Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Bronwyn Scott′s Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss′s Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride
Bronwyn Scott


Risqué rakes, passionate lords, and not-so-innocent ladies. . . Discover the hot side of history with five sensual, seductive Regency tales by Bronwyn Scott! Bundle includes: Pickpocket Countess; Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady; Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss; The Viscount Claims His Bride, and a free bonus novella, Grayson Prentiss's Seduction!









Sexy Regency Bundle


Pickpocket Countess

Grayson Prentiss’s Seduction

Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss

The Viscount Claims His Bride









Table of Contents


Pickpocket Countess

By Bronwyn Scott

Grayson Prentiss’s Seduction

By Bronwyn Scott

Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

By Bronwyn Scott

Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss

By Bronwyn Scott

The Viscount Claims His Bride

By Bronwyn Scott




Pickpocket Countess

By Bronwyn Scott










Contents


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

Chapter Twenty-One




Chapter One


Near Manchester, England, Early December, 1831

Even in the darkness, he could sense the subtle alteration of the chamber. The room had been disturbed. Brandon Wycroft, the fifth Earl of Stockport, muttered curses under his breath. Damn, The Cat had been here.

The irony of the burglary was not lost on him. While twelve distinguished men of the district met downstairs in his library, smoking his fine cigars, drinking his expensive brandy and plotting how they’d catch the latest menace to the peace, that very menace had prowled free upstairs, daring to invade his most private sanctum: his bedroom.

It was only due to his keen hearing and the location of his rooms over the library that he had heard the faint scraping of a chair on the floor at all and had gone upstairs to investigate.

Curtains stirred at the window, calling his attention to the source of the winter chill permeating his quarters. The window was open. A slight movement behind the curtains gave away the intruder.

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. His body tensed. He amended his earlier thought. Not ‘had prowled’ but ‘was prowling’. Standing in the doorway of his chambers, he knew his instincts were right. The Cat was still in the room.

Brandon’s dissatisfaction transformed itself into a sense of vindication. After a month of burglarising the wealthy of Stockport-on-the-Medlock and other potential investors in Manchester who supported the proposed textile mill, The Cat’s reign would come to an abrupt end tonight. He would catch The Cat right now and be done with the blustering investors downstairs who had been more interested in kow-towing to the nobleman in residence than concocting a worthy plan. Then he could get back to Parliament and the controversial reform legislation that awaited him in London. But first, he had to catch the man behind the curtain.

A figure emerged from the shadow of the heavy curtains. The figure did not bolt as Brandon expected, but stood brashly at the sill, letting the moonlight outline her silhouette.

Her? The Cat, the daring intruder who stood between him and the success of the mill, which he needed to save Stockport-on-the-Medlock from the ignominy of agricultural penury, was unmistakably a woman. A provocatively dressed woman at that, Brandon conceded, raking his gaze over her form.

Loose folds of a dark shirt draped over the swell of promising breasts. Glove-tight black breeches showed off a slender waist, encasing shapely hips and long-booted legs.

The woman was alluring, but that didn’t change the fact she was a thief intruding on his private domain and now she was entirely at his mercy. Brandon crossed his arms and affected an air of negligence. He leaned against the door frame, letting his tall form fill the space as an obvious blockade.

There would be no escape through the door as long as he lounged there. The only other option was the impossibly high window that dropped two storeys to the ground, begging the question of how the thief had managed to gain entrance to the house and make her way unnoticed upstairs to his bedroom.

‘I am afraid I have cut off your escape route. That is unless you favour the window.’ Brandon drawled the last with a touch of sarcasm, knowing full well how inaccessible it was, set thirty feet from the ground. He could not conceive of a way anyone could gain access to it, let alone escape through it. The room’s inaccessibility was one of the features he liked about his chambers. A man needed his privacy and Brandon guarded his with dogged determination.

The woman shrugged, indicating a lack of concern over the latest development. ‘The window served well enough as an entrance. I am certain it will suffice as an exit.’

Brandon scoffed. The statement was a fool’s bluff. ‘You came in through the window? Forgive me if I find your claim bordering on the preposterous. Aside from the window’s height, I have trained men patrolling the area. I am prepared to ward off an army if necessary.’

‘Exactly so, my lord. You were prepared for an army. You weren’t prepared for me. It is much easier for one person to slip through the defences than for many.’

Brandon did not care for the cocksure way she dismissed his careful patrols. ‘You are overly confident for a criminal who is about to be caught. You will face imprisonment, perhaps transportation, for the crimes you’ve committed. With the right judge, you may face hanging.’ The thought of this audacious woman facing such punishment suddenly sat ill with him. She exuded a wildness that he sensed would not do well behind bars. Her very presence radiated an elemental quality that drew him, unwilling though he was, into her game. He recognised the signs. She was flirting with him, challenging him to catch her.

She laughed as if his warning was nothing more than witty repartee over lobster patties at a dinner party. ‘A fine pass England has come to when feeding the hungry is a punitive offense. There are others more deserving of punishment than me.’

Unbidden, Brandon felt a thin smile cross his lips. She thought to outwit him with her brazen statements. Well, she would find him more than an equal match. If there were two subjects in which he excelled, they were women and repartee. ‘Who would you recommend?’ He took a step towards her.

Six steps remained between them.

‘Men like you.’ She spat the words at him.

Five steps.

The minx was in dangerous territory now in all ways. How dare she assume she could label him along with the rest of the aristocracy? He’d spent his adult life distancing himself from the ton and its pack of gossiping wolves. ‘What does a common burglar know about men like me?’

‘I know you let others starve in the name of progress.’

Ah, so the vixen was another radical with ill-gotten ideas about the mills and factories that had become the lifeblood of the English economy. ‘Manufacture is the way of the present and the future.’ The fact that he believed the statement he’d just uttered was proof enough of the distance he’d tried to create between himself and others of his class, where a gentleman was judged by the extent of his idleness. With few exceptions, aristocrats didn’t meddle in trade, but, then, few of them actually understood or cared about the impending downturn of the agricultural economy which supported their overindulged lifestyles.

Four steps.

‘The textile factory your industrial friends propose to build here is a guarantee of death! Families count on the extra money their womenfolk make on weaving. Your plan will replace their efforts with machines and fewer men to run them. People are already out of work. Families cannot afford food or fuel to see them through the winter while you sit in your fine house cosy with other rich men, plotting how to make life more miserable for those less fortunate.’

‘And all the while, you’re robbing us. Funny, that.’ Brandon managed a chuckle, enjoying her temerity even if it was misaimed and at his expense. The impertinent baggage went too far in making judgements about him.

Three steps.

‘I take little enough and you can easily afford it.’ For effect, she held up a gold ring, a woman’s ring, which glinted, showing off the amethyst set in the band.

Brandon sucked in his breath. Of all the things in the room to seize, it was the one item he was most loathe to lose. ‘That ring has special meaning to me. Give it back now.’ It was not a plea, but a command.

Two steps.

Brandon held out his hand to receive it, automatically assuming his demands would be obeyed. It had been ages since any woman had dared to refuse the Earl of Stockport.

‘No, I don’t think I shall give it back. This will feed two families.’

‘At least two,’ Brandon growled. ‘I said give it back, you little thief. I have no wish to harm you.’ He took the last step. He was close enough now to make out the half-mask she wore that hid the upper portion of her face.

Glittering green eyes, too like the cat whose moniker she bore, defied him. A dark kerchief tied pirate-style swathed her head. Undaunted by his nearness, she reached up and tugged at the kerchief’s knot. It gave easily and she pulled it off in a fluid motion. With a calculated toss of her head, she let a bounty of midnight waves fall to her waist. She postured provocatively, tempting him with curves and curls. A slender hand rested on her hip. ‘Very well, I expect compensation for the ring. I will turn it over to you in exchange for something of equal value.’

Her gaze swept the length of him, giving Brandon the uncomfortable feeling of being a Tattersall stud. Usually it was the other way around. Those women who dared to ogle him—and he knew there were several, that was the price of being a highly eligible and titled bachelor who’d reached the age of five and thirty without springing the parson’s mousetrap—did so from behind painted fans and coyly downcast eyelashes. Never had he been so boldly assessed, not even by the mistresses he took to his bed.

‘Not too bad. Not bad at all,’ she said, satisfied with her bold perusal of his body.

Not too bad? Brandon jerked an eyebrow in disbelief. He’d never been found merely ‘not too bad’ in his whole adult life. He knew himself to be in top physical condition thanks to rigorous training at Jackson’s on a daily basis when in town.

‘Would you care to check my teeth while you’re at it?’ he offered coolly. It wouldn’t do to let her think she’d scored a cheap hit by attacking his masculinity.

She smiled wide and wetted her lips in a provocative gesture. ‘An excellent suggestion, my lord, I think I shall.’

With that, she closed the remaining gap between them, claiming his mouth with hers and silencing whatever protests waited there.

Brandon gave her compliance. Despite his intentions not to be lured by the minx, his mouth opened of its own accord, tasting the saltiness of her probing tongue as surely as she tasted the brandy-flavoured warmth of his own. The temptress pushed her advantage, crushing her luscious form against him, shirt-draped breasts erotically pressed against his chest. Brandon’s groin leapt to life independent of his mind’s urge to the contrary.

He moaned. His entire body betrayed him. The seductive hum of her low laugh indicated his arousal was not his secret alone. He felt her hands in his hair, capturing his head on the odds he’d pull away before she was done. Small chance of that occurring, he was in her thrall. Not because the kiss was the most skilful he’d ever received, but because the kiss conveyed more than cold proficiency. It contained heat. It didn’t take long for him to realise this woman was kissing him not solely as a ploy, but because she wanted to. In his cynical world, that was a rare pleasure indeed.

Brandon shut his eyes and gave himself up to the momentary bliss found at the pretty thief’s lips. He let her tongue taste and torture by turn. He let her hands roam where they would, finding their way beneath his linen shirt where they stroked the planes of his chest, thumbs teasing his nipples until he was in true ecstasy.

‘Touch me again and I’ll be lost,’ he thought numbly, unable to decide in his bemused state if that was a plea for her to stop or a prayer that she continue.

She continued.

She moved a hand lower…That did it. He wanted to be lost, and he wanted her to be lost with him. She’d been in control so far, having used her brash kiss to seize the advantage. That was about to change. With his desire mounting fast, Brandon angled his mouth to deepen the kiss, his hands firmly splayed at her hips, thumbs beginning a languid caress of the bones just above her pelvis.

The Cat sucked hard on his lower lip and released him, pushing out of range of his arms. Brandon could not remember a kiss having so thoroughly aroused him. He tried to speak in an attempt to bring the situation under his control, but the cool reserve and quick tongue that had served him so well in the House of Lords for so long failed him. He found he could utter not a single word in the wake of her spontaneous seduction.

‘What’s the matter?’ she taunted in a husky-voiced purr. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ She managed a wink from behind the demi-mask.

Without warning, she turned and vaulted easily to the sill and assumed a crouching position. Before Brandon could react, she leapt to the sturdy oak branch seven feet away and several dangerous feet above the ground.

Brandon darted to the window, fear for her safety overriding the more logical action of raising the hue and cry over the intruder. He peered out to where he’d last seen her. There was no sign of her in the branches of the big tree or of a black form moving stealthily across the grounds. She was gone. He had let her escape.

Cold reality doused him. What had he done? His reaction was inexplicable. A known thief had violated his home and made off with a prized possession and he had allowed it to happen. He turned back from the window. Something glinted on the carpet. Brandon bent and picked it up. She’d left the ring. So there was a scrap of decency in the thief after all. His hand clenched around the ring before placing it back in the velvet casket he kept on a table.

Impulsively, he realigned the little casket which had been knocked off-centre. He’d send his valet to set the room to rights. Who knew what else might be missing? Brandon glimpsed himself in the mirror above the washstand. His immaculate shirt was wrinkled and his cravat ruined. He looked thoroughly well used, and he had been. He would have to change shirts before returning downstairs.

Thankfully, he had a dozen pristine shirts like the one he wore waiting for use in his dressing room. Changing would buy enough time for the fully kissed puffiness of his lips to go down. It would not do to appear dishevelled in front of the men waiting in the library, especially when he had decided to tell them nothing in regards to what he’d discovered upstairs.



Nora bent over to catch her breath, easing the stitch in her side. She’d run hard after she’d shimmied down the oak tree and hit the ground. She hadn’t stopped until she was well away from the arrogant bounder’s estate and deep into the sheltering boughs of the forest.

Only now, ensconced in the safety of the trees, could she give her thoughts full rein over what had transpired. She’d kissed the Earl of Stockport, known in the less-judicious circles of the demi-monde where The Cat had done her research as the Cock of the North.

Nora concurred that the nickname was justly earned on all fronts. He had demonstrated all the well-dressed arrogance of a rooster preening his fine feathers before the hens. He was a fine male specimen and he knew it. No man spent time cultivating an immaculate appearance without being sure of the results, and no one was surer of himself than the Earl of Stockport.

Nora laughed out loud in the darkness. The look on his face when she’d declared him ‘not bad’ had been the highlight of the evening. Then he’d given her the perfect opening with his quip about checking his teeth. He’d thought she’d back down when he raised the stakes. Men like him didn’t expect to be challenged. But she hadn’t survived this long without being caught by doing the expected. She knew how to do the unexpected and his opening had been too much to resist.

She should have resisted. He wasn’t called the Cock of the North simply for his excellent sartorial habits. She’d thought to use the kiss as a means of disarming him, stunning him until she could get away unscathed. She was out of her depth with such a master. She had waited too long, indulged herself too much, letting herself be seduced by the clean smell of him, sandalwood and spices mixed with the starch of his fresh-washed shirt. By the time she realised the tables were turning on her, it was almost too late.

At the last moment, she’d felt the slight shift of his mouth as he took over the kiss, felt the erotic pressure of his thumbs against her hip bones. She’d taken the only defensive line left to her and recoiled, grabbing the opportunity to speak first, knowing that whoever did so would control the outcome of the interaction. Then she’d run.

The evening’s visit had proved dangerous in ways she and her two comrades had not expected, but by tomorrow afternoon, the danger would be worth it when news circulated that The Cat had hit Stockport Hall while the Earl was within planning The Cat’s capture.

She and her two comrades had been watching the house for a week after learning that the local neighbours had sent an urgent summons to the Earl, dragging him out of the Michaelmas Session of Parliament early so they could hold a meeting to nab the thief. Breaking into the Earl’s house while they discussed The Cat would be a bold coup—breaking into the man’s private rooms would be even more so.

Those rooms were as elegant as his reported personality. Table tops and dressers held myriad expensive accoutrements of a well-groomed gentleman, from expensive ebony-inlaid combs and brushes to silver-handled shaving gear. She should have stolen them. Those items would have brought enough money to keep a family in food until summer. But her eye had been drawn to the velvet casket and she couldn’t resist looking inside.

