His Secret Mistress Read online

  Dedication

  This one is for you, Holly Maxwell

  With peace, joy, and love . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Logical Men’s Society

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Author’s Note

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Logical Men’s Society

  The Logical Men’s Society started as a jest, as many things do.

  Over a pint or two in The Garland, where men gathered in Maidenshop, it was noted that a sane man wouldn’t choose to marry. It went against all logic . . . and so the “society” was formed.

  Oh, men had to marry. It was expected and life is full of expectations. A man gave up his membership in the Logical Men’s Society when that happened and he could only return if he was widowed. But in the years before he tied the parson’s knot, the Society offered good fellowship that was highly valued and never forgotten.

  And so it went for several generations. The irony of the name of their village, pronounced Maidens-hop, was not lost on any of its members. The Logical Men’s Society provided a place of masculine good-will and contentment . . . until the women began to win.

  Chapter One

  Maidenshop, Cambridgeshire

  1814

  He’d lost the damn commission.

  For a good twelve months, Mr. Brandon Balfour had labored on a proposed design for a bridge crossing the River Thames in London. After repeated requests for elaborate and complicated changes, the Surveyor-General had assured Bran his was the best proposal submitted. He’d all but promised Bran swift approval, and then last night, the council had informed him that they were interested in a new contender. A Scotsman well-known to council members had expressed interest in the project.

  And in less time than it took to down a brandy, Bran’s hours of work and endless toadying to pompous asses who knew little about what made bridges work had come to naught. That bridge was to have been his signature, his mark on the world, the first important project of his small, struggling engineering firm.

  Which meant that right now, the weight of the fowling piece felt damn good in Bran’s hand. He was of a mind to shoot something this morning. Rooks were as good a choice as any other. In fact, he’d been so angry after the council meeting, he’d ridden through the night to join the hunt at Belvoir Castle. He’d known he was too bitter and frustrated for sleep. Or to cool his heels in London.

  His friend the Earl of Marsden, the owner of Belvoir, walked beside him through tall grass toward a thicket of trees, the rooks’ haven. It was shortly before dawn and the air had a hushed, expectant darkness.

  Flanking them was Mr. Ned Thurlowe, the local physician and another valued friend. The three of them, tall, well-favored, and confident, were often referred to locally as “the Three Bucks” of the Logical Men’s Society. Gentlemen usually envied them and women thought they should be married.

  At six-foot-four, Mars was two inches taller than Bran. He was lean of frame with broad shoulders and blue eyes that could be warm and friendly or deadly chilling. His hair was the golden brown of winter wheat.

  Thurlowe was the handsomest of their trio. He had wild, untamed looks with dark hair and slashing brows. It was claimed women feigned sickness just to have him place his concerned physician’s hand on their brows and more than one had swooned from his touch.

  “When I saw you in London last week,” Mars said to Bran, his voice low so it would not carry in the predawn air and warn the birds of their approach, “you told me you didn’t know when you would be returning to Maidenshop. Didn’t you hope your bridge design would receive its final approval?”

  A hard stone set in Bran’s chest. “We had a meeting last night. I expected to be named the architect but then a new player was thrown into the game. A Scotsman who is a relative of Dervil’s.”

  “Dervil? That bastard.” Lord Dervil’s estates bordered Belvoir. Years ago, in a dispute over property lines, Dervil had challenged Mars’s father to a duel. The old earl had died of the wounds he’d received that day, and the feud between the two families had intensified. Mars claimed he couldn’t wait to put a bullet into Dervil’s black heart. “Did he block your plans after all the reviews you have been through?”

  “He was at the meeting. He suggested an architect with more experience would be a better choice. Apparently his opinion was all that was needed for the Surveyor-General to table the matter.”

  Ned jumped in. “More experience? You’ve built bridges, canals, and roads in India. What have you not built? You have letters of recommendation from the Company, don’t you?” He referred to the East India Company, which Bran had left three years ago.

  “My introductions and references have been presented,” Bran answered. “Dervil suggested my work on foreign soil could not meet English standards.” Dervil wasn’t the first to do so. Establishing himself in England had been a challenge.

  “Dervil is a fool then,” Ned replied stoutly. “And what is this talk about connections? What does that have to do with engineering?” Ned was a man of science. He was the bastard son of a noted peer, and as such, like Bran, had to rely on his intellect to make his way in the world. They had both been successful, although many wondered why a talented doctor like Thurlowe would prefer to rusticate in Maidenshop instead of try his hand in London.

  “Obviously, competence and intelligence isn’t enough in the world of politics and power,” Bran answered.

  “The Duke of Winderton is your nephew and your ward,” Thurlowe said. “You returned to guide him after his father died. That is a connection and a damn honorable one.”

  “A connection to property Dervil covets,” Mars pointed out. “And property he would have convinced your sister to sell if you hadn’t returned from India and stopped her. So, this is his revenge, eh? I assumed he would show his hand sooner or later. He prides himself on extracting a price, damn his soul.”

