Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle Page 12

  ‘So it’s a race and you believe you have the inside track because you think The Cat is Eleanor Habersham the spinster.’ Jack began sorting through the pieces of the puzzle aloud. ‘You believe this because of a slip in a conversation you had with Eleanor at a card party?’

  Brandon stood up and began to pace. ‘For other reasons too. The spinster is a disguise, I’m sure of it. Well, I was sure of it until I blundered a few nights ago at the card party. I wrote you about it in my note.’

  Jack nodded at the reminder. ‘Your account was deuced hilarious. When do I get to meet this paragon?’

  ‘Tonight, at the New Year’s party, but, Jack, don’t alert her to our suspicions. If she bolts, we’re back to nothing.’

  The New Year’s celebration was in full swing around her as Nora sat unobtrusively with a few ladies of Eleanor’s acquaintance. The display of wealth tonight was more than lavish. It was garish, almost as garish as Eleanor’s dress with its large red rose print against a cream background. The material might have done well for curtains, but definitely not for a dress. As Nora intended, the large pattern distracted the viewer from further scrutiny.

  The women with her tittered and fanned themselves, exclaiming over the gowns and jewels of the investors’ wives. One of them raised her voice over the others and gestured to the doorway of the ballroom. ‘Oh, my, the Earl of Stockport has come after all and he’s brought a friend. I heard talk that his friend’s a Viscount. They had lunch at the Cart and Bull this afternoon.’

  Nora diverted her attention from the conversation. Stockport’s eyes swept the room, giving her the distinct feeling of being hunted. He was looking for her. For once the guise of Eleanor Habersham offered no protection. He had reason to mistrust Eleanor as much as The Cat after their exchange at the card party.

  Damn him for looking so handsome. She took in his dark evening attire. His toilet was flawless, not a hair out of place, or a hair visible on his clean-shaven jaw.

  Her cheeks burned at the memory of him a few nights ago, looking less than perfect, but no less delectable in his state of undress, stubble staining his jaw. It would be something of a trial for Eleanor Habersham to remain aloof, but nothing else would do. The last meeting between them demanded no less. Eleanor should still be upset over his treatment of her on the verandah. Of course, there was always the possibility that Stockport would not bother to seek out a lowly spinster.

  But this wasn’t London and the distinctions of class were more easily blurred. Within minutes of greeting his hostess, Stockport began the long walk to the cluster of chairs where she sat. It would take some time. Everyone was interested in making Stockport’s acquaintance. It wasn’t often an Earl mixed with such a bourgeois grouping of people. The opportunity was not to be missed.

  If she was so inclined, Nora could remove herself from her group, but Stockport would find her wherever she went. There was no sense in delaying it. She reasoned it was far better to confront him with a group of others around instead of risking an encounter where he could get her alone and press his suspicions.

  ‘Ladies, may I present to you the Earl of Stockport and the Viscount Wainsbridge.’ The hostess made the introductions. The dreaded moment was upon her. Nora met it head on. She was putting too many constructions on the encounter. Stockport would attribute any awkward behaviour on her part to their encounter at the card party.

  The interaction proceeded quite harmlessly until Nora realised it wasn’t Stockport who posed the threat. It was his dandified friend, Viscount Wainsbridge. There was an aura of oddness about the gentleman. His gaze was too penetrating when he looked at her. The hardness in his eyes belied his easy manners. His clothes were overly foppish for a man of his broad-shouldered physique.

  Well, it took one to know one. Nora recognized the look of a disguise when she saw it. This man might not be masquerading as someone else like she was, but he was masquerading as something else. She didn’t have to think long to come up with motivations for such a show. Her own motivations served well enough. People confided the most amazing bits of information to those whom they believed had no brain and Viscount Wainsbridge was giving a very good impression that he had left his at home.

  A man Nora recognised as one of the mill investors approached Stockport and drew him aside. Nora’s senses went on full alert. Her suspicions were justified when Stockport returned to the group and took his leave.