The ring was a bounty. She’d taken it and then realised it was such a small item the Earl might not notice it was gone for weeks. But the ring was all she needed and The Cat prided herself on not taking more than was necessary—one of the many lessons she wanted to teach these gluttonous industrial barons.

Still, if the ring wasn’t noticed missing immediately, its theft wouldn’t help her cause. She wanted more from Stockport than his valuables. She wanted him to know she’d been there and when. She’d begun to disarrange the room, intuitively knowing that such an act would get his attention more completely than taking other conspicuous items.

As with all her robberies, the larger implication of her work was twofold. First, she wanted to be an annoyance significant enough to make them re-think the building of the factory. Second, she wanted to prick the social consciousness into action regarding the sorry status of a factory worker’s life. Unsafe working conditions had cost her parents their lives. She’d be damned if it would hurt others.

Her plan had gone well enough until she’d bumped into a chair sitting in a dark corner. It hadn’t made much noise, but it made enough to catch his attention since his chambers were over the library. She’d relished the confrontation that had followed.

She had gloried in his reaction. He’d roused to her. Unfortunately, that was all she had to show for the night’s work. Something beneath his terse command to release the ring had touched her and she’d traded the ring for an ardent bout of kissing. Arousing the Earl of Stockport might be a satisfying touch of one-upmanship, but it wouldn’t feed families.

Determined to rectify that aspect of the evening, Nora became practical. She needed pickings and the night was still new. She’d cut cross country to Squire Bradley’s house and help herself to another piece of silver from the butler’s pantry. The Squire’s night watchman was pathetic. In a half-hour he’d be asleep or drunk or both.



Two hours and a successful stop at the Squire’s later, Nora let herself into an unremarkable grange house and crept silently upstairs to her bedchamber. A light shone beneath the door. Nora smiled. Hattie, one of her two co-conspirators who masqueraded as workers in her modest household, had waited up. Nora pushed opened the door.

‘A successful evening, I take it?’ Hattie asked, reaching for the bag of goods Nora carried in her right hand. ‘Shall I hide this in the usual place?’

‘Yes and yes.’ Nora pulled off her mask and plopped unceremoniously into a chair.

‘Did everything go the way Alfred and I laid it out? Was the tree branch a good entrance into the house?’ Hattie moved efficiently around the room, laying out Nora’s night things.

‘The plans were accurate, as always.’ Nora paused before adding, ‘I met the Earl.’ She hadn’t wanted to tell Hattie that part, but the household needed to be prepared. News of the break-in at Stockport Hall would circulate the village tomorrow and Nora wasn’t sure how the Earl would present the story. It wouldn’t do for Hattie or Alfred to discover her encounter second-hand. There was no question Hattie wouldn’t hear of it. She heard everything.

Hattie turned from the dresser. ‘Did you, now? No wonder you were so late. Got into a bit of a scrape?’

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’ Nora passed off the incident with a wave of her hand, when in truth she’d been in over her head. ‘I had to go to Squire Bradley’s or I would have been empty-handed. That was why I was late.’

Hattie clucked her disapproval. ‘That was dangerous, Nora. We’ve hit the Squire’s home too many times. One of these days he’ll be on to us and there will be trouble.’

Nora tightened her jaw at Hattie’s censure. ‘We must have funds for the Christmas baskets. We’re running out of time and so many people are in need this year.’

‘Still, you’re no good to the people if you’re caught.’

‘I won’t get caught,’ Nora said in a conversation-ending tone. She softened. ‘Off to bed with you, Hattie. It’s been a long night.’ Hattie had been with her through too much for her to be cross with the redoubtable lady for long.

‘Should Eleanor Habersham expect visitors tomorrow?’ Hattie asked from the door.

‘Wednesday tea as usual with the ladies.’

‘And the Earl? When should we expect him?’

‘Not for a while. I would be very surprised to see him tomorrow. He has no reason to come looking for Miss Habersham,’ Nora said confidently.

‘Good night, then.’ Hattie shut the door quietly behind her.

Nora undressed quickly, careful to conceal her black garb in the false back of her wardrobe behind the mounds of ridiculous gowns belonging to the persona she showed to the town, the eccentric spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham. Miss Habersham was a silly, giddy lady with a penchant for gossip. By four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, Nora expected Miss Habersham’s tiny parlour would be overrun by local ladies exchanging the latest tittle-tattle about the night’s escapades.

Nora forced herself to doze. It wouldn’t do for Miss Habersham to appear with dark circles when everyone in town knew the spinster had no call for such sleeplessness in her mundane life. But sleep was hard to come by. Usually after such sprees, Nora’s mind was occupied by the results of the evening and the valuables stashed with her disguise, myriad questions running through her head: how would it be dispersed, how much more would be needed to help those in the most desperate straits? There was never enough to go around. Her raids had become bolder and more daring in attempts to narrow the gap.

Tonight, the disturbing memory of Stockport’s hot mouth and the firm fit of his body against hers consumed her thoughts. She had played the wanton in hopes of distracting him to ensure her escape. She’d not expected his active participation or her own enjoyment in the act. There was something erotically compelling about a virile man’s compliance.

She had made her point tonight. There would be no reason to go back to his estate. It wasn’t an easy target. His patrols were harder to elude than she’d admitted. The safest course would be to put tonight’s episode behind her. Yet, the thought of doing so left her feeling strangely empty. She knew she’d go back, for the sake of the challenge if nothing else.




Chapter Two


Brandon took his seat at the table in Stockport Hall’s cheery informal dining room. He breathed deeply. There was nothing quite as comforting as the smell of scrambled eggs and breakfast ham mixed with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He was pleased to see The Times beside his plate, pressed and ready, relieved at last to have his mind on something besides the impassioned episode of the prior evening.

He’d spent the dark hours with his groin in a perpetual state of anticipation, alternately reliving the encounter with The Cat and cursing himself for a fool. He’d let the perfect opportunity pass him by. Not only had he ruined a chance to capture the thief, he’d ruined any chance of identifying the woman in the future. It would have been easy enough to remove her mask either by surprise or force when she’d been in his arms. He had done neither.

He reached for the paper and folded it to the financial section. He had barely engrossed himself in the investment news when his butler, Cedrickson, demanded his attention. ‘My lord, Squire Bradley inquires if you’re at home.’

Brandon looked up from the pages, fighting the urge to scowl in obvious contempt. ‘Where else would I be this time of day but at home? What kind of man calls at nine-thirty in the morning?’ In town no one dared a call before one o’clock and only the intrepid dared call before eleven. But this was the country and he would do well to remember that the rules were different here, less intense. He would not sway the village in favour of the mill by being snobbish.

‘He seems quite agitated, my lord, if I may say so.’

‘Did he state his business?’

‘He did. It’s about The Cat.’

Brandon set the paper down. ‘Then you’d best show him in. Have an extra place set.’

The Squire did look quite overset, Brandon conceded. His florid face was pale and his usual bluff nature subdued. He had the good manners to apologise for such an early call as he waved away the offer of breakfast. ‘This is fine fare, to be sure, although I don’t have the stomach for it this morning. We had a difficult night over at the house. It seems that while we were scheming at your place, The Cat struck at Wildflowers. It’s the third time. My poor wife was in fits.’ At this, the Squire stopped to mop his forehead with a large handkerchief produced from a jacket pocket.

‘I can imagine,’ Brandon offered as sincerely as he could manage. Indeed, he could picture just what an uproar the Squire’s wife had produced. The woman was exactly the kind of flibbertigibbet he avoided whenever possible. ‘What was taken? Are you certain it was The Cat? The items haven’t simply been mislaid?’

The Squire waved an arm. ‘A set of silver candlesticks and the petty cash for household expenses are missing. Only my wife has the key to the silver cabinet. The lock had been picked and the usual calling card was left behind.’

That grabbed Brandon’s attention. ‘I hadn’t heard this before. What calling card?’

The squire reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘These abominable things.’ He handed Brandon a card.

Brandon studied it. It was cream coloured and Brandon suppressed a smile. The irony of someone who called themselves ‘The Cat’ using cream paper was not lost on him. He doubted the squire would see the humour in it. Nor would the squire appreciate the mocking wit in the thief’s use of a calling card when ‘visiting’ the homes of gentlemen.

Except for the cream colouring, the card was otherwise nondescript. Bold, black ink on one side proclaimed ‘The Cat of Manchester’ and nothing more.

‘Everyone receives one of these? Witherspoon and the other investors didn’t mention it last night,’ Brandon said, handing the card back. The Cat obviously hadn’t had time to leave one behind when he’d caught up to her last night.

‘Well…’ the squire cleared his throat ‘…it’s embarrassing to admit. We’ve all got one. Some of us have more. We have three of them now,’ the squire grumbled. ‘I am at a complete loss over what to do. We seem to be a regular mark. I can’t imagine why we’ve been singled out.’ The man sighed heavily in exasperation.

Because you’re an easy target, Brandon mused uncharitably. Out loud he remarked, ‘Do you still have that same night watchman? I say change the watchman and the nightly routine and The Cat won’t be so eager to come around.’

‘Or, we catch that criminal and put an end to the need for night watchmen altogether,’ Squire Bradley said with an uncustomary vehemence. ‘The only house that hasn’t been hit is yours.’ The squire seemed to sense he had crossed an invisible line. This might be the country, but respect was still respect. He gave a cough to cover his embarrassment. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord.’

Brandon glossed over the breach of social politeness and his opportunity to confess the events of the prior evening. ‘As I said, patrols and quality watchmen will go far as a deterrent to crime.’ He found it interesting to learn The Cat had hit another house after leaving. His valet had not found anything else missing from his rooms, only an irritating lack of order.

The rooms had been thoroughly disturbed, but nothing more. There were other valuable items to steal such as gold cufflinks, diamond cravat pins and pocket watches. His clothes alone would bring considerable funds for a thief intent on converting stolen goods to cash.

Jewellery and fine garments in their original states wouldn’t do much for the people The Cat professed to helping. But if the stolen items could be sold and changed to pounds, her mission would be successful without giving the authorities anything to track. Brandon made a mental note; it would be useful to work out where or to whom The Cat sold her goods. No one was truly invisible.

‘Well, I am done with such guarded measures. The sooner that menace is caught, the safer we’ll all be.’ The Squire huffed. ‘That’s the other reason why I’m here. I want you to help me start looking for him. We’ve been passive too long. Now that you’ve arrived, we can take direct action.’

Brandon drank from his coffee cup and set it down before answering. ‘I mentioned last night that I am as eager as anyone else to see the matter settled. However, I am not sure where to start. We don’t know what this person looks like. Did your watchman catch a glimpse of the intruder?’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. They both didn’t know what the thief looked like, only he knew.

‘We know he must be from around here, because he has knowledge of upper-class homes,’ the Squire countered, showing more intelligence than Brandon had previously given him credit for.

‘Is there anyone new in the neighbourhood since these robberies began?’

The Squire thought for a moment. ‘That’s the one drawback with progress. Since we’ve been planning for that textile factory, there have been lots of new men in the area—workers, supervisors, architects, engineers, investors, the whole gamut.’

‘If it’s too difficult to think of new people, think of a motive,’ Brandon suggested, shifting in his chair. The sooner the Squire was placated or given the illusion of action, the sooner he’d leave and Brandon could get on with his day, something he desperately needed to do. Talking about The Cat was creating an interesting side effect in his nether regions. ‘Who would have reason to rob certain wealthy homes while leaving other potential homes untouched? Perhaps someone is not happy about the factory and believes it will cost people their jobs?’ Brandon shamelessly hypothesised, borrowing liberally from The Cat’s argument the prior night. He hoped to plant the idea firmly in the Squire’s head.

‘That’s ridiculous. There isn’t anyone who believes that kind of nonsense!’ the Squire blustered, nonplussed by the very idea. ‘Why, that sort of thinking is not English!’

Bradley’s intelligence quotient fell back a notch. Brandon schooled his features to hide his disbelief. Surely the man didn’t believe the issues that had sparked Peterloo twelve years ago had actually been resolved? If anything, the intervening years had created a stronger, better-organised working class.

The coming of widespread industrialisation had changed everything, including the need for different representation in Parliament—the very issue he’d been debating when the message had arrived in London regarding the burglaries. No wonder Bradley was having trouble coming up with motives. The poor man couldn’t fathom the political realities of the day.

Brandon returned to his previous suggestion. ‘Perhaps names would be the best place to start after all.’

The Squire leaned forward, frustration evident in his tone. ‘My lord, I don’t think you understand. Your suggestions are theoretically sound. However, there haven’t been any newcomers who’ve taken up long-term residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock recently except for the investors from London.’

Brandon raised his eyebrows. ‘None beyond that? I find it unlikely since all the expansion in Manchester has put the outskirts of the city a mere five miles from the town. I would have expected other hangers-on to be arriving in order to capitalise on the new economies that will be opening up.’

Bradley fidgeted. Aha, Brandon thought. There was someone. ‘We mustn’t discount anyone, Squire,’ he encouraged.

‘Well, it’s just that the newcomers seem highly unlikely suspects.’ Bradley drew a deep breath. ‘The vicar’s new since you’ve been here, but he’s a man you’ve personally appointed so there’s no point in looking that direction. The new industrialists in town have nothing to gain from committing robberies against themselves. In fact, their homes have been hit the hardest.’

‘Out with it, man,’ Brandon urged, sensing the Squire was holding back. ‘Is there no one else?’

‘The only other newcomer isn’t a man at all, but a spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham.’ Bradley shook his head as he said the name. ‘It’s hardly right to even bring the sweet lady’s name up in such a conversation. She’s quite a silly thing, although the ladies adore her. My wife is going for tea at her place this afternoon. Apparently, Miss Habersham serves the most delectable cakes. I have to take my wife’s word for it. The vicar and I both tried to call on her when she first arrived to be neighbourly, but she’ll have nothing to do with men. Men intimidate the poor dear, I suppose.’

‘Is that so? The woman sounds quite vulnerable to me,’ Brandon suggested, hoping to lead the Squire to a particular conclusion.

‘S’ truth, she’s a shy lady on her own. I dare say she knows little about the ways of the world,’ the Squire agreed, appearing to mull the thought over for a moment before reaching a decision.

Brandon pushed his point. ‘It may be that Miss Habersham has nothing to do with the goings-on around the village, but there might be someone in her household who does. Perhaps someone in her employ has pulled the wool over her eyes and is committing these crimes behind her back.’ That scenario seemed most likely since the woman he’d encountered last night definitely didn’t look like a spinster or, for that matter, act like one.

The Squire seemed genuinely horrified at the possibility. ‘Oh the poor dear! I hadn’t thought of that. How awful for her to be in the midst of such danger and be completely unaware of her jeopardy. We must do something.’

