very pleased with herself. “It looks like a London style. You could pass for the goddess Artemis.”

  Holding the hand mirror, Mrs. Warbler angled her head this way and that. “My head feels lighter, as if I’m undressed.” She put a hand beneath her chin, smoothing it back. “But I do look younger, don’t I? Wait until the duchess sees me. She’ll be shocked. She thinks I look much older than herself . . . but not any longer.” She gave an impish smile to Kate. “Excellent work.”

  Kate wondered if she had done herself any favors, and yet she didn’t regret Mrs. Warbler’s delight in the style. She began wrapping the scarf like a turban around the curls, letting them peep out beneath the purple material. “You could go anywhere in society like this.” When she’d finished, she picked up her sherry glass that had miraculously been refilled.

  “I could.” Mrs. Warbler sounded almost giddy. She almost kissed herself in the mirror, until a movement outside the window caught her attention.

  Taking a drink, Kate followed the other woman’s gaze and realized The Garland, the village tavern, was right across the road. The Earl of Marsden was leaving. He wasn’t alone. Brandon was with him.

  Now, it was Kate’s turn to drain her glass.

  “There they are,” Mrs. Warbler said with great forbearance, “the gentlemen of the Logical Men’s Society.”

  “Logical men? Do you mean the bachelor society?”

  With a sharp bark of agreement, Mrs. Warbler said, “I know, it doesn’t make sense.” She poured herself another glass of sherry. “Men carry on about their rational thinking. In truth, they are all tiringly predictable. They all like their meals served on the table and ‘you know’ in their bed. The rest is all filler in their day.”

  Her bluntness got a surprised laugh out of Kate.

  Pleased with herself, Mrs. Warbler leaned forward. “The Earl of Marsden is their leader of sorts, although our good doctor seems to be the chairman. Marsden’s grandfather started the society.”

  “And the purpose of it?” The earl and Brandon stood discussing something quite earnestly.

  “Silliness,” Mrs. Warbler said. “At least that is what the ladies and I think. They vow to have no interest in marriage, but as you can tell their numbers are small and there is even a gentleman I am quite fond of who is a member. But my hope is he won’t be for much longer.”

  “There is?” Kate’s skepticism was clear.

  “Oh, the members aren’t all young men. Widowed man can rejoin. I have my eye on Sir Lionel. He served our country honorably in Italy. His wife died around the same time as my Peter. However, he claims he is devoted to the society. He has resisted all my entreaties.”

  “Perhaps he was deeply in love with his late wife?”

  “It’s been five years. Why wouldn’t he want more from life?”

  “You have tried to coax him out?”

  “Every chance I can.”

  “Perhaps he will notice your new hairstyle.”

  Mrs. Warbler touched her soft curls. “He might. Unfortunately, the Widow Smethers fancies him as well. She’s younger but I have more money. Then again, she cooks.”

  “Competition is not bad for any of us.” Kate realized she hadn’t taken her eyes off of Brandon. She forced herself to bring her focus back into the room. Janie had brought in a broom and swept up the hair. The sherry glass was full again.

  “The earl has his eye on you.”

  Kate gave a start. “Does he?” Now she was wary.

  “They say he is a generous benefactor.”

  “I’m not interested in a benefactor.” Kate started tidying up the table. She moved the scissors over, then the hand mirror—

  Mrs. Warbler reached out and stopped her hand. She gave a heavy sigh and adm
itted, “The dowager is very nervous about her son’s infatuation with you. You’d be wise to leave him alone.”

  “I am not encouraging him,” Kate could say honestly. “If anything, I am avoiding him.” Which had been another reason for accepting the invitation this afternoon.

  “I know it isn’t you. We all do. Even the duchess will acknowledge this once she calms down and thinks clearly. Winderton is very young and, yet, he has always been anxious to settle down. The duchess has had her hands full trying to keep him from jumping in where angels should fear to tread.”

  Kate sat on the chair she’d vacated. “Her Grace has nothing to worry about from me.” Her glance had to return to the doorway across the road. Brandon had started to walk away but the earl grabbed his arm and was speaking seriously with him.

