Free Mistress by Amanda Quick

at the highest levels.
    She had no doubt expected him to remain away from London for the full month, which would have given her time to entice a wealthy paramour. Or perhaps she had been out to capture his attention all along.
    That last was an intriguing notion. And rather flattering.
    Marcus turned the brandy glass lazily in his hands. He would allow her to continue her pretense of hunting a blackmailer as long as she pleased. It did no harm and it would be amusing to see how long she could keep up the charade.
    But in the meantime he had other, more interesting games to play with Iphiginia Bright.
    An unpleasant sensation of dampness made Marcus glance down at the front of his coat. He groaned when he saw the dark, spreading stain that marred the expensive fabric.
    He got to his feet, removed his coat, and reached into the inside pocket. He withdrew the metal object there and regarded it with some dismay.
    Clearly his latest design for a reliable hydraulic reservoir pen that contained its own supply of ink and could be carried about in one’s pocket needed more work.
    This was the third coat that he had ruined in the past two weeks.

F
OUR
    M ARCUS HAD JUST HELPED HIMSELF TO A PORTION OF eggs from one of the trays on the sideboard when Bennet sauntered into the breakfast room the next morning.
    “ ’Morning, Marcus.”
    “Good morning. Lovelace said you had returned to London. I wasn’t expecting you.” Marcus glanced at his brother, started to smile, and then blinked in astonishment. “Bloody hell. What happened to your hair?”
    “Nothing happened to my hair.” Bennet’s handsome face twisted into an offended scowl. He went to the sideboard and busied himself lifting the lids of various serving trays. “This style is all the rage.”
    “Only among Byron and his crowd.” Marcus surveyed his brother’s elaborately tousled curls. Bennet’s dark hair was normally quite straight, just as Marcus’s was. “Remind your valet to be cautious with the crimping iron. He’ll set fire to your head if he’s not careful.”
    “That is not amusing. Are there any muffins?”
    “Last tray on the end, I believe.” Marcus carried his own heavily loaded plate back to the table and sat down. “I thought you intended to spend the entire month in Scotland with your friend Harry and his family.”
    Bennet kept his attention focused on the muffin tray. “I thought you were going to spend the month in Yorkshire.”
    “I changed my mind.”
    “Well, so did I.”
    Marcus frowned. “Did something happen to cause you to alter your plans?”
    “No.” Bennet concentrated intently on ladling eggs out of another tray.
    Marcus eyed his brother’s back with an uneasy feeling. He knew Bennet all too well. Bennet had never kept secrets from him. Something was wrong.
    Marcus had single-handedly raised Bennet since their mother’s death eighteen years ago. True, Marcus’s father had still been alive at the time, but George Cloud had taken no more interest in his youngest son than he had in his eldest. George preferred his hounds, his hunting, and his friends in the local tavern to the bothersome burdens of family life.
    There had been no one else to see to the rearing of Bennet, so Marcus had taken on the responsibility, just as, at an even earlier age, he had assumed the responsibility of working the family farm.
    The profits from the farm improved steadily over the years, thanks to Marcus’s successful experiments with tools, fertilizers, plows, and breeding techniques.
    George had used much of the increased income to purchase better hounds and jumpers. When Marcus’s mother had timidly suggested that Marcus be allowed to attend Oxford or Cambridge, George had squashed the idea immediately. He was not about to deprive himself of the income produced by the best farmer in the district.
    Occasionally George clapped Marcus on the back and chortled about having produced such a useful son. Once in a great while he thought to hoist