Brandon had the Squire where he wanted him. Without an entrée, he could not insinuate himself into a ladies’ tea hosted by a painfully shy woman and not appear heavy handed. He needed the Squire to go with him and provide a casual introduction. ‘What’s our next step?’

‘Perhaps we should attend the tea today as well. We can use my wife’s invitation to Miss Habersham’s little circle. It’s all for the dear lady’s own good.’

‘A capital idea!’ Brandon agreed. ‘I think it is time the lady in question got over her fear of gentlemen callers and high time the Earl of Stockport met his newest neighbour.’



Nothing Squire Bradley imparted about Stockport-on-the-Medlock’s resident spinster adequately prepared Brandon for afternoon tea at Miss Habersham’s. To start, the poor dear had the misfortune of living at the Old Grange, a nice enough middle-class manse in its day, once having played home to a comfortable gentleman farmer, but which now had fallen into apathetic neglect. The Old Grange was not faring well if the bleak gardens and straggly front lawn were indications. December made it worse, Brandon thought, dismounting from his bay stallion.

At the door, Brandon gave the dour manservant his card and mentally eliminated him as a possible suspect simply because of his gender. The Cat was definitely not male. The manservant gave him a distrusting glance that said men were a rare commodity in Miss Habersham’s milieu and reluctantly led the way down a short narrow hall to the front parlor.

Feminine voices reached Brandon before he stepped into the room. It was a good thing too, otherwise he’d have thought he’d stepped into a chamber of mannequins. Upon his appearance, all conversation halted and teacups stopped halfway to lips as they took in his masculine presence with extreme shock. Brandon could imagine the gossip that would circulate town tomorrow—the Earl of Stockport calling on the local spinster in the midst of her weekly ladies’ tea.

Brandon squared his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his actions. He’d correctly kept his hat and gloves with him to indicate this would be the briefest of duty calls. No etiquette expert could fault him for calling on Miss Habersham first since it was the higher-ranking person’s duty to initiate a call on lower-ranking persons. After all, he didn’t have the time to wait for her to come to him. The faster this business of The Cat was concluded, the sooner he could return to London.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ Brandon bowed to the room in general. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, but Squire Bradley will be along shortly and he assured me this was the best place to make the acquaintance of every important woman in town.’ He flashed a practised smile sure to dazzle, while inwardly he was quite peeved Squire Bradley was not already there helping to pave his way.

Brandon cast his gaze about the room for a woman likely to fit Miss Habersham’s qualifications. The woman who rose to meet him was a walking juxtaposition, putting his politician’s senses on high alert. She might dress like a spinster in that ill-fitting brown serge but no spinster in the history of the world had a body like that.

Of course, he probably wasn’t supposed to notice such a fine figure thanks to the camouflage of the hideous gown and the severe hairstyle, which was most likely designed to call attention to the heavy glasses perched on Miss Habersham’s nose—a delightfully pert creation if one got past the spectacles.

The glasses not only obscured her nose, they also obscured her eyes; that made Brandon uneasy. In his line of work, he preferred to see a person’s eyes. Eyes were the only true indicators of trustworthiness. Something was not right.

‘My lord, you honour us with this unexpected visit. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Eleanor Habersham.’

The lady in question spoke with a grating nasality to her voice. Brandon fought the urge to cringe—no doubt most did. Such a nagging tone would be a sure deterrent against holding protracted conversations with the lady.

‘The honour is all mine.’ Using his considerable drawing-room charm, Brandon smiled over her hand as if she were a diamond of the first water. He expected her to titter and play into the fantasy that he found her attractive. After a smile or two, with his eyes firmly fixed on the woman he was addressing, women usually did. This one did not.

‘What brings you to the Grange?’

Was that a touch of steel he heard beneath the nasal-pitched voice of this insecure spinster who could hardly meet his eyes?

‘I’ve come to greet my new neighbours,’ Brandon offered congenially, overlooking the defensive nature of the question. He winked at the assembled ladies and directed his comment to the group at large, ‘Also, I am here to gather information about The Cat. Everyone knows you ladies are the eyes and ears of the village.’

At that, the room began to buzz with voices eager to tell their tales. Alice Bradley’s voice rose above the din and she waved a lace handkerchief to silence them. ‘La! I don’t know what the world is coming to when decent country folk can’t sleep peacefully in their own homes. This is the third time we’ve been robbed. So many of us have suffered!’ She waved her handkerchief again to indicate other ladies in the room. Those who nodded in distress were apparently wives of the men Brandon had met with last night.

Alice turned back to her hostess. ‘Miss Habersham, that gives you and his lordship something in common. The two of you are the only ones whose homes haven’t been visited by The Cat.’ She eyed Brandon speculatively. ‘It is strange your home hasn’t been targeted since it has been unoccupied these last weeks. Pardon my bluntness, but you’ve got far more to plunder than the rest of us.’

‘Ma’am, I am sorry to hear of your loss last night. I passed the morning with your husband, trying to deduce who might be behind these attacks. Miss Habersham and I must count ourselves fortunate thus far. However, I would rather catch this thief than see how long my luck holds,’ Brandon offered neutrally. At the moment he was far more interested in Miss Habersham’s reaction.

Behind her thick lenses, he noted that Miss Habersham’s eyes widened in surprise at the reference to The Cat and she’d actually dared to look up at the mention of their two homes being untouched. Granted, it was only the briefest of glances, but it had revealed to Brandon a pair of sharp ice-green eyes that suddenly seemed too lively to belong to the shy woman awkwardly standing beside him.

Brandon let the conversation swirl around him as the conversation moved on to discuss the Squire’s upcoming Christmas masque. It gave him a chance to study Miss Habersham in further detail.

During his tenure as Earl, Brandon had learned the difficult lesson that, more often than not, people wore disguises. He’d developed a knack for seeing beneath the exterior façade to the truths people hid within. He wondered what kind of disguise Miss Habersham wore and why she wore it.

He would bet good money the glasses were unnecessary. They were thick on purpose to distort the size and shape of her eyes, making them look unnaturally bug-eyed. They also offered an excuse to keep her gaze downcast. She probably couldn’t see straight ahead at all with them on. Her hair was another matter, worn in a dun-coloured brown mass scraped back into a tight, unbecoming bun that emphasised her face and the unattractive spectacles.

An ordinary man might have been daunted by the nature of Miss Habersham’s appearance, but Brandon saw the idiosyncrasies. Miss Habersham’s skin was smooth alabaster with not a mark to mar its perfection. For all her professed nervousness, her mittened hands were steady when she held her tea cup. Her submissive posture belied a striking height. If she stood up straight, Brandon wagered she’d stand over five and a half feet.

Her figure didn’t speak spinster either. For all her prissy mannerisms, she was a woman in good shape. Her waist was trim, her legs long beneath the brown skirt, her torso lean and her bosom impressive despite the efforts of her undergarments to the contrary. No, there wasn’t a dry brittle bone beneath the ugly gown.

His fifteen minutes for a polite afternoon call were up and the Squire had not appeared—so much for masculine loyalty. Brandon turned to his hostess and took his leave. The other ladies near them discreetly drew back, allowing him a semi-private moment with her.

‘Could I persuade you to walk with me to the door?’ he asked, taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘I want to talk with you about your safety. Since it has been pointed out that your home has not yet been a target, I am worried that it soon will be. Do you have adequate protection? I can send men to stand watch.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Habersham said in a dismissive tone that frankly shocked him. He had not expected to be declined.

‘I must protest—’ Brandon began.

‘No, my lord, it is I who must protest. The Cat would not be interested in my home. Look around, you can see that I possess nothing that would appeal to a burglar of The Cat’s calibre. There is no silver to steal, no china of merit, nothing but a few knick-knacks and souvenirs. I am a woman of modest means.’

‘Burglars are not careful of station, Miss Habersham. They are common thieves,’ Brandon lectured. This woman was too naïve by half to think she’d go untouched. She might not be a woman of great wealth, but no doubt there was a trinket or two of some value waiting to be discovered within these walls. She was a woman who had the means to live on her own no matter how modestly. ‘It may be true that you have nothing of merit, but The Cat doesn’t know that. The thief may strike anyway.’

They reached the door and Brandon knew Miss Habersham was glad to be rid of him. Her farewell was curt and skilfully put the interaction back into her hands.

‘Thank you for the warning. I will let you know if I change my mind about your offer.’ No polite pleasantries followed, no gesture was offered to visit again, no opening to make sure she saw him again.

Brandon swung up on his horse, disgruntled with the outcome. He’d expected an entrée into Miss Habersham’s life. What was wrong with him? The better question was what was wrong with her? Miss Habersham didn’t add up. It wasn’t just his ego, it was a well-known fact in his London circles that no woman could resist his charm. It was galling to think that a spinster of Miss Habersham’s unfortunate disposition would succeed so thoroughly where other more sophisticated women had failed. That in itself was a red flag.

Eleanor’s rejection of him was quite telling. Sure of his charm, Brandon had expected the woman to drool with anticipation at the thought of an Earl’s attentions, no matter how inconsequential. Instead, she had refused his attentions and his offer of protection.

The afternoon visit had not gone as planned, but he had not come away empty-handed. The squire might quickly discard Miss Habersham as a potential suspect, but Brandon knew what the squire did not. The Cat was a woman. It seemed an odd coincidence that The Cat and a woman masquerading as a spinster would take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock simultaneously. If he’d learned anything this afternoon it was that Miss Habersham wasn’t a spinster. She was a mystery.




Chapter Three


Nora sagged against her bedroom door. Escape at last! She’d thought the ladies would never leave. Usually the Wednesday tea lasted for an hour and a half. Today, the ladies had stayed until half past six, dissecting every moment of the Earl’s visit.

She tugged at the pins holding her wig in place and freed her head with a sigh. Who would have imagined a wig could be so tiring to wear or so hot? Even in December she managed to sweat beneath it. Nora shook out her hair and let it fall freely. She walked to her vanity, placed the glasses in a small drawer and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

The tea had started off well enough. Alice Bradley had been eager to recount the doings at her place. Thanks to Alice’s tendency to gossip, The Cat’s legend grew with each robbery. The Cat needed that kind of exposure if she was going to succeed. If she were a big enough menace, the threat of The Cat’s presence would be enough to warn off the investors in the textile mill. In the meantime, if the investors continued to take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock, she’d gladly pilfer their wealth to feed the people they were putting out of work.

Then Stockport had shown up, looking devastatingly handsome in his immaculate clothes. She’d felt his excellent physique the prior night but the perfection of his face had escaped her notice in the dark. In the afternoon light, she could better appreciate the strong jaw set off by a razor-straight nose, classical cheekbones and deep blue eyes. His good looks commanded attention and she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every woman in the room had their eyes riveted on him. They hung on each word the black-haired, blue-eyed devil uttered.

His presence would have been a piece of luck if he’d told everyone about the burglary. Yet when given the chance to admit Stockport Hall had been robbed, he had ignored the opening and perpetuated the belief that his home was untouched. That made him a liar.

His omission hadn’t helped her cause either. The whole point of going there last night had been to make a statement, but if he didn’t tell anyone the point was moot. He was supposed to react like everyone else and shout his frustration all over town. That was the problem. He wasn’t like everyone else. She’d discovered that last night, although her brain had failed to comprehend the impact it would have on her escapades.

Nora plopped into the chair in front of the vanity and began brushing out her hair. Last night, she’d thought the kiss was a stroke of bold brilliance, despite its risks. Now she saw it as a mistake. No wonder he hadn’t told anyone of her visit. What was he to say that wouldn’t make him look like a fool? ‘The Cat put her tongue in my mouth, ripped open my shirt and cupped me through my trousers until I thought I’d burst?’ A lesser man might have enjoyed circulating that juicy tit-bit over ale in the taverns but there was nothing lesser about Brandon Wycroft.

It was clear enough from the way he’d smiled and doted on the ladies today that he thought highly of himself. He was a prideful man who was completely aware of his effect on people. His self-conceit would not allow him to admit a thief, and a woman at that, had provoked such a base reaction from him.

The kiss had been her first mistake. Her second mistake had been leaving the ring. Nora was certain that, if she’d taken the ring, he would not have hesitated to mention her presence in his home. He would have gone to great lengths to put word out about the ring in case anyone saw it. That ring meant something to him and he would not be parted from it easily.

Nora tapped her fingers on the vanity, an idea surfacing in her mind. Stockport might go so far as to declare a reward for the ring if it were missing. Even if he didn’t, she could blackmail a ransom of sorts out of him. That settled it. She would go back tonight for the ring and to set the record straight. By tomorrow morning news of The Cat at Stockport Hall would be common knowledge in the village.



Stockport Hall was dark except for the lone light burning in the library window as Nora approached from the south shortly before midnight. She was not surprised. Her information was highly reliable. Stockport lived alone when he came to the country and kept late hours in the library, which had a convenient entrance from the garden on the south side of the estate. She wouldn’t use the entrance to go into the house. She had a stop to make first. She would climb up the tree to Stockport’s bedchamber and retrieve the ring first, but later she’d need an exit after their little tête-à-tête.

Nora scaled the tree easily, her arms and legs recalling the toeholds she’d found the previous night. The tree wasn’t the hard part, although it was tall and climbing it was no easy task. The hard part was getting from the tree to the window.

Nora climbed the tall oak a level higher than necessary so that she looked down on the window. Lying on her belly, she inched out along a wide, sturdy branch that effortlessly took her weight, a much more reliable branch than the one below it onto which she’d exited the night before. She took the coil of black rope from her belt and securely looped it about the branch in an intricate knot. She gave it a tug and was satisfied it would hold. She double-checked her watch—ten minutes before Stockport’s highly trained patrols would pass this way, plenty of time to reach the sill and pop inside.

Taking a deep breath, Nora levered herself onto the rope. Her arms took the initial weight as her legs found their grip. Then she began the process of lowering herself down the rope length until she was level with the window. She halted and took three more deep breaths. Now it was time for the fun.

Swinging back and forth, she gained enough momentum to launch herself over to the window ledge. The ledge was only six inches wide, hardly wide enough for a strong foothold, so Nora steadied herself with one hand on the rope, using the other hand to grope for the broken window latch while her feet balanced against the sill.

Victory! In his pride, Stockport had failed to have the lock fixed immediately. No doubt he’d guessed The Cat wouldn’t strike again so soon or by the same method. The window slid up and Nora scrambled inside. She gave the black rope a yank and reeled it in behind her. It took only a moment to see that the room had been righted and the casket holding the ring was in the same place.

Nora lifted the lid and found the ring couched among the purple velvet cloth. She reached for it and suffered a momentary lapse of conscience. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the people the ring could help. Little Timmy Black, youngest of seven children, would have hot porridge until spring. Widow Malone, bereft of a husband because of a careless maintenance error in a Manchester cotton mill, would have clothes to warm her three children. There were others too numerous to mention. She grabbed the ring and shut the lid of the box before she could change her mind. Stockport would get the ring back, she reminded herself. It wasn’t as if she was stealing it permanently. She was only temporarily borrowing it for the greater good of humanity.