  ‘I regret I shall have to leave you. The investors and I are having a short meeting in the library. It seems there is a new plan to catch The Cat.’ Stockport looked straight at her, causing her to readjust her earlier thinking. What did Stockport know? Had he looked at her on purpose? Nora wished she could be The Cat tonight. The Cat would deal swiftly with Viscount Wainsbridge and ferret her way into the meeting to overhear the plan.

  Stockport’s next words caught her by surprise. ‘I trust Wainsbridge will be safe in your company, Miss Habersham. If it is not too importunate, I was hoping you might honour him with a dance?’

  It wasn’t really a question. In an instant, Viscount Wainsbridge was next to her, soliciting for the next dance just starting up on the floor. In front of the group, Nora had no choice but to accept. Nora smiled gamely at Stockport. Apparently, he wanted to play cat and mouse. She would remind him just who was the cat and who was the mouse. If Stockport thought he had her cornered, he would be disappointed. He had no idea just how poorly Eleanor Habersham danced.

  Chapter Ten

  Brandon eyed the five other gentlemen assembled in Flack’s walnut-panelled library over the rim of his brandy snifter with a certain amount of trepidation. Three weeks ago he would have thought this meeting to discuss further action against The Cat nothing more than due process.

  That was before he met The Cat. Now, he was hard pressed to take an interest in any plan that might condemn her. Regardless, there still remained the issue of the mill. She had to be brought to heel before the mill failed, but he could not abide the image of her behind bars or, worse, hanging from a gibbet like a common thief. There was nothing common about her.

  Tonight, Brandon found himself in the awkward position of trying to protect The Cat without tipping his hand, all the while trying to cope with the comments Jack had made earlier. How had he got in to such a deep game with her? He swallowed his brandy as Cecil Witherspoon, the mill’s leading investor, cleared his throat and called the meeting to order.

  ‘Gentlemen, I dislike having to interrupt the festivities with business, but the situation regarding The Cat cannot be allowed to continue. Since we are all together this evening, we can make the most of our time by discussing the issue.’

  The men—Squire Bradley, Magnus St John, Stephen Livingston and Jonathan Flack—all nodded in accord. Brandon kept his nod minimal and slightly aloof. He heartily disliked Cecil Witherspoon.

  By rights, the tall, slender, blond man should have garnered his respect. Witherspoon was an ambitious, self-made man in his late thirties with a shrewd eye towards investments, very much like himself. But Witherspoon’s pale blue eyes were icy windows into a glacier soul.

  Brandon found that, throughout their brief business association, Witherspoon was ruthless and utterly lacking in compassion for his fellow humans. Witherspoon was cold blooded now as he laid out his plan for capturing The Cat.

  ‘St John and I have tracked The Cat’s circuit of break ins and we believe we have cracked the pattern. We feel confident that The Cat will stage a robbery of St John’s place next. We also have divined that the robberies take place on evenings the home’s residents are out at social functions.

  ‘This means The Cat will target St John’s home for a Wednesday night when he and his wife are regularly out playing cards at Squire Bradley’s.’ Witherspoon gestured pompously to St John, his crony in crime. ‘Magnus, take it from here.’

  Magnus St John, dark, bearded and bluff of manner, coughed and began. ‘I propose we all meet at my home for a dinner, during which The Cat will show up and be
mightily surprised by our presence.’

  That was his brilliant plan? Brandon almost laughed out loud. Even more ridiculous was the blind acceptance of the other men in the room, who were nodding their heads sagely and chortling over the planned surprise.

  ‘My lord, is something amiss?’ Witherspoon gave him a cold stare. Apparently, he hadn’t disguised his amusement well enough.

  ‘Do you think The Cat will simply walk into a dining room blazing with lights or will you spend all night sitting in the dark waiting for the thief to show and then shout “surprise”?’ Brandon said. Surely that much was an obvious flaw?

  ‘We won’t light the chandelier. We’ll use candles. They wouldn’t be visible until it was too late,’ St John said staunchly and far too seriously for Brandon to mistake his answer for a humorous joke.

