Mrs. Nelson rapped on his arm with her fan. “You bachelors.” She sighed. “I rue the day they ever decided to start that silly club. It truly is spoiling the lot of you.”
“That isn’t true,” Mars said. “There are more married men than there are single ones in Maidenshop. Your husband was once a member.”
“Until he saw the light. Man was made to be married,” Mrs. Nelson declared. “I for one am pleased that your numbers are dwindling. I can’t wait for the three of you to join the married ranks. Then there will be no one left in that club except for those two old fools, and they can have each other.” Her sister beamed her agreement. The squire and the other gentleman acted as if they wished to ignore this conversation.
Thurlowe could not let such a comment go. After all, this was the campaign near and dear to him. “The Logical Men’s Society is more than just a group of bachelors. We have seminars like the one we will have tomorrow with Mr. Clyde Remy. He will discuss the late James Hutton’s theory concerning uniformitarianism and all gentlemen, married or single who are interested in natural philosophy, are invited.”
“Uniformitarianism?” the squire repeated.
“Rock formations,” Bran offered helpfully.
Mars added, “There will be rook pie and all the ale you can drink. Free.”
“Rook pie, eh? Andy baking it?” the squire asked. He had a pronounced belly that indicated his enjoyment of good food.
“Of course he is, sir,” Thurlowe answered.
“I should like to be there,” the squire said, ignoring his wife’s frown. “There will be others?”
“All gentlemen—again, married or single—are invited,” Mars answered.
“Ah, good.” The squire nodded to his brother-in-law. “Now we have something to do on the morrow while the ladies continue with their chitter chatter about what happened here.” His wife sighed her opinion. “Oh, don’t be that way, Martha. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”
She didn’t answer.
“Miss Taylor, I believe we should dance,” Ned said and she agreed with great relief.
“Excuse us,” she murmured, placing her hand on Thurlowe’s arm.
Mars and Bran moved on as well. They had not gone far toward their destination of the punch bowl when Mars muttered, “Thurlowe appears miserable.”
“Trapped perhaps. Not completely miserable. Miss Taylor does not appear any happier.”
The earl made a mock shudder and then noticing a larger group of gentlemen injected both he and Bran into their number. “Tomorrow, at The Garland, we are starting a new tradition.”
“What is that?” asked Simon Crisp, a man of middling years who farmed property not far from Belvoir.
“We are calling it a seminar and offering free ale and rook pie.”
“Capital idea,” said Crisp.
“I like the price,” another gent agreed.
“Spread the word,” Mars pushed.
“We will,” Crisp answered. “And the punch has more bite now. We’ve done a bit of doctoring,” he said with a wink. “You should try it, my lord.”
“We will, won’t we, Balfour?”
Before Bran could answer, there was a sudden shift in the mood of the room.
Crisp and his companions looked past Bran to the door and fell silent. The musicians wound down the jaunty reel that they had just started. All eyes were turning to the entryway, and Bran knew the unexplained prickling sensation at the back of his neck was a warning.
Slowly, he faced the door.
There was his nephew attired as if he was about to be presented in court. He wore white knee breeches and dancing shoes. His jacket was claret and his hair was styled as if he was the Sun God himself. This was not how he’d been dressed at dinner.
In a room where a good number of the men wore their boots, the duke stood out. No wonder so many matchmaking mothers had their daughters at the dance. Here was the Catch of Maidenshop. Mars could just move over.