Feeling better, Nora slipped the ring into a small pouch around her waist and tucked it securely inside the band of her trousers. She squared her shoulders, allowing a small smile to creep across her lips as she contemplated her next task: a visit with Stockport. She was looking forward to giving him a piece of her mind.

The trip downstairs to the library was uneventful, which ironically only served to provoke her irritation with the man. She passed down the darkened major staircase and met no one, not even a footman. What a crime it was for one man alone to command all this space when families crowded together in single-room dwellings!

Nora gained the library. The door stood ajar, affording her the luxury of studying her quarry undetected. Stockport sat behind a large mahogany desk, diligently applying himself to letter writing, documents spread across the desk top. The light caught at his hair, giving it the polished gloss of obsidian. If he wasn’t such a prodigiously arrogant man, she’d consider him handsome.

He lifted his head from his correspondence, giving her a glimpse of his remarkable blue eyes, behind spectacles that rode the bridge of his nose. Glasses? The Earl of Stockport wore glasses? Nora found the image before her hard to reconcile with the picture her research painted of the Earl as a man about town who had a way with women. But she had been warned that while Stockport had a well-earned reputation as a lover, he also had a reputation for responsibility.

Stockport stilled, his eyes probing the darkness beyond his door. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger before returning his gaze to the door. Had he guessed she was there? For a moment Nora slipped back into the shadows. She scolded herself. The Cat didn’t hide. The Cat went where she pleased and when she pleased.

‘Is someone there?’ His voice held the steel of challenge.

Nora stepped inside the doorway before he could rise and come investigate his suspicions. ‘Good evening, Stockport. You and I have unfinished business.’

‘You! How did you get in?’ He snapped, recognition firing his eyes with the intensity of blue coals.

Nora savoured the fleeting look of surprise that skittered across his face. He was not a man who liked surprises unless they were his. Responsibility and control were two attributes that went hand in hand.

She made herself comfortable in a large leather chair, draping her legs over the arm. ‘The same way I got in last night. You’re not as smart as I thought. The lock on the window was still broken.’ She gave him a pointed, flirtatious look, ‘I hope you don’t make it that easy for other women to get into your bedroom.’

‘A smart thief doesn’t return to the same haunt the next night,’ he countered.

Nora smiled wickedly, ‘I am not a smart thief. I’m a brilliant thief, and a brilliant thief knows how to do the unexpected.’

Stockport rose from the desk and she knew a flash of uncertainty as he walked to a sideboard holding a collection of decanters containing varying shades of amber liquid. A bell-pull’s tassel lounged dangerously nearby. One tug would bring assistance. From her relaxed position in the chair, she would be hard pressed to gain the French doors leading into the garden. She was betting on her usually reliable instinct and Stockport’s desire to keep the robbery of his home a secret that he wouldn’t call for help.

‘Am I supposed to be impressed with your criminal antics?’ he asked coolly, his long hands deftly skimming from decanter to glass. The moment of danger passed. He wasn’t going to call for help.

Nora breathed a mental sigh of relief. ‘You’re already impressed.’

Stockport turned from preparing his drink, dark eyebrows raised in censure at her saucy tone. ‘Why ever would you think that?’

‘Because now, when you could catch me, you have made no move to summon help. Is that brandy? Pour me a glass, a double measure, neat.’ That shocked him, as she’d meant it to. He needed to be reminded the world didn’t always run according to his standards.

He delivered the glass and resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘You have your drink, now on to your unfinished business. I don’t have all night and neither do you. I presume you have to go rob the Squire’s house again.’ The last was said derisively.

‘You’ve told no one The Cat burglarised your house last night. I want to know why,’ Nora demanded, her eyes fixing him with a hard stare.

Stockport smiled knowingly over his glass. ‘I told no one because you so clearly wanted me to tell everyone. It would make your coup complete. However, I do not cater to the whims of morally deficient thieves.’

Nora swung her legs to the floor in a show of anger. ‘I do not lack morals!’

‘You take what isn’t yours,’ he accused.

‘For a purpose. From people who have more than they need,’ she countered evenly.

He scoffed at that. ‘You fashion yourself to be a modern-day Robin Hood. I suppose you expect me to believe you give it all to the poor?’

‘I told you as much last night. I keep nothing for myself. If this was about money, I wouldn’t be limiting my raids to mere candlesticks and petty cash. If you don’t believe me, ask Miss Habersham about the orphanage in Manchester or the families living in the poor part of town. They’ll tell you all about The Cat.’

His attention perked at the mention of Miss Habersham. ‘What does the shy spinster have to do with your elaborate charade?’

‘No more than any of the other ladies in the village. At times, they are unknowing conduits for The Cat’s loot in the form of baskets for the poor. Especially around Christmas, the need is great. The ladies go into Manchester the third Tuesday of every month to do their good deeds.’ The last was said with a touch of cynicism.

Stockport was quick to reprimand. ‘They have found an honourable way to do good deeds.’

‘One day a month doesn’t do anything beyond making the ladies feel superior,’ Nora retorted. She’d probably said too much, but she doubted Stockport would tell anyone. He’d kept her secret so far. She rose from the chair and stalked towards the desk, turning the conversation away from herself. ‘What are you working on with such devotion that it demands late hours from you?’ She snatched the top sheet off the desk, narrowly escaping his futile swipe to reclaim it.

‘Ah, Parliament work. The Reform Act? It’s a step in the right direction, but I am sure the House of Lords will never stand for it since it weakens them considerably.’

‘I am surprised you know about it.’

‘I steal for a purpose,’ she reminded him. ‘Until the government takes care of the lower classes, someone must represent them in whatever manner they can.’

‘It shouldn’t be much longer if Prime Minister Grey has his way.’

‘You’re quite the optimist. The bill has been defeated twice in the House of Lords. I don’t see anything happening to change that, no matter how many times the House of Commons passes it.’

‘You are surprisingly well informed for someone who exists on the other side of the law,’ Stockport commented wryly. ‘Still, I can see where passing the bill complicates things for you. You’ll be out of work.’

‘Hardly, my lord, I’ve discovered there is always someone to rob, always a cause to fight for. The lists of injustices in this world are quite extensive.’ She leaned over the desk until their faces were only inches apart. His lips opened a slight fraction in anticipation. The vain man thought she was going to kiss him again. She gave a mocking half-smile and moved back. ‘No, I don’t think I will kiss you.’ She gave his form an obvious perusal. ‘Although, from the state of things, I’d say you need kissing badly.’

Nora backed to the French doors, not taking her eyes from him, and clicked open the easy lock. ‘Thanks for the brandy.’

‘You will be caught, if not by me, then by someone else,’ Stockport said.

‘I doubt it.’ Nora pulled out the little pouch from her waistband, waving it in victory as she fired her parting salvo. ‘I’d get the window fixed upstairs if I were you.’ She bowed theatrically. ‘I give you goodnight, my lord.’

Brandon stared at the spot where she’d stood. Damn! Not again. He took the stairs to his room two at a time, a lamp in one hand. She had come back for the ring! He should have known when she said she’d used the same entrance. This was the second time she’d been in his house and caught him unaware. Perhaps she was a brilliant thief after all. He certainly hadn’t expected her to return and he’d hardly expected to discuss politics with her over his best brandy. Whoever she was, she had too much education to be from the dregs of society.

He lifted the lid of the casket and confirmed his fears. The ring was gone.

In its place was The Cat’s cream calling card, just like the one the Squire had shown him. He turned it over and found a message scrawled on the back: The ring shall be returned to you in exchange for three hundred pounds. I will collect the money in two weeks’ time at the Squire’s Christmas ball.

Ransoming his ring was a neat trick and an audacious one, nothing less than what he’d come to expect from this particular burglar.

He had to have that ring back. However, there was no question of paying the three hundred pounds. The Cat had made a serious misjudgment if she believed him to be a man who would succumb to the unscrupulous practice of blackmail. He would not be The Cat’s whipping boy. The mill and the financial security of the people who depended on him were at stake, to say nothing of his considerable pride.

It irked him immensely that he had been called away from Parliament to play catch The Cat when so much depended on his presence. The latest correspondence from John Russell and other prominent Whigs intimated how much he was needed there.

Brandon crumpled the card in his hand with vehemence and silently declared war on The Cat. Her latest antics demanded nothing less. She would learn at the Christmas fête who ran things in this part of the world, if he didn’t catch her sooner. Already, the inklings of a plan were forming in his mind. He couldn’t find The Cat, but he could find her trail and Eleanor Habersham seemed the most likely place to start. The Cat had mentioned her by name and Eleanor had all the signs of a woman who had something to hide.



Adrenaline still coursed through her as Nora slipped into the Grange’s kitchen. That had been fun! She’d pricked Stockport’s temper and his interest, if those parted lips were to be believed. He’d wanted her to kiss him.

‘Where have you been?’ Hattie’s stern tone sapped Nora’s smugness. Her post-raid elation faded at the sight of Hattie standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded and foot tapping in irritation.

‘I’ve been to Stockport’s for the ring, just as I told you.’ Nora tried a smile and jiggled the soft felt pouch containing her prize. Hattie was not fazed.

‘It took much longer than anticipated,’ Hattie continued her interrogation, moving to the stove to heat a kettle of water.

There’d be no escaping Hattie’s questions now if the woman had her mind on tea and conversation. Nora knew the signs and humbly took a seat at the long work table. ‘The Earl and I had a little chat,’ Nora confessed.

Hattie slapped a plate of sugar biscuits down on the table next to Nora and sniffed. ‘From the smell of it, I’d say you’d had a drink, too. Getting above yourself a bit, aren’t you, drinking with the likes of him?’

Nora bristled. ‘What is your point, exactly? The man needed taking down a notch. You should have seen his face when I drank down his fine brandy in a single swallow.’

Hattie put down the tea things and stood back from the table, hands on wide hips. ‘My point is, why did you do it? You could have gotten the ring without Stockport knowing you were there. Instead, you risked everything for a few prideful moments of confrontation. What if he’d called for help?’

‘He didn’t call for help. I knew I’d be safe or I wouldn’t have done it.’ Nora dismissed Hattie’s complaint with a heavy sigh. There was no sense in confessing to the moment’s trepidation she’d felt when he’d gone to pour the drinks with the bell-pull hovering inches from his hand.

‘Safe? Because he let you go last night? Pardon me for saying so, but you’re getting dicked in the nob if you think you’re ever safe with a man like him. Those men think they own the world and everyone in it.’

Hattie poured herself another cup of tea and turned her thoughts in a different direction, apparently done with scolding. ‘We have to be more cautious than ever. Our goal is in reach. The Cat is succeeding. While I was doing the shopping today, I heard that more of the investors are on the brink of pulling out. They’re worried about the security of the mill. They fear that if The Cat can get to them so easily, The Cat will get to the mill and sabotage its construction. They aren’t willing to risk their money further.’

‘Or their reputations,’ Nora said wryly over the rim of her teacup. ‘Are Cecil Witherspoon and Magnus St John getting edgy finally? They have the most to lose as long as I am free.’

That comment earned her a reprimand from Hattie. The woman shook her finger. ‘You know I don’t hold with blackmail. I’ve never liked the idea of you taking those documents out of Witherspoon’s safe.’

‘It’s not blackmail. It’s insurance,’ Nora protested. ‘Those documents prove the mill is unsafe and the contractors are deliberately cutting costs by using substandard products.’ Nora smiled, remembering the thrill of the night she’d broken into Witherspoon’s study and cracked his safe.

A reliable source from town had sent word he’d overheard a rumour about something murky on the mill’s contract. He’d been right. From there, it wasn’t a large leap of logic to see that Witherspoon had an insurance scam on his mind. He’d build the mill with substandard materials and after a year or two have the building succumb to an ‘accidental’ fire. He and the other investors would be waiting to claim the insurance money. The scheme would never come to pass if Nora could prevent it.

‘I wish I could have seen his face the next morning, don’t you, Hattie?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Hattie said briskly, gathering up the tea things. ‘He was furious then and he’s still furious. You’ve made an enemy of a very dangerous man. The Cat might be succeeding, but the risk is going up. It’s not just the investors who are angry now. Some of our own wealthier residents are disappointed too, like the Squire. The news is that they mean to redouble their efforts to catch The Cat. They’re convinced as soon as The Cat is caught, the additional investors will come.

‘It might be for the best that no one knows you raided Stockport’s. It would put them over the edge. I fear we’re out of our depth here. We’ve never gone up against a man like Stockport before. He’s not one to be trifled with,’ Hattie fretted.

Nora covered Hattie’s hand with her own, hearing the unspoken plea in the woman’s scolding. ‘I won’t get caught. You and Alfred taught me to be a good thief. Eleanor Habersham has to go into Manchester tomorrow to conduct business. I’ll take a look at the situation first hand, if it will make you feel better. Alice Bradley and her daughters are going into the city tomorrow too for shopping and they’ve offered Eleanor a ride. Alfred can take a note up to Wildflowers in the morning to say I’ll join them.’

Hattie looked at her with concerned eyes and Nora braced herself. ‘These days I wonder if I should have taught you to be something else. Maybe then you’d be settled with a home, children and a husband. You’re only six and twenty. It’s not too late for you to have a real life, Nora.’

‘It is too late. This is my real life. I made that choice a long time ago, Hattie. Besides, if you recall, I tried marriage once and found it sorely lacking. I discovered men are highly exaggerated commodities, both in and out of bed.’ Even as she said it, her thoughts wondered back to Stockport, his ardent kiss, his firm body and the stack of papers on his desk. Perhaps there was an exception to be had. She had to be careful not to overrate him. One good act and a handsome face did not dismiss the reason he was here. She had made that mistake with her brief marriage to the handsome but incurably lazy Reggie Portman when she was seventeen. Well, she wasn’t that impressionable any more thanks to the two years of disappointments that had followed.

Nora said goodnight to her long-time comrade and made her way to bed, her mind plagued with the new information she’d discovered that evening. She wished she knew more about Stockport’s motivations for siding with the Reform Act.

It seemed an odd position for a man of his rank to take. If successful, the Reform Act would redistribute the seats in the House of Commons and lower electoral qualifications, making it possible for much of the middle class to vote. The House of Lords would be weakened considerably. She had yet to meet a peer who would willingly give away legal power. Yet tonight, it seemed she had.

She couldn’t help concluding The Cat wasn’t the only one who wore a mask. Stockport was becoming a conundrum and riddles intrigued her. The reputed Cock of the North was more than a well-dressed womaniser. This evening, he’d shown himself to be a politician, who had unusual convictions for a man of his rank and experience.