  ‘And the “trap” part?’ Brandon pressed.

  Witherspoon suppressed a condescending sigh as if it was his lot in life to work with less intelligent persons. He tolerated the question only because it came from the Earl. It was no secret that Witherspoon had invested heavily because of Brandon’s involvement. Witherspoon was grasping for acceptance into high society. Brandon suspected he would pay any price to ingratiate himself to an Earl of good standing.

  ‘My lord, the trap is that The Cat is expecting no one to be home, but this time we’ll all be there, waiting to drag the insufferable bastard off to jail.’

  Brandon left it at that. If they wanted to try their plan, they were welcome to it. Still, a trap was a trap and the element of surprise could not be underestimated. There was also the issue of numbers. One lone thief against five men was not the most favourable of situations.

  Brandon gave him a thin smile. ‘I will be anxious to hear about your results.’

  ‘Oh, my lord, you must be present. You’ll dine with us that evening, of course,’ St John interjected. The man was no better than Witherspoon. St John would dine out for months among his Cit companions in London on the tale that he entertained an Earl.

  ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ Brandon inclined his head with a graciousness he did not feel. What was not settled was what he would do with his information. He could tell The Cat of the trap, assuming he could find her or that she would find him. His other choice was to say nothing and let events take their own natural courses.

  Therein lay the rub. There were two possible ‘natural’ outcomes: first, The Cat made fools out of them all, or, second; The Cat was caught. That outcome did not sit well with him.

  ‘Quite right, that’s settled,’ said Livingston, brushing his hands against his thighs. ‘The plan has got to succeed. I didn’t count on this type of interference when I paid into this scheme. My wife can’t sleep at night for fear of The Cat. She’s already talking about returning to London.’

  ‘Here, here,’ concurred Flack, a weak-chinned man with little in the way of looks to recommend him, but possessed of a financial acumen that more than compensated. ‘It isn’t prudent for any of us to put up more cash for the venture. We need two new members and I say they will not come if The Cat is on the loose.’

  Witherspoon smiled coldly. ‘It seems we are all in accord, gentlemen. I propose a toast.’

  The gentlemen all lifted their glasses in toast to their venture. Brandon joined in reluctantly, not missing for a moment the murderous gleam in Witherspoon’s eyes. His toast was chilling. ‘To The Cat. May the trip to the gibbet be swift.’

  The game The Cat played had just grown more dangerous. Brandon wondered if she knew. Did she understand the peril posed by a man like Witherspoon, who would stop at nothing? Brandon set his glass down and made his excuses, quickly leaving the room before he said something rash to Witherspoon.

  He was suddenly desperate to see how Jack was faring with Miss Habersham. It was more imperative than ever that Miss Habersham admit to her connection with The Cat. The spinster was the only link he had. If he didn’t succeed in winning her trust, he had no guarantee of being able to warn The Cat in time.

  Brandon stopped in the dimly lit corridor leading back to the party and drew a deep breath, taking time to contemplate his decision. He was going to tell The Cat. How quickly he reached that conclusion! Just like that, Brandon knew it was true. He was going to tell her just as soon as he could, Jack’s aspersions on her character aside.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Jack moaned, sinking back against the squabs of Brandon’s well-sprung coach. ‘You get to match wits with a tempting seductress who ties you up and I’m left wooing the ugly spinster.’

  Brandon set his fingers to his temples in an attempt to massage away a growing headache. ‘There is no spinster. Eleanor Habersham is a fiction,’ he said in a weary voice as if he’d explained it a dozen times already. It was nearly dawn of the first day of the year and his head hurt from too much champagne and too much knowledge. He fervently hoped it was not a sign of how the year would evolve.

  ‘She didn’t feel fictitious when she was stepping on my toes,’ Jack groused. ‘I thought you told me she was a divine dancer. Your standards have changed drastically.’ Jack flexed his foot. ‘Damn, the lengths I go to for a friend. I may have done myself a permanent injury.’