  “Apparently, it is.” Bran tightened his hold on the gun. “I spent a year meeting their every demand . . .” He let his voice trail off with his frustration.

  “Did you say the meeting was last night? And you are here?” Ned asked. “Did you sleep?”

  “I was too angry to sleep. Besides, late yesterday, my sister started sending urgent messages for me to return at once. Something about Winderton.” Bran was the duke’s guardian until he reached one and twenty in a few months. In truth, Winderton had been too coddled by his mother to take over such responsibilities. If Bran had been the author of the will, Winderton would need to wait until he was at least thirty, but the matter was not his to decide. “Do either of you have an idea what she could be in high dudgeon over this time?”

  “I saw your young duke drinking with friends at The Garland the other night,” Mars reported. “He was blissfully in his cups and appeared happy.”

  “I passed him yesterday in the village,” Thurlowe offered. “He was barreling down the road without a sideward glance on some mission of his own making. You know how he
is.”

  Self-important? Bran wanted to suggest. He didn’t. It would be disloyal. Still, how could someone who was only twenty think his opinion mattered to anyone in the world? “Lucy cries wolf every time he doesn’t do what she thinks he should. So, I’ve come to sort that out.” And himself. He needed to sort himself out. If he didn’t receive that commission, then what future was there for him?

  His friends nodded, quieting as they reached their destination, a group of three huge plane trees off to themselves. Here was the rooks’ roosting place. The birds would wake with the dawn.

  Trailing behind the Three Bucks were the oldest members of the Logical Men’s Society—Mr. Fullerton and Sir Lionel Johnson. They rode in makeshift sedan chairs carried by Sir Lionel’s servants and were more interested in drinking port than shooting birds. Fullerton had been the estate manager for Mars’s grandfather back in the day. Sir Lionel had once been the king’s ambassador to Italy and he’d been dining out on the honor ever since. Rounding out the hunting party were Mars’s gamekeeper, Evans, and numerous servants carrying more guns, powder, and, of course, the port.

  A number of lads from the village, warned to silence, brought up the rear. They would race to collect the kill. Mars had offered a penny for every rook stuffed in their bags.

  The goal of a rook hunt was to catch the fledglings as they woke. The young birds had the tender meat and there was no sense hunting birds if you couldn’t eat them. The low mist drifting across the ground helped to conceal the men’s stealthy advance upon the trees.

  As the sun began to rise, the nests high in the trees’ branches stirred. Against the dawning sky, the birds perched on limbs as if needing to shake themselves awake in the manner of grumpy old men in the morning.

  Without a word, the Three Bucks raised their guns. Mr. Fullerton raised his as well, while still sitting in his chair. It was unloaded. Evans was not so silly as to give the drink-addled Fullerton a loaded weapon.

  Sir Lionel raised a glass of port. “Here’s to the hunt,” he shouted.

  The clicks and wheezes of the birds went silent as now they listened.

  It was of no mind. The Bucks had expected Sir Lionel to do something loud and silly. They fired, knowing that they had best not miss their opportunity. Rooks were clever creatures. The old ones would be gone in a flash. But the fledglings, well, they were like Winderton, not so wise.

  After each shot, the gun was handed to a groom who offered a freshly reloaded one. The village lads began zigzagging under the trees, stuffing dead birds in their sacks. The hunters’ aim was true and a good number were killed.

  And then it was done. The birds were gone. They were either flown or bagged.

  Mars laughed his satisfaction. He lowered his gun. “Excellent shooting! I’m glad to be rid of those pests.” He looked to the boys. “C’mon, lads, all of you, join us at The Garland for breakfast. Andy promises to have a good one for us. We will count the birds there.”

  That was met with cheers.

  “To The Garland,” Sir Lionel now shouted, leaning sideways in his chair. “Pick up the pace, lads. We can’t keep Andy waiting.” His footmen set off at a trot and, of course, Fullerton had to give chase. Both men appeared ready to be bounced out of his chair at any moment. Still the footmen did not stop and led the way to breakfast.

  “Evans, you and the others are to come as well,” Mars ordered. “If I know Andy, there will be food for a hundred.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Evans waved a hurrying hand to his men. “Move this along. We must take everything to the house before we can break our fast.” He didn’t have to speak twice.

  Bran’s horse, Orion, a huge blood bay gelding, and mounts for Ned and Mars were brought to them by a groom. Orion was not pleased to find himself groomed, fed, and saddled again. Not after a night of riding.

  He snorted his disapproval but Bran climbed into the saddle anyway. “You’ll rest in a minute,” he told the disgruntled animal. The answer was a shake of the head as if to deny the bit that was already there.

  The friends rode at a walk to The Garland. The anger that had driven Bran was giving way to a cooler head. He’d needed to be out of the city and in country air.

  “What are you going to do with all those birds?” he asked Mars.

  “Andy will bake several huge pies,” Ned answered. “You know the Cotillion Dance is tonight?”