The Cat had pierced his outer shield with her kiss. Stripping away the rest of his urbane façade and revealing the man beneath was a scintillating concept to fall asleep on, leaving Nora with jumbled dreams of a hard-chested man rousing to her touch wearing little else but tight-fitted trousers and a mask that kept eluding her when she reached to untie it.




Chapter Four


Eleanor Habersham stepped down from Squire Bradley’s covered carriage in front of the Blue Boar Inn and thanked Alice Bradley and her daughters for the ride, waving aside Alice’s suggestion that she conduct her business in their company.

Several times during the short trip into Manchester, Alice had invited her to join them for the day. Her daughters had echoed their mother’s sentiment. Nora had refused all requests politely on the grounds that she didn’t wish to hamper their fun and that there was nothing unacceptable about a respectable, middle-class spinster conducting errands on her own.

She did, however, promise to meet them at the inn for tea later that afternoon and to join them on the return to Stockport-on-the-Medlock. Nora had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth. In the cold winter weather, it would be the height of foolishness to make the five-mile trip home on foot and carrying her purchases to boot.

Nora pulled her winter cloak close about her. It was a solid, although inexpensive, affair, made of wool and lined with rabbit instead of the other more luxurious furs worn by the Squire’s wife and his daughters. But it was what she could afford without taking funds away from the truly poor who couldn’t lay claim to even the middling garments she wore.

She pulled her hood over Eleanor’s dun-coloured wig and clutched her reticule and shopping basket close, glad to be off on her rounds. The winter had been especially cruel so far and many people would be happy to receive the relief The Cat offered through the conduit of Eleanor Habersham.

The Cat could not afford the risk of making deliveries in person often for fear of increasing her chance of exposure. If she was too liberal in flaunting her identity, it wouldn’t be long before someone turned her over to authorities.

Early on, she had taken great pains to set up her network by identifying reliable and trustworthy merchants who would convey The Cat’s offerings to those in need. They’d learned to recognise Eleanor Habersham as The Cat’s messenger.

Nora hadn’t gone far when the strange sensation of being watched caused her to pause and reassess her surroundings, which until that point had been filled only with other people going about their daily business at the shops. Someone was not what they seemed.

Cautiously, so as not to give away her awareness of being followed, Nora glanced around, quartering the area with her gaze. A woman with her young children entered the greengrocer’s. A street-sweep cried out his business on the corner. A hackney waited for his next fare. Then she saw him. It was no more than a glimpse before he fell back into the crowd of people moving through the streets, but it was unmistakably him. Stockport was following her.

Nora cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions. He was a busy man. He might very well have his own reasons to be in Manchester. It was, after all, a thriving city and Stockport was a man interested in enterprise and industry. She had no proof yet that he was here simply to follow Eleanor Habersham, a spinster of meagre means, on her errands. He had given no indication of having seen her beyond her intuition sensing his presence.

Yet, his presence sounded an alarm. Nora looked up and down the street. While it was possible that he would be in Manchester for his own purposes, it seemed unlikely that a man of his calibre would be on this particular street, which was devoted to grocers and food shops of various sorts. An Earl didn’t procure his own foodstuffs. This was a section of town frequented by the servants of the wealthy and those who couldn’t afford servants of their own.

There was only one way to find out if his being in town was coincidence or something more. Nora smiled to herself. Forewarned was forearmed. She would put him to the test and still get most of her duties accomplished right under his nose.

Nora deliberately walked down the street, giving him a chance to spot her if that was his intention, and entered her first stop, the bakery.

‘Good day, Mr Harlow. I’ve come to get some of your excellent sticky buns. Hattie would have my head if I returned home without them.’ Nora exchanged pleasantries with Mr Harlow and wandered to the front window while he wrapped up her order. Her initial concern had been warranted. Stockport was occupying himself with a newspaper vendor across the street while keeping the bakery in perfect view.

If he was waiting for her to exit the warm shop, he was going to get extremely cold. There was nothing worse than standing still in the cold unless it was knowing the person you waited for was keeping warm inside. Confident in her strategy, Nora launched into an animated discussion with Mr Harlow regarding the merits of white bread crumbs versus brown in Manchester pudding.



Good God, what could she possibly be talking about that would take so long and demand so much gesticulation? Brandon stamped his booted feet in a feeble attempt to generate some warmth and movement in his legs. Despite his caped greatcoat, muffler, gloves and fur beaver, he was not impervious to the cold.

He fought the urge to check his pocket watch one more time. He had already made the mistake of dragging it out of his waistcoat pocket once. Getting the timepiece out required removing his shearling-lined gloves and parting his greatcoat to reach inside. The newspaper tucked beneath his arm was warmer than he was. Short of going into the bakery and declaring his presence to the spinster, he had no choice but to wait, since the alternative would be to abandon his plan altogether.

Admittedly, the plan was hastily concocted. He had ridden over to Squire Bradley’s to discuss some brief district business regarding the assizes and learned Eleanor Habersham was riding into Manchester with Alice Bradley. The opportunity was too good to pass up after his ‘visit’ with The Cat the prior evening. What better way to determine if there was a link between Eleanor and The Cat than to follow Eleanor about town? It had seemed a plausible idea at the time. Now, he had his doubts. If he had to wait any longer, he’d have frostbite to add to his growing list of regrets.

He did not usually tolerate being relegated to a watch-and-wait role. There was no reason he was tolerating it now. Brandon decided he’d had enough. If he was going to have regrets over the Spinster Habersham, they would be of his making and not hers.

Miss Habersham tucked a package into her shopping basket and reached in her reticule. Brandon came alert, straightening his posture from the slouch he’d adopted against a lamp post. At last! He watched eagerly as Miss Habersham handed over payment for whatever she had purchased. It was his cue to move in.

‘Miss Habersham? Is that you? I thought it might be.’ Brandon strode forward, touching his hand respectfully to the brim of his hat. ‘It’s a cold day to be out. Let me take those packages for you.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, which would have assuredly been ‘no’, and relieved her of the cumbersome shopping basket.

‘Lord Stockport, what a surprise,’ Miss Habersham responded, making a brilliant recovery from the initial look of surprise that had washed over her face. That look bore speculating on, though, Stockport thought.

She’d been surprised, but not in the way someone is startled out of the blue. It was almost as if she’d known he was there. Her look upon his approach bordered on perplexed and annoyed. She had not expected him to announce his presence and she was annoyed that he had. Brandon mused that, if she had known such a welcome would increase his desire to stick close to her, she might have schooled her features better.

‘What brings you to town, my lord?’ she asked in her nasal-pitched voice.

Brandon waved his gloved hand dismissively. ‘Some business that I quickly wrapped up. It was nothing all that important, just something that needed doing. And you? Do you have other stops to make?’ He peered into the basket, filled only with the wrapped buns, trapping her into completing the errands he believed still remained. She’d only just arrived in town and one did not travel five miles simply to visit the bakery. In essence, he knew what he was doing. He was coercing her into the spending the day with him.

Gamely, Miss Habersham took the bait. ‘Why, yes, I do, Lord Stockport. It would be absolutely wonderful if you could accompany me.’

Ah, the victory was too easily won, but Brandon took it anyway. Since he’d met The Cat, his victories had been more like draws, something he wasn’t used to. However, as expected, the easy victory was not without price. Brandon was hard pressed to distinguish whether Eleanor Habersham was being herself with her excessive chatter and tittering or deliberately trying to run him off.

The second stop was the butcher’s, where Brandon was exposed to Eleanor’s protracted conversation with the butcher on the virtues of redcurrant jelly sauce as an accompaniment to an amazing array of game dishes. Brandon hadn’t thought there was that much to say about the subject. She tittered as she confessed to using a naughty dash of cognac brandy to sweeten the sauce. Brandon immediately felt guilty over his pique. Regardless of the woman’s potential connection to The Cat, the poor woman had little to look forward to in her drab life, supplemented as it was with the most modest of means.

For a woman of her limited income, there were no new dresses to look forward to, no excitement of taking in the entertainments offered in London or other large cities, no luxury of permitting oneself a splurge here or there. Every penny in her possession was likely budgeted with the strictest of care. If discussing currant sauce gave her day meaning, broke the mundane routine of her life, he could tolerate it. After all, he had invited himself on her errands.

Still, Brandon was glad enough to move on once she finally reached in to her reticule and paid the butcher for the beef. His relief was short-lived. The roast she dropped into the basket he carried weighed down his arm considerably.

‘That’s not too heavy for you, is it?’ Miss Habersham inquired innocuously, her eyes wide behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

Brandon smiled easily, assuring her with a lie that the basket wasn’t too heavy. Whatever charity he had felt for her a few moments ago vanished. The woman must have bought the largest roast in Manchester. He was utterly persuaded by her overly innocent inquiry that she’d done it on purpose too. Eleanor was playing a secret game with him. Very well, he would play one with her. Spinster or not, all bets were off.

Brandon redoubled his charm. He bought her a bag of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor and plied her with stories of London. As if in retaliation for his kindness, she stopped at the poulterer’s and added a chicken to the basket.



The afternoon turned into a polite, unspoken tug of war. The more she bought, the more he smiled when she piled the purchases into the full basket. The more inane her chatter became, the more he flirted shamelessly, subtly letting her know that it would take more than insipid conversation and a heavy basket to drive him off.

She made two more stops, paying in cash at each one and tucking her wrapped purchase into the basket. Brandon was cold, his arm aching, when they turned down the avenue heading towards High Street and the clothes shops. Brandon breathed a sigh of relief. At least that section of town had arcades and he’d be a shade warmer.

She chose a large haberdashery and Brandon thanked the fates. The shop was warm and roomy. The long counter at the back looked to be a likely place for him to put down the basket for a bit.

‘Feel free to browse, my lord,’ Eleanor said. ‘I have some private things to take care of.’ She blocked the way to the counter, making it clear that he was not to follow her.

‘Of course, Miss Habersham, take your time. Let me know when you’re done.’ Brandon said in his best gentleman’s tones. Although disappointed at being denied a resting spot for the onerous basket, Brandon was jubilant. He had been waiting for this all day. He was certain if Eleanor was going to make her move, it would be now. This was the only time all day they’d been in a shop large enough to lose oneself in and the only time she’d been eager to be out of his company.

He selected an aisle and feigned interest in some plain muslin. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Eleanor making straight for the counter as he suspected. She said something to the bespectacled clerk behind the counter, sending him scuttling off and bringing back another employee, a woman, a few moments later.

Gleeful triumph filled Brandon. His day was not spent in vain. Asking for a particular clerk must signify something of import. Brandon edged his way closer to the counter, putting himself in earshot of Eleanor’s conversation.



Come a little closer said the spider to the fly. The old children’s rhyme paraded through her mind as Nora eyed her prey from her position at the counter. Stockport had walked right into the web she had spun. This little outing had been inordinately entertaining and enlightening in its own way. She’d been surprised Stockport had stuck with Eleanor Habersham so diligently. It wasn’t any man who could tolerate her insipid prattle and titters all day long.

It was quite a testament to Stockport’s fortitude and something of a warning to herself as well in regards to the type of man she was dealing with. Had he stuck with Eleanor because he was a gentleman and, once pledged to a lady’s company, could not simply cry off? Nora couldn’t quite believe he’d endure the entire day at her side all for the sake of honour.

It was more likely he’d stuck by her side because he suspected something. Perhaps he was following up on The Cat’s reference to Eleanor that night in the study. Perhaps he was trying to earn his way into Eleanor’s good graces after her not-so-covert rebuffing of him at the ladies’ tea. She would soon find out.

If he was simply playing the unsuspecting gentleman doing a good deed for the local spinster, she would be able to give him the slip here. If not, the stakes in the escalating game they’d played this afternoon would be raised. The gambler in her almost wished for the latter. All the politics aside, matching wits with Stockport was proving to be far more enjoyable than she’d imagined.

Raising her voice slightly to ensure Stockport could hear, but not so loud as to be obvious, Nora said in her annoying Eleanor Habersham voice, ‘Jane, I would like to look at some flannel for, er, um…’she paused to intone just the right amount of embarrassment in her request when in truth only Stockport would be embarrassed, as any rightful gentleman would be ‘…winter undergarments. I find my petticoats won’t last another season.’ She gave an old maid’s giggle.

‘Would you like me to bring out our flannel bolts?’ the clerk asked.

Nora’s hand flew to her throat in shock. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly look at such goods in public.’

‘Of course not, Miss Habersham, come to the back with me. Kenneth can watch the counter.’

Smugly, Nora walked behind the efficient clerk to the storeroom. No gentleman would dare consider following after overhearing such an exchange. There would be no plausible explanation to offer if he was found out and there would be no way Stockport could live the episode down if Eleanor Habersham caught him. It would only take Eleanor telling a tearful story to Alice Bradley on the way home and the news would be all over the village by the next day.

Nora shut the stockroom door behind her and turned to Jane. ‘We must act quickly.’

‘Why? Is something wrong? Usually you don’t ask to come to the back room.’

‘I’m being followed by Stockport himself.’

Jane sucked in a worried breath. Nora dismissed her concern. ‘I’m not in danger, not yet anyway, but I need to make the delivery to Mary Malone. She needs the food desperately. I couldn’t get to the apothecary’s today, but I have money in small coins.’

‘Her oldest boy works at the William Plant hat factory. I’ll go myself, right away before it gets dark,’ Jane said resolutely, although Nora knew Jane hated venturing into the Anacoats neighborhood.

‘No, I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I know how you detest it. I’ll go. I just need you to cover for me while I slip out the back door. It will serve Stockport right for dogging my steps all day.’

‘What will I tell him?’ Jane looked more concerned over facing Stockport than venturing into Anacoats.

‘Tell him I wasn’t feeling well and had to leave immediately. Thank you, Jane.’

Nora flipped up her hood and slipped out into the alley behind the shop. She headed for the street and rounded the corner, only to run straight into the brick-hard form of the Earl of Stockport.

‘My dear Miss Habersham, it seems you’ve left without your purchases.’ He dangled the heavy basket with one hand, which must have qualified as a feat of superhuman strength given all that was in it. He made it look easy.

Nora righted herself, breathing slowly to regain the breath she’d lost in the impact. What did the dratted man know? He stood there, all gentlemanly assistance with her over-heavy basket, acting as if nothing was amiss. It was more than bold to stand there and pretend that the woman who’d dragged him all over Manchester hadn’t just been caught trying to dupe him.

Nora studied the basket, searching for a retort that would cover these awkward circumstances. Nothing came. She’d not ever been caught so blatantly red-handed before. Her eyes fell on two packages in the basket she didn’t recalled purchasing. Perhaps they would provide a distraction.