  “For my money, the man who is the most interesting is Mr. Balfour,” Mrs. Warbler said.

  Now she had Kate’s attention. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s handsome and there is a mystery about him.”

  “A mystery.”

  “Yes, he so rarely smiles. He is always serious. He is an architect. He was working for the East India Company when Winderton’s father died. They say he didn’t want to come back to England and only did so for duty.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About three years ago. He has complete say over the duke’s affairs until he turns one and twenty, which is very soon. It is unfortunate the duke’s father didn’t make the age of his majority much higher. Winderton could use more seasoning—” She stopped abruptly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying this to you? The dowager would be furious.”

  “It is not a problem. Whatever we say here won’t go further than this room.”

  Mrs. Warbler looked outside. Brandon and the earl were still in their deep discussion. “I know Mr. Balfour will be relieved when he can discharge his duties to his nephew. He has had a hard time adjusting after being gone so long. He struggles to reestablish himself. It must be difficult for him to live in the Dower House.”

  “The Dower House?” Kate hadn’t really thought about where Brandon lived. She’d assumed in the redbrick manse the duke owned.

  “Yes, on the estate.”

  “Of course, that makes sense.” Kate remembered the room that he’d had in London. Student’s quarters . . . and yet, they had been a magical place in her mind.

  “The duchess worries about him. And then, of course, there is the tragedy of his life.”

  Kate swung her attention away from the gentlemen. “Tragedy?”

  Mrs. Warbler moved her chair closer. “His wife died. Very sad.”

  Brandon had been married?

  For a second, Kate’s mind froze. All earlier charitable thoughts vanished.

  Had he been married when she’d known him? Or had he gone on to marry?

  And why hadn’t he said something? He could have spoken up the other night. He didn’t.

  “The duchess tries to do what she can for him,” Mrs. Warbler was saying. “All the matrons have been thinking of suitable parties for him to wed. I mean, the nonsense of the Logical Men’s Society aside, men need to be married. Don’t you agree?”

  The earl and Brandon finished their conversation. Marsden untied his mount and rode away. Brandon started down the road. On foot.

  Married?

  Kate had a sudden need to talk to him.

  She came to her feet. “This has all been very nice, Mrs. Warbler. Unfortunately, I must take my leave.”

  “Oh, yes, you have a performance this afternoon.”

  “Exactly. Thank you for your hospitality.” Kate hurried as quickly as she dared for the door. She picked up her green velvet cap off of a side table. It was a stylish chapeau that she had made herself from a description someone had given her of what they were wearing in London.

  “Janie will see you out,” Mrs. Warbler offered.

  “Not necessary.” Kate set her hat on her head at an angle and opened the door herself. “Thank you very much.”

  “No, thank you. This has been the nicest visit.”

  Kate started to leave but noticed two aged gents leaving The Garland. She looked back to her hostess. “Is one of those Sir Lionel?”

  “Yes, the one on the right.”

  The man appeared ready to fall on his face from drink. His friend held him up, or perhaps they were holding each other up. He was not the sort Kate would want. Mrs. Warbler was welcome to him. “Good day,” she said in a quiet voice and slipped out the door.

  At Mrs. Warbler’s gate, she looked up and down the road. Brandon was walking with a long, purposeful stride toward the sprawling buildings of the wainwright. What business could he have there? Unless he was prying into hers?

  Since she’d rejected his gift of a wagon, perhaps he wanted to hurry the repairs on her vehicle, a thought that she found surprisingly hurtful. Just as it had bothered her that he had not attended any other of her performances.

  And the idea that he’d married—and had not said a word to her?

  Kate set out after him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Earlier, on Bran’s way into the village, Orion had thrown a shoe. Rather than wait until he returned to Smythson’s stables, Bran had chosen to spend time over a pint at The Garland and have Fred Burnham, the smithy, shoe his horse.

  His decision would annoy Jim, the Smythson stable manager. The man was picky about how the horses’ feet were done. His suggestion would have been for Bran to return to the estate. However, Bran never felt comfortable riding his horse shoeless, even for a short distance. Orion was temperamental enough when all things were good.

