“Not any longer,” Mrs. Warbler answered. “You almost destroyed the place and you don’t deserve it.”
Clarissa, the dowager, and Mrs. Summerall were not there but the lads’ mother was. She came forward to stand right beside Mrs. Warbler. “She’s right. Go on with you. Go home. I’m horrified at what I learned was going on in there.”
To no one’s surprise, her sons did not listen. “You can’t keep us out,” Mark pressed. “Look over there at Sir Lionel and Mr. Fullerton. Those are old men. They have habits.”
Sir Lionel enthusiastically nodded. “We are here every day.”
“Well, not today,” Mrs. Warbler answered triumphantly. “In fact, it is time for the two of you”—she pointed her mop at the old gents—“to develop some new habits.”
“If this is your way of making me pay attention to you,” Sir Lionel warned, “it is not a good one.”
“Come on, Mrs. Warbler,” William Dawson wheedled as if trying to charm her. “You know we are thirsty.”
“There isn’t a drop to drink in there. You all downed it last night.”
“Mr. Fullerton brought a new keg,” William answered.
“No,” she responded and set her mop down like a sentry standing guard.
Seeing Ned, Sir Lionel barked, “Thurlowe, do something.”
Before Ned could respond, there was another disturbance—Mrs. Estep herself appeared in the doorway.
Her face was flush as if she’d just woken. Her golden-red hair was in one long braid over her shoulder. The last rays of the sun seemed to catch on the color, and there wasn’t a man around who wasn’t struck dumb.
Ned included.
There were other women present who were as beautiful, even more so . . . except there was an ethereal air about her. She was dressed in her black, but something set her apart from all others.
“Ah, there you are, sweet girl,” Mrs. Warbler said in greeting. “Did you have a good sleep? Are you surprised at what we’ve done?”
“I’m overwhelmed,” Mrs. Estep said. There was a huskiness to her voice that seemed to ring through Ned. “This is so generous of all of you and I don’t know who you are or why you are being so kind to me but thank you. Thank you.”
The woman closest to her, Jenny Mandrake, answered, “Because you are one of us.” Heads nodded. “Welcome to Maidenshop.”
And that is when Mrs. Estep noticed Ned sitting on his horse.
Their gazes met. He could not pull his away. Instead, he stared as if hungry for her, and he was.
This was the way of foolishness. This is what had led his noble father almost into social ruin, what had taken many a man down a path of betrayal and shame. Ned had believed himself immune because he’d never experienced such a driving awareness of any member of the female sex.
Apparently, he was capable of being as gulled by a woman as the next man.
If she’d crooked her finger toward him right now, he’d run to her. He would have swept her up in his arms, carried her to the nearest bed, and had his way with her—except he was a thinking man. He may have been a love child, but he did not believe in love or giving in to lust. That way lay folly.
Then her brows came together as if in disdain and it broke the spell. She obviously didn’t reciprocate one gram of what he was feeling, and he was damn glad. Or so he told himself. Her attitude saved him from becoming a fool.
Right now he needed to plot his best course.
“Come, gentlemen,” he said, taking command. “To my house.”
“Yes, go drink yourselves silly again,” Mrs. Warbler crowed.
The men ignored her . . . until they were out of earshot. Then Mark Dawson summed the matter up. “Could you believe the color of that woman’s hair? She looks like some fae creature come to life.”
“More like the devil,” Sir Lionel answered, and Ned agreed.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, the Sabbath, was a cloudy day with a mild threat of rain and little wind.
Gemma had surprised herself by sleeping peacefully through the night. She hadn’t believed she would. She’d been too excited about the changes that had taken place in The Garland.
Mrs. Warbler, her friends, and soap and water had worked miracles. The broken furniture in the main room had been removed and what was there now gleamed from a good polish. The floors didn’t have a speck of dust, the bricks in the kitchen shone, and the empty kegs in the taproom were gone. She’d even had a duchess direct her servants to help with The Garland.
In one day, the Matrons of Maidenshop had accomplished what Gemma had anticipated would take her weeks, and they had done it out of their enthusiasm for her plans and a strong desire to close down the Logical Men’s Society. They had made the latter very clear to her.
This morning, as Gemma walked with Mrs. Warbler to the morning service at St. Martyr’s, she brought up the subject again. “I sense there is a touch of animosity toward the Logical Men’s Society.”
“A touch?” Mrs. Warbler laughed her opinion. She was dressed in a lavender day dress with gloves to match and a deep-purple-trimmed bonnet. Gemma had on her black. She’d pinned her hair up under her black, wide-brimmed hat.
“Why is that? My uncle was proud of the group and the role he played. When I visited, he was making rook pies for a lecture they were having. It was on geology, I believe.”
“The lectures are new. They are the idea of Mr. Thurlowe. Trust me, the majority of the members are not interested in any topic but the most expedient way to bring a tankard to their lips. A change that is actually Mr. Thurlowe’s fault.”
“It is?”
“He is an egalitarian. No respect for principle, for authority. Once he started letting in a less—shall we say—genteel class of gentleman, their meetings became rowdier. Why, there was so much going on the other night, I could not sleep. I am not sorry that they must find another place for their meetings. I also don’t care where they go as long as it is not across the road from me.”
“Mr. Thurlowe does not strike me as rowdy.” Gemma kept her tone neutral. He was not her friend. He’d made himself very clear on that matter. All the same, she resisted seeing him painted with a broad brush.
Mrs. Warbler nodded to a family riding to church in a farmer’s cart. “He’s not, even though he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“He was?”
“Yes, he is the bastard son of the late Earl of Penwell. His mother was a woman of low repute and great renown, Sarah Middleton.”
Gemma had heard of the courtesan. Her lips formed an “oh.” Mrs. Middleton was rumored to be very beautiful. No wonder Mr. Thurlowe was an uncommonly handsome man.
Mrs. Warbler continued, “He also believes the end justifies the means and I do not agree.”
“What do you mean?”
“First, it is silly to encourage men to be happy they are single. That is nonsense. Everyone should be married.”
Not to Gemma’s thinking. She prayed never to marry again, an opinion she realized she must keep to herself. She had no desire to upset her recent benefactress.
“The Society was down to the Three Bucks and Sir Lionel and Mr. Fullerton, who are widowed. When Mr. Thurlowe was voted chairman, he changed things. Can you believe it? He wants to educate the likes of the Dawson lads, which is the most foolish endeavor I have ever heard. Meta Dawson is pleased her sons are rubbing elbows with the upper gentry but she has always been blind to her lads’ faults. She also doesn’t see what a simpleton her husband is.”