‘Ah, those,’ he said before she could ask. ‘Since you were in such a hurry, I took the liberty of having the clerk wrap up some materials for your winter undergarments. I wasn’t sure what you had decided on, so I made some decisions of my own. I had the clerk measure out a length of the white satin,’ he stated amiably as if he assisted spinsters with their intimate apparel on a regular basis.

‘Satin?’ Nora gulped. Stockport had picked out satin for Miss Habersham?

‘Absolutely. I have it on good authority from my lady friends that there is nothing like the feel of satin against one’s bare skin.’ He gave a roguish wink.

Nora wanted to slap him. The bastard had no call to treat poor Miss Habersham to such a revealing discussion. Unfortunately, Miss Habersham would never slap an earl. She would merely blush and be embarrassed. That was proving easy enough to manage. All the embarrassment she’d anticipated for Stockport was now hers.

Still, there was work yet to be done. Never mind that the stop at the haberdashery had backfired miserably. Mary Malone didn’t have the money for her medicines. Nora could not leave Manchester without seeing to that last chore.

‘My lord, you are too kind. I confess I am feeling better now. Perhaps the fresh air has helped,’ she improvised quickly.

‘And the quick walk too, no doubt,’ Stockport commented wryly.

Nora chose to ignore the veiled jibe. She had to get back inside and leave the money with Jane. Jane would see that Mary got the funds. ‘In any case, I am feeling better and I would like to return inside for just a moment.’

‘Certainly, whatever you would like, Miss Habersham. I am completely at your disposal.’

‘Ohhhh, you’re such an agreeable man.’ She gave a giddy laugh. ‘Wait for me outside, I’ll just be a moment.’

‘Would you prefer me to wait at the back door or the front?’

‘The front would be fine, my lord.’ It was all Nora could do not to slap the insufferable man. He had caught her and they both knew it, although he didn’t really know what he had caught her at. It was small consolation.



What had he caught her at? Brandon wondered, waiting for her return from the shop. She had meant to give him the slip, but to what purpose? Was she merely trying to win the little game being played between them or was she attempting to keep an assignation on The Cat’s behalf? He’d gone around back to wait for her because he’d been trying to win. When she’d disappeared, he had felt certain she was up to no good.

In hindsight, he wished he’d let the scene play out a bit longer. He could have followed her and known with surety where Miss Habersham was going and what her connection to The Cat was. It wasn’t like him to exchange short-term successes for long-term goals. But the look on her face when she’d collided with him had been worth it. Even more priceless was the abject horror on her face when he mentioned the satin. It wasn’t nice to tease spinsters. But this one hadn’t played fair all day and he had the sore arm to prove it.



True to her word, Miss Habersham reappeared out the front door of the shop after only five minutes. Her hands were empty, for which Brandon was both thankful and suspicious. He’d half-expected Miss Habersham to buy a whole bolt of flannel just to spite him. Since she hadn’t, Brandon could only conclude that whatever business she’d needed to conduct had been done quietly and had most likely been for The Cat.

Miss Habersham took a moment to look at the watch pinned to her dress beneath her cloak. ‘Oh, my, it’s four-thirty already! My, how the day flies. I promised Alice Bradley and the girls I’d join them for tea before we set off back home. I thank you for your help today, my lord. It’s been a rare treat. I can’t wait until I write to my friends and tell them all about my day with an Earl!’ Miss Habersham enthused. ‘Good day, my lord.’

Did she think he could be dismissed that easily after all they’d been through today? ‘I’ll walk with you. Where are you meeting them?’

‘The Blue Boar,’ Eleanor said. ‘But you needn’t bother. I am sure you’d enjoy something more fortifying like a hot toddy at a gentleman’s club.’

‘Oh, tea would be just the thing on such a cold day. Thank you for the invitation, Miss Habersham.’ Brandon jumped on the opening with alacrity. She could not protest now without looking like she was retracting an invitation. He wanted to crow with victory. The fleeting look on her face was enough to know he was the last person she wanted to have tea with.



His victory was far too brief. He’d been prepared for an hour of Alice Bradley showing off her daughters’ wifely talents. He had not been prepared for Miss Habersham’s latest gambit.

‘Girls, the Earl has been regaling me with all kinds of tales about London during our shopping today. Perhaps he can share with you the latest fashions.’ She fixed him with a knowing stare that said she knew exactly what she’d unleashed.

Brandon wanted to strangle her. For the next hour he was peppered with questions: Did he prefer hats with ribbons or feathers for trimmings? What were all the ladies in London wearing for the Little Season?

Finally it looked as if the girls were satisfied. His torture was nearly over when Miss Habersham gushed insipidly, ‘Oh, my lord, you haven’t told them about the satin yet.’

Brandon shot her a quelling look. At what point had he lost control? For a spinster of limited experiences, Miss Habersham had quite a large amount of the devil in her.



Stockport Hall had never looked so welcoming. By the time he returned, Brandon was more than willing to put himself in the very capable hands of Cedrickson and his valet, Harper. They knew exactly what he needed—a hot drink and a hotter bath to thaw him out.

Brandon gratefully sank into the steamy retreat of his large copper tub and gave himself over to the luxury of being warm. He let his mind wander over the events of the day while he soaked, eyes shut. Sometimes he thought better when his musings didn’t take a particular direction, but were free to wander along their own paths.

There was something that niggled him about each of Miss Habersham’s interactions. He had it! Brandon’s eyes popped open and he sat upright, sloshing water on the floor. Money. He’d spent a considerable amount of time thinking about Miss Habersham’s financial situation, how carefully budgeted her funds were. Yet she was shopping in Manchester for items that could easily be obtained at stores in Stockport-on-the Medlock.

Going into the larger city for fashionable clothing or rare food items was understandable, but those were not the items Miss Habersham had spent her day shopping for. Brandon focused his thoughts with a probing question. Why would someone with few funds make the effort to travel to a large city and pay more for items that could be bought at local shops?

Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and sank back down into the water, now actively replaying each visit to the shops. What had she done at each stop? Was there a single habit she had repeated each time? Each visit did follow the same pattern: she’d give the shopkeeper her list, she’d carry on some overlong conversation and then pay for her purchases. In his mind’s eye he could see her handing over her banknotes for payment. Nothing unusual there. Wait.

He slowly opened his eyes as if not to lose the threads of his idea by rushing. Not once today did he see her receive any change. He saw her reach into her reticule, but never did he see a shopkeeper move to a cash box for change or go to a back room and retrieve smaller notes. It seemed highly unlikely that her purchases all came to exact amounts that she carried on her person. Assuming he was correct, what did it mean?

That answer was much easier to come up with. He had worked often enough with ledgers and finances in regards to his estate. He’d caught a dishonest steward once who had thought to pocket some of the estate’s profit by recording less than the actual profit in the estate ledgers. The same principle worked in Miss Habersham’s case, only in reverse.

Brandon drummed his fingers on the side of the tub. In her case, she overpaid for the goods received. It was a perfect way to conduct business for The Cat in plain sight without anyone noticing. Of course, his conclusion assumed that Eleanor Habersham was somehow linked to acting as an accomplice to The Cat.

He realised he was making some large leaps of logic here. Eleanor might not be connected to The Cat in any way. She might have other reasons for dressing as she did. It was entirely possible that she had no fashion sense, that she found her gowns pretty.

How to find out if his suppositions were correct? He couldn’t ask Miss Habersham without giving away what he knew. If she was connected to The Cat, she’d alert The Cat to his suspicions, making it that much harder to catch the wily burglar.

Another wild hypothesis was starting to take shape in his mind as well. If Miss Habersham was wearing a disguise, what was she hiding? Why not simply go around as herself? People went around in disguises because they didn’t want to be recognised. Was it possible that Miss Habersham was The Cat?

The idea was not without merit. Miss Habersham had arrived in the district at the same time The Cat began making appearances. Miss Habersham did indeed disguise her looks for a currently unconfirmed but still suspicious reason. The Cat knew Miss Habersham; had made specific reference to her in a conversation.

Those were good facts to start building on, but the best fact of all was Miss Habersham’s wit. The interplay between them today had been similar to the repartee he’d enjoyed with The Cat on both occasions. True, The Cat sparred with him verbally while Miss Habersham sparred with him on a different, less direct, level. It made sense. It would have been out of character for a woman of Miss Habersham’s background to make flagrant challenges that were so second nature to The Cat. Still, both The Cat and Miss Habersham duelled exquisitely in their own ways.

Brandon slid deeper into the fragrant water, chuckling to himself. If Miss Habersham was indeed The Cat, he was doubly glad he’d bought the satin.




Chapter Five


The merriment of the Squire’s Christmas ball swirled around him in a cacophony of festive scents and noises while Brandon surveyed the ballroom in all its festooned glory. Throughout the ballroom, young couples in masks stole fun-loving kisses under strategically placed boughs of mistletoe.

Everywhere he looked, the room was alive with colour from the evergreen branches to the swags of rich claret silk draping the walls. Masked women in expensive brocades and velvets twirled past on the dance floor, partnered by elegant men in black. Overhead, the chandelier caught the spark of jewels and diamonds. Brandon already knew the refreshment tables in the other room groaned under the Squire’s largesse, sporting all nature of sweetmeats and cakes and silver.

It was a night of plenty and of possibility. Everyone was masked and no one was paying attention to anything beyond their own pleasure. The Cat would be in her element. Brandon was counting on it.

Tonight, she’d promised to give back his ring. The three one-hundred-pound notes were safely nestled in the breast pocket of his evening jacket. He didn’t intend to turn them over to The Cat. They were simply there to serve as bait. He planned to lure The Cat into a semi-private place under the guise of making payment and then give the pre-arranged signal to alert the four hired undercover guards who mingled undetected in masks around the room. His victory would be swift and decisive. Tonight it was his turn to surprise The Cat.

The Cat had been busy since her last visit to Stockport Hall two weeks ago. He might not have seen her, his forays to uncover where she fenced her stolen goods may have revealed nothing, but he’d heard about her.

She’d struck several times, always limiting her targets to those who had invested in the textile mill and her name was on the lips of every villager. There were tales that painted her as an angel to the poor, bringing medicine to the sick and food to the starving. To hear the citizens of Manchester’s slums talk, The Cat was a veritable paragon.

Brandon had difficulty reconciling this shining example of civic welfare with the brash bandit who taunted the law with her break-ins. None the less, he was intrigued beyond good sense. The dichotomous halves of her personality posed the question, was The Cat sinner or saint?

In an attempt to unravel the riddle, Brandon found himself developing an annoying habit of rising each morning and searching out news of her escapades. He’d begun riding into the village just to overhear conversations in hopes of catching even a snippet of news concerning her latest chicanery.

He was dangerously close to becoming obsessed with her. It was frightening to think of the hold she had taken in his life after only two unorthodox meetings. He was torn between the dread of rising in the morning and hearing she’d been caught and the inexplicable relief he felt upon hearing she was safe one more day. He told himself his relief was because he wanted to be the one to catch her. Not because he needed the reward the investors were offering for her capture, but because he wanted answers.

It was a sad commentary that London’s untouchable Earl could be brought to such depths by a kiss and a caress in the dark from a masked figure. Against his will, he dreamed about her, his imagination conjuring up variations on the theme of their first encounter in his bedroom. When he climbed the stairs to his chambers, he looked for her in the night-shadows of his empty mansion, inexplicably wanting her to be there.

These were not the emotionally detached behaviours he cultivated in his relationships with women. Never had he let himself go, mentally or physically, as he’d let himself go these past two weeks. No situation or woman had ever gotten to him like The Cat.

In a short while, he’d see her. His body was alert on all fronts as he scanned the room. Even if she’d been inclined to break her word to him, she would not be able to resist the lure of such a bold undertaking. Entering the Squire’s house as a masked guest and making free with his unguarded hospitality was a temptation too great to resist for a thief of The Cat’s calibre.

She was among the crowd, somewhere. He’d been watching for her—for midnight hair and cat-green eyes. It unnerved him to think she was in the room and he did not know it. He wanted to find her first before she found him.



Across the ballroom behind the protection of her black-feathered mask, Nora smiled with satisfaction. Stockport was looking for her. Oh, not obviously. No one would guess he was waiting for someone. His gaze gave nothing away, but his other body movements did. There was a certain tension to his posture and his long fingers beat an impatient tattoo against his thigh. It was apparent to her that he wanted to find her first. Not yet. She was having too much fun dancing, wearing a pretty ballgown and being herself for a few hours.

Well, the gown was a heavily remade cast off from a brothel and she wasn’t really being herself. Tonight she posed as Adelaide Cooper, daughter of a potential investor in the new textile mill project. Everyone would assume she was here on someone else’s invitation and no one would expect to see her in the future.

‘Miss Cooper, may I have this dance?’ a voice politely asked beside her.

It was the Squire’s son, Frederick, a kind enough young man with his father’s bluff country looks. Nora favoured him with a smile and accepted. The dance was a hearty polka she loved. After this she’d get to work. Frederick could even help her get started.

‘Who is that man over by the pillar?’ Nora asked as they spun around the floor, pretending ignorance of the masked man’s identity.

‘That’s the Earl of Stockport, but it’s a masked ball so we aren’t supposed to know. Really, who could mistake him for anyone else? The local lads and I all admire his style.’ Frederick supplied, quick to oblige the reportedly rich, pretty daughter of a man who would make his father even richer if the investors could ever enlist the last two people needed to complete their financing.

‘Not many aristocrats would deign to dirty themselves with trade, but this man sees the possibilities, he admits to the future.’ Frederick would have kept going, clearly suffering from a case of hero-worship for the Earl’s wardrobe and his progressive ideas.

Nora cut him off with a coy toss of her head, uninterested in hearing the benefits of a dirty mill extolled in her presence. It was time to confront Stockport. ‘Do you think you could introduce me? I’ve never met an Earl.’ She added a débutante’s silly giggle for good measure.

Within moments the dance ended and Frederick unknowingly escorted her straight to the side of her adversary. He made the introductions and eased the way into conversation with small talk.

Nora noted Stockport was polite, but distracted. He made cursory responses, doing only the minimum required to sustain the conversation without appearing rude. Just as he had politely borne the conversational forays made by the Bradley girls during the carriage ride from Manchester, tonight he was unaffected by Adelaide’s efforts. He was no more interested in young Adelaide than he’d been in the Squire’s daughters.

His indifference prompted the curious question—what kind of woman would interest him? The answer was suddenly obvious. He liked The Cat. Her boldness appealed to him. She did not stand on ceremony and she challenged him. It was the only way to explain why he had not taken the opportunity to apprehend her on the two occasions they’d met.

Of course, being attracted to The Cat’s bold sensuality was no more than a courtesan’s allure. A man of his position would never seek to make such a woman his Countess.