  Unfortunately, when Bran returned to the smithy, Fred hadn’t had a moment to see to Orion yet. “Had to do a plow for Squire Nelson. I could have one of my lads shoe your horse, but I know how partial you are to the animal. I’ll see to it right now.”

  “Thank you,” Bran said, because what else could he say? Both plow and horse must be done.

  He could wander back to The Garland, but truth be known, he was done drinking. He’d been indulging too much over the past several days. He thought about what Mars had told him in front of The Garland: the commission for the bridge was supposedly still in play, and that he should return to Town to personally see how the wind was blowing.

  But ever since Kate’s performance, he hadn’t given a damn about the bridge.

  No, instead he’d spent his waking moments trying to not think about her while also keeping tabs on everything she was doing, which was easily done since every servant at Smythson along with everyone in the village had attended one of her performances. Even Andy had pulled himself away from the tavern to attend.

  Bran was tiring of Aesop’s famous proverbs being spouted all over the county. It was said that Reverend Summerall was plotting ways to weave the morals of those stories into one of his sermons.

  Apparently Kate, “quite wisely” according to his still lovesick nephew, had several plays going, all on different Aesop themes, making it possible for someone who attended the play one day to see a different one the next. “Brilliant idea,” Winderton had proclaimed. “And she mixes up the pieces so even though someone may have seen a particular story, it is still new because the tales around it are different.”

  It was a very clever idea.

  Bran didn’t wish her ill. He just wished he could exorcise her from his mind. That he could cut out that piece of his brain that mourned the past. Drink hadn’t done it and since she showed no signs of packing her troupe and leaving the area the only thing left to do was avoid her and all mention of her—and that was hard.

  Kate was the topic of conversation wherever he went. The rowdy Crisp was said to be at every performance. Even the Dawson lads had taken to the “theater.” And the duke attended daily, which led Lucy to daily hunt Bran down to wring her hands over the actress’s continued hold over her son and how Bran must do something about it.

  So here he was, putting himself thro
ugh the misery of knowing Kate was near and yet wishing she was not.

  A man could go mad—

  Beyond the forges, next to an old shed, his gaze caught sight of a large wagon propped up on barrels instead of wheels. The smithy’s brother, Tom, oversaw the wainwright services for the village, and though he wasn’t in sight right now no one had ever accused Tom of working hard. He was likely snoozing somewhere.

  The wagon wasn’t particularly attractive with its sides weathered by age, but it appeared functional. Bran had no doubt that it could easily haul the tents, wood planks, costumes, and several actors over the countryside.

  “What is wrong with that wagon?” he asked Fred.

  Having finished the plow, the blacksmith had tied Orion up and was preparing to have him lift his leg. He looked over to see what Bran was talking about and said, “Oh, the actors’ wagon. What isn’t wrong with it? Tom is having to fashion a new axle and it has been hard. We didn’t have the wood for it. The back wheels were cracked in two when the wagon fell. The spokes on the front were ready to break as well.”

  “When will you have it finished?”

  “Next Tuesday or so.” Six days away.

  Orion impatiently pawed the ground and Fred gave his attention back to the horse. “Your front shoe is loose as well.”

  “Do all of them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bran strode through the shop toward the wagon. There were several other broken vehicles around it. One was an aging phaeton that Fred bragged he dreamed of repairing and driving. Thurlowe was certain the heavy blacksmith would kill himself on it. Bran knew Fred didn’t own the horseflesh to make the vehicle go fast enough to be a danger.

  He studied the wagon. Kate would be lucky if it was finished in six days. So many things could go wrong when parts were hewn by hand, which was the only way the Burnham brothers worked. Like so many, they did what their fathers had done and their fathers before them.

  Bran leaned to inspect the undercarriage. It was a matter of male curiosity, if nothing else. There was rust on all the metal trappings.

  He wondered how Kate traveled. Did she walk beside this wagon? Her resilience would put soldiers to shame—