  Brandon gave a short laugh at his friend’s exaggeration. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.’

  ‘No one else danced with her twice. The whole town will be waiting for me to call on her and declare my intentions.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, your efforts were not without results.’

  ‘I don’t understand what was gained from the sacrifice of my toes.’

  ‘Confirmation. Eleanor dances deplorably. The Cat dances very well. Everything The Cat does, Eleanor does the opposite. It’s a case of the lady doth protest too much.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that there’s no chance Eleanor Habersham is going to sneak into my bedchamber and tie me up,’ Jack said glumly, but a spark of humour flared in his eyes.

  ‘Essentially, but in less crass terms.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘As certain as I am going to be in the amount of time I have left. The investors are hungry for blood.’

  ‘And if not? What happens if The Cat goes unchecked?’

  ‘Then I am sunk before I’ve even begun. My largest investor, Cecil Witherspoon, leads the charge for The Cat’s arrest.’ Brandon sighed. ‘Not only do I need those last three investors, I need current investors to stay. Even though the earldom’s coffers are solid, I cannot lay my hands on a hundred thousand pounds in currency at a moment’s notice. It would mean liquidating a few of the estates not under the protection of the entailment,’ Brandon explained.

  ‘Is there a chance of them deserting?’

  ‘It will be inevitable if The Cat hits their houses again. Livingston is ready to walk and Flack may be right behind him. They didn’t bargain on a risky venture. None of us did.’

  Brandon closed his eyes. The meeting had brought everything to a head. He could not offer guarantees of safety for the investors. Nor could he offer guarantees of new investors coming forward. The current investors, particularly those with more invested, were anxious to stay on schedule and start framing the mill within the month.

  ‘The Cat should be pleased,’ Jack observed, idly twirling his walking stick between his hands. ‘You have to choose between her and the mill. It is interesting to me that there’s any choice at all. What do you think it says to you, that you’re even considering this woman’s safety above the financial well being of Stockport-on-the-Medlock?’ Jack paused, the look on his face indicating he was debating the wisdom of his next words.

  ‘What is it, Jack? Apparently you have something more you wish to say?’ Brandon said grumpily.

  ‘Hell, here it is, but remember we’re friends.’ Jack pointed the walking stick at him for emphasis. ‘You don’t think The Cat has real feelings for you, do you? She wants you to desire her, even fall in love with her. She is counting on it for her success. She knows that anyth
ing more between the two of you is not part of the game.’

  ‘Stuff it, Jack,’ Brandon growled. He wanted to say more. He wanted to say that whatever she had done in the past with other men or other ruses was different than what lay between he and she. What they felt for each other, the consuming heat of their passions, was real.

  For the first time, Brandon realised how inane that explanation sounded. Was Jack right? Jack was an astute assessor of character. He would be a foolish man indeed if he rejected the very wisdom he had asked Jack to bring.

  Across from him, Jack groaned. ‘Egads, you did think she had feelings for you. Your face says it all.’

  The coach turned down the drive to Stockport Hall. Jack raised a curtain and peered out into the early grey morning. He let the curtain drop and sighed heavily. ‘Enough about your love life. I am going to bed for the remainder of the day. When I awake, I am going to take a long soak to alleviate my poor feet. Happy New Year, my friend.’

  Happy New Year, his foot. Brandon cursed as he watched his friend sail through the doors into the warmth of the house without a care in the world. He knew it was something of an act. Jack had plenty of cares. He just didn’t let on about them. All the same, Jack didn’t have a seductive villain to subdue, a mill to build, a fortune to protect and a bloodthirsty Cecil Witherspoon to keep in check before someone got hurt or, worse, killed. Brandon could not remember a new year that had gotten off to a more ominous start.

  He hadn’t a clue what his next move was. The only piece of luck he had was that The Cat hadn’t struck since Christmas Day. However, it was simply a matter of time before that bit of luck ran out. She’d assured him that night that she wouldn’t stop her raids.