Wife? She had to stop her wool-gathering immediately. It must be the ball that made her so fanciful. Either that or Stockport’s excellent physique. Surely a girl was entitled to a little fantasy now and then as long as she understood that’s all it was. If fairy tales were real, he’d be the living embodiment of the handsome prince. Frederick was still going on inanely about the fashion of men’s clothes, oblivious to Stockport’s neutral apathy on the subject. Nora took the chance to indulge, covertly studying Stockport.

Nora had long thought men’s evening clothes were the epitome of uniformity. The black trousers and tailed dress coat left little room for individuality. Indeed, the last bastion of uniqueness lay with the waistcoat and cravat.

Stockport had done well with both ends of the dressing spectrum. His broad shoulders filled out the dark coat appreciably. The snowy fall of his elegantly tied cravat and the pristine linen of his shirt peeking from beneath the cravat’s fall, reminded all lookers that only a gentleman could afford to wear immaculate linen on a regular basis. She had yet to see him in anything less.

His cravat gave way to a waistcoat of tasteful claret brocade, which was neither too garish like the peacock colours worn by the younger men present, nor too plain like the ivory or grey tones favoured by the older country gentlemen. Tasteful and smart, Nora reflected. He did not flash his town bronze overtly in these people’s faces, but chose a rather subtle way to state his rank. An expensive gold chain spanned his waistcoat, boasting a single watch fob, which was also very classic and discreet, not overdone like Frederick’s crowded, fussy watch chain.

His trousers fit over naturally narrow hips and waist that needed no corseting to give the impression of athleticism. Nora forced her eyes to stop there. She could not afford the distraction of contemplating what lay between his strong thighs. The memory of cupping him was still potent, even though two weeks had passed since that night in his bedroom. Two weeks only! She felt she had known Stockport longer than that.

‘What do you think, Miss Cooper?’ Frederick asked, breaking into her not-so-pure thoughts about Stockport. She had no idea what they were discussing specifically.

Nora raised her pretty fan and flapped it in front of her face and said in her best insipid tone, ‘I try not to think too much. Mama says it’s not attractive.’

Frederick bought the act. ‘Right-o, that’s what a pretty girl has a gentleman for.’ He patted her hand, commending her comment as if it were the wittiest thing he had heard in a long while.

Nora hazarded a glance at Stockport. He was not so easily gulled. She offered a simpering smile to reinforce her vacuous image. Damn him, he had caught her looking at him. Her little performance hadn’t fooled him in the least. If anything, he was more alert. He studied her hard for a moment and then moved his gaze beyond her shoulder.

Nora followed his eyes as they lit on four strategic points around the ballroom and the four men in those locations. She took their measure instantly. Ha! Stockport thought to hedge his bets and call for reinforcements. She had to admire the man for his confidence that all would go as planned. But he was dealing with The Cat.

It wasn’t too late to melt back into the crowd and disappear. Although Stockport might have his suspicions aroused, she could still stage a quick getaway by faking a visit to the ladies’ retiring room. But Nora didn’t seriously consider the option for long. Five against one might be unfair, but it wasn’t insurmountable.

With acuity, she calculated what needed to be done. First, she would confirm her presence to Stockport and then she needed to create a distraction to get them out from under the watchful eyes of Stockport’s hired men.

Nora went into action, flapping her fan again. ‘I am hot and need a glass of punch.’ Smiling sweetly, she dispatched Frederick to the crowded refreshment room.

She turned back to Stockport, all traces of the sugar-sweet innocent gone, replaced by the self-assured poise of a temptress confident in her abilities. ‘I believe you’re looking for me, or rather you’re looking for this.’ Nora produced a small felt pouch from the beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. She didn’t need to open it. They both knew what it contained. She had his attention—now for the distraction. She held out her hand. ‘Dance with me, Stockport.’

Stockport cast a meaningful glance at Frederick’s retreating back. ‘Have you no compunction about dancing with people you rob?’ he asked archly.

‘If I didn’t dance with people I rob, I wouldn’t get to dance at all. There’d be no one left.’

Stockport tightened his jaw at her cheeky banter, causing a tic to jump in his perturbation.

Nora grimaced. ‘I thought the remark was witty.’

‘I am not here to trade clever repartee. I am here to conduct a business transaction.’

‘Standing amidst all these people?’ Nora queried, enjoying baiting him. ‘Not here where everyone can see.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, where couples took their places for the set of waltzes that preceded the midnight supper, and reissued her invitation to dance.

Stockport led her to the floor without further conversation and swung her into the dance, skilfully manoeuvring them about the floor.

He waltzed impeccably, which didn’t surprise Nora. The man was all about flawlessness, from his perfectly combed hair to the toes of his spotless boots. However, he also waltzed with a passion that astonished her. His precision was not an empty effort.

A surreptitious ferocity lurked beneath his well-polished surface, practically undetectable except to another kindred soul who shared the same love for dance. Nora sensed it in the turns he took a shade too quickly at the top of the ballroom and in the press of his hand against her back as he signalled his instructions.

Nora looked into the sharp blue eyes that peered out from behind his dark demi-mask. They were daring her, but what the dare was, she could not immediately place.

Stockport leaned close to her ear, his voice low and melodious. ‘Can’t you do better than this? I would have thought The Cat was capable of more,’ he taunted.

Now she understood. He was daring her to match his passion. She smiled back. If she took his challenge, she would have the distraction she needed. ‘I was just making sure you were up for it,’ she countered. She leaned close to his ear, taking in his clean scent of soap and spices. ‘You want to fly, I can feel it.’

Stockport laughed, drawing a few stares. ‘This is dancing, not sex.’

‘Is there a difference? That’s why the waltz is so scandalous, isn’t it?’ Nora sparred wickedly.

Stockport inclined his head, eyes glinted mischievously. ‘Then by all means, shall we?’ Without waiting for reply, his hand on her back made a small adjustment and drew her up close to him until she could feel the flex and give of his muscled thighs against the fabric of her gown.

‘You do talk scandalously,’ Nora flirted for good measure, enjoying entirely too much the feel of his body as he whirled them through the turn at the bottom of the ballroom.

‘I do more than talk.’

‘We’re attracting attention. Can you afford the gossip?’

‘I’m the Earl. I’ll simply say it is how we do it in London.’ His eyes left hers for a moment to stare down a passing couple with wide eyes. To emphasise his point, he increased his speed and turned her sharply, leaving her gloriously breathless.

Their bodies blended perfectly. Nora met him step for step, giving herself over to the exhilaration of the moment and the man. It had been ages since she’d danced like that and even then it had only been in a small country-town assembly hall. But never had she danced with such a master.

Stockport unleashed was a sight to behold.

It struck her there might be a third reason he’d earned his dubious moniker. The Cock of the North was an energetic Scottish reel. She could only imagine how invigorating it would be to dance it with him.

When the dance ended, she was smiling ridiculously. She could feel the grin across her face. She was suddenly aware that Stockport was smiling too—a real smile, not like the political ones he’d bandied about at the tea. This one altered his face entirely.

For an instant the adversarial nature of their relationship was suspended. He was smiling at her as if he enjoyed her company, as if the two of them shared some secret knowledge the rest of the world did not. Without warning, the smile was gone and he remembered where he was, who he was and who she was. The spell was broken. Others milled about them, making their way to the supper room and the unmasking.

He gripped her gloved wrist and Nora tensed. She did not want him to ask her to go into supper with him. Surely he knew how impossible the request was? Everyone would unmask. She could not afford that with Stockport, although she could probably fool the rest of the village.

She intuitively knew Stockport would know immediately that The Cat and Eleanor Habersham were one and the same. His gaze had been too piercing the day of the tea, as if he could see in one short visit what the villagers had not ascertained in the four months she’d lived among them in her spinsterly guise. Of course, she had to give the villagers their due; enemies and friends of The Cat alike were all looking for a man. Only Stockport knew he was looking for a woman. That made him doubly dangerous.

‘I am not going into supper with you,’ she said with a supercilious air that brooked no contradiction. The amicable atmosphere of the dance floor was gone.

‘I am not asking you to. I prefer not to eat with common thieves,’ Stockport replied with equal coldness. Was it possible she’d imagined the man he’d been on the dance floor?

‘Then you will starve tonight, since this room is full of them,’ Nora retorted angrily, her temper rising. How dare the hypocrite refuse to acknowledge that there were other ways to steal? She only stole objects and material goods, all of which could be replaced. Others in this very room stole livelihoods. His textile mill would put him in the same category as the rest. The thought disturbed her. She didn’t want him to be like the others. The realisation that she wanted him to be different was more disturbing.

Furious with herself for letting her thoughts run in such a direction, Nora abruptly shoved them to the back of her mind. She would do best to remember that dealing with Stockport was nothing more than a game, one she played well and had played often enough in the past without entertaining such notions in her head.

She gestured toward a set of doors leading out to the verandah and he acquiesced. The cold night air provided an antidote for the heat of the ballroom. The contrast provoked a shiver.

‘Would you like my jacket?’ Stockport offered, shrugging out of it in a perfunctory manner that suggested his offer was more reactionary from years of training than a heartfelt gesture.

‘I’m a thief, remember?’ Nora snapped, irrationally disappointed that the magic on the dance floor had been replaced by an iciness that matched the weather.

‘And I am a gentleman,’ Stockport rejoined, draping the jacket about her shoulders in spite of her resistance. He reached up to untie his mask and tuck it into a pocket. ‘That’s better. I can’t stand these dratted things.’

Stockport moved closer, turning his head to see her better. Nora met his unnerving stare, locking her eyes to his blue-eyed scrutiny. She felt the heat building between them as it had on the dance floor, but she didn’t dare back down.

Stockport whispered with husky cynicism, ‘How much of your purported proceeds for the poor went to the purchase of this gown? Do you think they’d feel this was worth it while their bellies go hungry?’

‘How dare you impugn my honour. I got this dress from a brothel, a prostitute’s cast off that she was willing to donate. I scrounged up the trimmings too. I think it turned out quite nicely.’

‘You’re a regular Cinderella,’ he said, unconvinced.

She changed the subject with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Enough talk. You didn’t bring me outside to discuss fashion. We have business to attend to.’

‘I want my ring. You indicated you’d be prepared to deliver it to me tonight.’

‘In exchange for three hundred pounds.’ Nora tapped a gloved finger against her chin, playing the coquette who had her beau dangling. ‘But that was two weeks ago. I’ve decided the conditions for the ring’s return have changed.’

That got a reaction out of him. ‘This is extortion! We had an agreement. You cannot simply alter the rules and expect to get away with it.’

‘Why not? You did. The four men stationed around the ballroom are yours, are they not? I presume they are awaiting a signal that you planned to give when you handed over the money.’

‘I may still summon them,’ he said darkly.

‘To do what? Watch you court Adelaide Cooper on the balcony? The Squire’s son will vouch for my identity and I will drop the ring over the railing before your men can arrive. There will be neither an exchange of money nor any incriminating evidence for them to seize. That assumes, of course, that they have located you since your departure from the ballroom. For all you know, they may have gone into supper, concluding that you wished some privacy in which to woo your pretty dance partner.’

Nora watched his stoic features fight for mastery against the emotions roiling within him at her deductions. Was he disappointed this meeting had come down to nothing more than extortion? Had he hoped for a nobler conclusion? He didn’t believe she actually used the funds for the poor. In his study, he’d accused her of having a Robin Hood complex. And tonight he’d implied she used the money for her own needs. Well, that much at least she could disprove.

She outlined her offer, thinking quickly. ‘These are my conditions—meet me where Stockport and Hyde Roads meet tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You will come alone and on horseback. No fancy carriages or outriders shall be with you. You shall accompany me into Manchester and make the rounds with me, after which you will return to the crossroads and go your own way. You will make no attempt to follow me or discover my identity. The following day, I will have the ring delivered to you.’

Stockport looked at her, scepticism narrowing his gaze. ‘What guarantees do I have that you’ll do as you say? Who’s to say you won’t lure me into an alley where you’ve prearranged to have some thugs kill me or beat me senseless? These conditions sound suspicious to me. Perhaps the ring isn’t worth such a risk.’

Nora feigned nonchalance. She hadn’t expected Stockport to give up without a fight. ‘It is of no difference to me. I can sell the ring back to you for the price of a visit to Manchester or I can sell it for cash to someone else. Either way, I get something I want.’

‘What do you get from the visit that is as profitable to you as cash?’ Stockport queried suspiciously.

He was wavering, Nora noted with satisfaction. She stepped away from the railing, inching back towards the doors leading to the now-empty ballroom. ‘My lord Earl, I get to take your measure—a look into your soul, and you get a look into mine if you’re willing to peek. Now, I bid you goodnight. I’ll expect you in the morning.’ She felt the smooth brass of the door handle beneath her hand and turned it a fraction. She raised her other hand to her lips, blowing Stockport a kiss as she vanished into the ballroom.



Damn, that woman had a way of disappearing and this time she’d disappeared with his good coat in tow. He had others, but that one was his favorite. The coat! Deuce take it, the three hundred pounds were still in the breast pocket. That made three things he’d lost to The Cat tonight: his coat, his money and his ring. Arguably, by agreeing to her counter-offer, he’d lost a fourth—his sanity.

The evening had taken an unbelievable twist. He’d gone from the security of retrieving his ring to the insecurity of a dubious trip to Manchester with The Cat. By nature, he didn’t like cat-and-mouse games, especially when he was the mouse, and he was definitely the mouse here. The Cat had him dangling.

To be honest, not all of him minded. Not because she’d been alluring in that gown she’d worn or because she flirted audaciously, but because she challenged him with her wit, her insights and sense of daring. He had no doubt that tomorrow would be full of such tests as well and not all of them would be hers. His would not be the only measure taken.




Chapter Six


Morning arrived stark and cold. Standing on the wood planks of the bedroom floor in her nightshift, Nora drew back the curtains to view the dreary day spreading before her.

Christmas morning ought to look different. It ought to look special. It didn’t. It looked like every other morning in the long English winter. Bare trees raised dark silhouettes to the grey sky. Everywhere she looked, the earth was devoid of colour beneath the frost. The heart of winter carried with it a sense of desperation.

The empty landscape made it difficult to believe spring would come again. Nora could well understand why chieftains of old had contrived great Christmastide festivities for their people. Conceivably, they’d been as anxious as she to drive the cold winter away and create a splash of colour in otherwise colourless lives, if only for a moment.

Even the austerity of her bedroom mirrored the colourless winter. The room was ascetic and clean, fitted only with the most rudimentary of furnishings: an iron bedstead, washstand and wardrobe. By necessity, her lifestyle required an existence as bland and colourless as the landscape outside. The Cat’s successes depended on remaining aloof. She had to be able to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t do that if she formed attachments.

Her personal road through life was a lonely one. By choice, she spent her life gathering what hope there was in the world and giving it to others. She saved no hope for herself.