  Bran inwardly groaned. “I’d forgotten.” The Cotillion Dance was the biggest event in Maidenshop’s active social season. The patroness of the acclaimed Almack’s could not rival how the Matrons of Maidenshop organized this dance. Because of the village’s close proximity to Cambridge, London, and New Market Road, the countryside was a favorite of the titled, upper gentry and even the rising middle class. Everyone attended the dance.

  “Ned worries that the membership to the Logical Men’s Society is not what it should be,” Mars explained.

  “It isn’t,” Ned groused. “It is truly just the three of us and those blighters.” He nodded to where Fullerton and Sir Lionel had disappeared up the road. “The young ones like Winderton are not interested. We need to recruit more gentlemen into the Society or we will disappear completely.”

  “Especially since you will soon marry,” Mars reminded Thurlowe.

  The physician looked at him with a blank stare and then said, “Yes, to Miss Taylor.” He frowned as if annoyed with himself for forgetting he was promised. Bran didn’t blame him. Ned’s offer for Miss Clarissa Taylor was not a conventional one.

  As a baby, she had been abandoned on the late Reverend Taylor’s doorstep. The reverend and his wife had raised her as their own, although the whole village had been caught up in the mystery of the child. They all acted as if she was a part of them.

  The Taylors died when Miss Taylor was two and twenty. Squire Nelson and his family took her in, but the Matrons of Maidenshop had decided that was not enough. She needed to be married, and one of the Three Bucks should be the groom. They’d stormed into The Garland, interrupting a night of merriment with their demands.

  Mars had refused. He and Miss Taylor could not abide each other.

  Bran was not about to marry anyone. At six and thirty, he’d been a bachelor too long to succumb to the parson’s noose, especially out of pity. Over the years, Bran had formed quiet, unfettered liaisons with the occasional widow—although for the past year he’d done nothing but focus on that damned bridge commission.

  In the end, it was Thurlowe who had broken down and sacrificed himself. He’d claimed to feel sorry for Miss Taylor since she had no family and few prospects. That was two years ago. Ned called on her every Saturday for fifteen minutes and made no move toward marriage.

  Anyone who thought the good doctor was ready for marriage, or enthusiastic for it, was a fool. However, the matrons seemed mollified and Miss Taylor appeared at peace with the current situation.

  Bran did not understand why the matrons didn’t push for an actual wedding, but it wasn’t his worry.

  Meanwhile, Mars seemed to enjoy chiding their friend on his “someday” upcoming nuptials.

  “To interest new members in the Society,” Mars went on to explain, “Ned has arranged for a scientific lecture on matters of interest to men for tomorrow to take advantage of those gentlemen who will be staying over after the dance.”

  “A lecture?” Bran asked with some interest.

  “Yes, every gentleman, married or not, is invited,” Ned said with enthusiasm. “Mr. Clyde Remy will discuss the late James Hutton’s theory concerning uniformitarianism as an explanation for the formation of rocks and mountains. I think that should draw them in.”

  Uniformitarianism? Bran withheld his opinion, although his gaze met Mars’s amused one and he knew they both did not share Thurlowe’s confidence. Bran had a deep interest in geology but he didn’t know if it was a popular topic to others.

  “Andy and I decided rook pie can’t hurt our chances of attracting members either,” Mars said. “After all,
I had rooks to spare. Blasted nuisances.”

  They rode through Maidenshop now. The dawning sun highlighted the thatched roofs of charming whitewashed cottages and rose gardens filling with fragrant blooms. When Bran had first arrived here three years ago from India, he had thought he’d never seen a lovelier village—or a more English one.

  Mrs. Warbler, a widow and one of the busiest of the matrons, owned the largest home in the village. It was built of yellow stone and set at such an angle she could sit in her morning room and see everything going on—and everyone going in and out of The Garland.

  In the distance was the lichen-covered stone roof of St. Martyr’s, a twelfth-century church the villagers had the good sense to leave alone. Like many churches of that era, it had been built by a nobleman, supposedly a Winderton ancestor, and the property included a long, high-ceilinged stone outbuilding that had once served as a barn. The Cotillion was held there every year.

  Down the road a ways was the smithy. Another two miles would take them to New Market Road and the Post House, where a good number of those attending the Cotillion without local relatives or friends would find accommodations for the night. It was a major stop for travelers and could be busy day and night.

  The Garland sat at the edge of the village on the banks of a racing stream known as the Three Thieves. There was a story behind that name, but no one knew it to tell it. Upstream, the Three Thieves bordered Marsden land and had good fishing, especially in the spring.

  The Garland itself was built like three small cottages hooked together. Mars claimed that inside, it resembled a fox’s den with low-ceilinged rooms and walls darkened by age. Save for the time the matrons had stormed it to demand a husband for Miss Taylor, it was definitely a male sanctuary. The Garland was the hub of the Logical Men’s Society, and everyone in the county knew it.

  The scent of roasting beef and fresh bread greeted the group as they walked through the door. Andy must have been up for hours. He liked to cook on a spit out back and the smoke from it rose above the thatched roofs. Bran was surprised at how hungry he was. He’d been too anxious yesterday to eat much.