That was the purpose of her trip into Manchester today; to give hope to others, a break from the tedium of their lives as they struggled to survive in a world gone grey. And because she couldn’t bear the thought of donning the façade of Eleanor Habersham and frittering away the day sitting in front of the Squire’s fire with knitting needles, watching young people play silly parlour games.

Nora rummaged through the wardrobe, nimble fingers finding the catch that revealed the hidden chamber in back. She drew out a heavy cloak she kept for just such occasions. The Cat was well received in the slums, but she still needed to be agile and alert in case of trouble. She could not afford to be numb or sluggish from the cold.

And it would be cold. That was a guarantee. She’d told Stockport not to bring his coach. It would attract too much attention and make people suspicious. The ride to Manchester would be a frozen one carried out on the moderately sheltered bench of her closed wagon, loaded with baskets and gifts for those who had nothing.

She dressed quickly and went down to the warm kitchen for a sweet roll and hot tea. She let Hattie fuss over her and wished them Happy Christmas. They’d have their own celebration tonight when she returned. Alfred, Hattie’s husband and, superficially, Eleanor’s man-of-all-work, had already gone out to hitch up the wagon and load its cargo. They both walked Nora out to the yard.

Alfred volunteered to come with her and Hattie urged her to stay home altogether after feeling the bite of the wind. But Nora would not, could not, be swayed from her mission. She seated herself on the bench of her plain wagon with its wooden sideboards and clucked to the horse.



Nearing the crossroads where Hyde and Stockport Roads met on the way into Manchester, Nora paused before the last corner to tie on her mask and to lower a heavy veil over her face. Checking her veils and mask one last time, Nora turned the corner, surprised to see Stockport already waiting there. He sat atop his big bay, garbed in mufflers that covered him up to his blue eyes and a greatcoat, his gloved hands resting negligently on the reins at the horse’s neck. He appeared to be at ease, feeling none of the nervousness that roiled around in Nora’s own stomach.

The nerves were due to the dangerous nature of this adventure. To ask her nemesis to accompany her on such a trip was more than bold. There would be little to stop him from taking advantage of their situation and forcing her to reveal her identity. All that stood between her and exposure was his gentleman’s creed. Her protection depended on it and in her intuition about his nature.

‘Good morning and Happy Christmas,’ Stockport called out, surprisingly cheery after the late evening. ‘I thought you said no carriages.’ He gestured to the closed wagon.

‘I needed a way to carry my supplies and keep them protected from the weather.’

‘Well, then, at least let me drive. I doubt you can see well at all through that veiling.’ Stockport dismounted and tied his horse behind the wagon, oblivious to her protests. Within minutes, he’d secured the horse and climbed up beside her on the wagon seat.

Nora had not counted on such close proximity. She’d thought he would ride silently alongside the wagon. Even then, the bench had looked like it would hold two, but that was proving to be an illusion. Stockport was a large man, a fact amply demonstrated by the space he took up next to her. His thigh rubbed against her leg and his arm brushed her sleeve, conjuring up hot images of the way he’d held her on the dance floor. She could not create another inch between them. But she could make a buffer.

Nora fussed with the lap robes, tucking one around her legs and offering the other to Stockport. He ruined that plan too.

‘We’ll be warmer if we share them.’ To demonstrate, he took the lap robe she offered and shook it out. ‘There, it’s plenty large enough to cover us both. Layer yours over the top and we’ll each have two robes to warm us instead of one.’

What could she say? It was too cold to deny his good sense, so she found herself neatly tucked under the robes, bouncing along the Manchester road next to Stockport, his muscled thigh pressed against hers. The intimate contact didn’t seem to bother him in the least, but Nora couldn’t help wondering if she’d gone completely mad to put herself into the hands of the one man who could stand in her way. As long as she remembered the old adage ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ she’d be fine. It was only when she started thinking of him as an ally, like she had last night on the dance floor, that she got herself in trouble.



The trip to Manchester was accomplished in short order and without mishap. The Hyde and Stockport Roads entered the city through the elegant suburb of Ardwick. A few people hurried along the cold residential streets paying Christmas visits to neighbours, but for the most part families were tucked up in their homes.

She had counted on that. It was the reason she’d opted to come into town on Christmas Day instead of a few days before when the streets would have been filled with last-minute shoppers. But today, in spite of Nora’s precautions, no one was interested in the plain wagon and the barely visible veiled woman who sat beside the driver.

Peering into windows as they passed, Nora could see people in the midst of their celebrations, faces wreathed in smiles and dressed in fine clothes. The occasional smell of roasted goose and winter treats wafted out to the wagon. There would be none of that where she was going.

The bustling streets of Manchester were deserted. The business centre of town was locked up tight and the factories for which Manchester was becoming famous were shut down for the day. The city looked almost ghostly in its desertion, as if she and Stockport were the only two people in it.

Nora pointed out directions to Stockport and he steered the wagon away from the wide avenues of the merchant homes into the narrow, broken-cobbled streets of the poor. The smells were not so pleasant here, nor were the sounds. The cries of hungry babies reached the streets, mingled with the shouts of angry men who lashed out any way they could against life’s injustices. It could have been just another day of the week for this part of town.

She stole a glance at Stockport to see how he was taking their surroundings. His firm jaw was set tightly, causing a tic to jump in his cheek. His eyes peered straight ahead and there was a rigidity to his posture that suggested he was on full alert. As well he should be in these parts, Nora thought.

To his credit, he’d had the foresight to dress in nondescript clothing. His dark riding breeches and greatcoat did nothing to deliberately attract attention, but there was no mistaking the expense of his boots and the care they’d been given.

In a world where greatcoats were a sign of status, often handed down father to son for generations before they finally wore out beyond repair, there was no hiding the fact that the man with her was a gentleman of the highest calibre.



Their first stop was the Hulme neighborhood, once a peaceful area of town, now destroyed by the influx of industry. Bordered on three sides by the Medlock, Irwell and Cornbrook Rivers, Hulme had become a prime location for factories dependent on water for operation. All placidness was gone, giving way to pathetic slums and dense overpopulation.

‘Park the wagon over there.’ Nora gestured to a spot next to an entrance to a tenement. ‘Wait here with the wagon while I go in and let them know we’re here.’

Stockport looked sceptically at the building. ‘Are you sure you’ll be safe alone?’

‘Absolutely. These are The Cat’s people.’ There were those who didn’t like The Cat, but they were outnumbered by those who did. It was an unspoken law of the tenements that any attempt to expose The Cat would be met with ruthless retribution.

‘Ah, the queen and her loyal subjects,’ Stockport remarked as if he’d found a chink in The Cat’s democratic armour. She knew what he thought. He thought this was an egoboost, a thrill of power, that The Cat did this as self-promotion. He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘Oh, I don’t rule them in any way, but I provide for them as best as possible, which is more than I can say for the other monarchs in their lives; their landlords care only for rent, their bosses care only for labour and the King himself cares naught at all about these subjects.’ Nora’s tone was bitter. ‘These people have their own code of loyalty. Don’t forget that today. You will have safe passage because you’re with me and no other reason.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Stockport raised an elegant eyebrow.

‘It’s a reminder. You’re in The Cat’s territory now,’ Nora said sharply and jumped down from the bench. ‘I’ll be right back.’



When all was ready, Nora returned to the wagon with a boy to watch the horses and another boy to help carry baskets. She was almost certain Stockport looked glad to see her. It served him right to be at least a little bit uncomfortable in his surroundings. However, she wasn’t about to mistake uncomfortable with vulnerable. The set of his shoulders indicated he was fully prepared to defend himself if the need arose.

To his credit, Stockport swung off the bench and joined in, loading himself down with the heavier baskets. Well, she’d see how much he was truly willing to participate once they got inside.

Nora led the little group to the first floor and stopped in the dingy hallway. She gave orders regarding the delivery of the baskets and sent them off. She motioned for Stockport to follow her.

They went from door to door, delivering packages from the baskets, sometimes food, sometimes a tiny pouch of coins, sometimes oranges and wooden toys for children. At each stop the cry was the same, ‘God bless The Cat’, or a similar variation of the phrase.

It tore at Nora’s heart. There was so much need and her baskets were empty far too quickly. It was tempting to bring in the other baskets, safely covered up in the wagon, but then there would be nothing left for the other neighbourhoods she must visit.

They didn’t stop at every door and Nora wondered if Stockport would notice the doors without the discreet marker that indicated The Cat was welcome.

Not everyone was receptive to her aid and reciprocally, not everyone was deserving of her efforts. Nora had decided ages ago that there were some who her efforts could not help—drunks and ne’er-do-wells who didn’t lift a finger to help their families or change their lots in life.

Climbing back up on the wagon, amid cries of gratitude and wishes for a Happy Christmas, Nora gave directions and they drove on to repeat the process. The day passed rapidly as they moved from slum to slum, stopping in Chorlton-on-Medlock, and Beswick, the neighborhoods all looking the same with their uniformly terraced workers’ houses.



The last visit was Anacoats, the poorest section of all, where she stopped at Widow Mary Malone’s.

Nora knocked on the door. Excited voices of children whooped and shouted on the other side, followed by a light scolding for manners and a fit of coughing. Her heart sank. Desperation seized Nora and she gathered her strength for what lay beyond the door. If she didn’t think of some way to help the widow recover, the children would be orphans by spring.

‘What is it?’ Stockport asked quietly, coming up beside her, so near she could feel the heat of his body next to her.

‘It doesn’t sound like Mary Malone has got better. She took sick in November and that cough has been lingering.’

‘Has she seen a doctor?’

Nora shot him an incredulous look. ‘If they had that much money, she probably wouldn’t need one in the first place.’ She pushed open the door and entered, leaving Stockport to follow in her wake. No matter what lay ahead, the kids deserved the best Christmas she could manage for them. Originally, she’d felt very good about the entire basket she’d put aside for the Malones. But now, Nora felt like the basket was inadequate. She should have done more.

The moment she entered, children ran to her, dancing around her skirts and begging to be picked up. She picked up the smallest, a blonde-haired girl of three with huge brown eyes that gave her an irresistible doll-like appearance. ‘Anna, have you been a good girl?’

The little girl nodded solemnly, sucking on a dirty thumb. She pointed at Stockport. ‘Who’s dat man?’

‘He’s my special helper today,’ Nora said, setting her basket down on the one table in the room. The two older boys looked at the basket in anticipation and Nora gathered them to her. ‘I’ve brought treats for a Christmas dinner. I’ll need your help getting everything ready. I might even have a few presents.’

She assigned the boys their tasks, set aside her figure-disguising voluminous cloak and veiling and rolled up the sleeves of her dark blouse. She looked around the room for Stockport, amazed to find him deep in conversation with Mary Malone. He’d discarded his greatcoat and had rolled his own shirtsleeves up. He nodded at something Mary said and leaned over to tuck a thin blanket about her knees.

Nora put a kettle on over the fire to warm the hearty soup she’d brought and set to sweeping. Mary did the best she could, but since her illness, she’d been less able to keep the two rooms clean. All her waning energies were spent on providing food and meals for her three children. By now there had to be very little money left from her husband’s death settlement.

Nora worried what Mary would do when the money ran out. She certainly couldn’t work in her condition. Her oldest son, eleven-year-old Michael, was working at the hat factory, but the two shillings and three pence he brought home weekly would barely be enough for bread, let alone rent or other living supplies.

Nora cast a quick look at Mary’s younger son, Robert. He was six and old enough to work as a scavenger, one of the many children who crawled beneath the machinery at the cotton mills to gather up loose cotton. She shuddered at the thought. The little money he would make doing such a perilous job would not be worth the risk. Each year children died, crushed beneath the heavy machinery if they slipped or were too slow. At best, Robert would end up crippled or permanently stooped from the demands of the job.

Behind her mask, Nora shut her eyes briefly and whispered a prayer. She would find a way to help the Malones. She thought of the three hundred-pound notes she had discovered in Stockport’s breast pocket last night when she undressed for bed. It had been tempting to keep them. It was tempting now to give them to the Malones. Three hundred pounds would be a fortune to them. She fought the temptation. The money wasn’t hers to give and she had given up her right to it when she dared Stockport to come with her today in payment for the ring.

If she took the money, it would confirm all the ills Stockport thought her capable of, and for some reason that rankled. It was inexplicably important that Stockport did not find her lacking.

Nora finished housekeeping and busied herself laying the table. Little Anna came to help put on the cloth Nora had brought, knowing that Mary appreciated such touches of domesticity. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the boys had discovered Stockport’s greatcoat and Stockport let them. He was even playing with them, using sticks of firewood for swords, looking quite boyish himself.

The sight of him romping with the children was mesmerising. Nora had difficulty tearing her gaze away. His dark hair was uncharacteristically messy and his shirt was coming out of his waistband as a result of his exertions. And Stockport was smiling! Actually smiling the way he’d smiled for the brief moment on the dance floor.

He looked her way and Nora knew she was caught. She must be more careful. Even with her mask on, she felt exposed. He whispered something to the boys and swept her a bow that made the boys laugh before turning back to them.

Nora lit a pair of candles and called everyone to dinner, satisfied that the table, with its cloth and tallow candles, looked well enough to set the day apart from the rest.

The children gathered around the table on barrels and crates serving as makeshift chairs. They looked hungrily at the feast spread before them and Nora tried to see the fare through their eyes. Hattie’s hearty soup with meat and vegetables filled their bowls, while plenty more hung over the fire, drenching the musty room with its rich aroma. Freshly baked loaves of bread sat on a wood board in the centre of the table next to a small crock of butter. The luxury of milk filled their cups.

Stockport escorted Mary to the table and Nora noted how much the young widow leaned on his arm for support. Mary sat and looked around at the expectant faces.

‘Who shall ask the Christmas blessing?’ she asked.

‘Brandon!’ the boys chorused, pointing to Stockport.

Stockport was surprised, but accepted and competently performed the duties. Everyone closed their eyes while Stockport blessed the food and spoke a few words about the sacred day.

Nora stole a look at him while the others had their heads dutifully bent. She should have kept her eyes safely downcast. The moment she gave into the little temptation she knew she was lost. In the candlelight, he looked angelic—like an archangel she’d seen painted in the cathedral in Manchester, a unique mixture of power, strength and justness with his sooty lashes swept over his sapphire eyes and his broad shoulders obvious through the white cotton of his shirt.

He was handsome and he did not disappoint. Today, he’d been all she had anticipated when she’d asked him to accompany her. It would be easier to dislike him if she’d been wrong about him, if he had stayed glued to the seat of her wagon, if he hadn’t carried baskets with her, if he had simply refused to come at all. In all honesty, he’d been better than good. It was more than she’d hoped for.

‘Amen,’ Stockport said solemnly. All heads came up. The children began to eat and exclaim about the food all at once.

Stockport kindly chided them. ‘Eat slowly or it will come back up again.’ Then he launched into a tale from his boyhood about a time when he’d eaten too many apples, making the boys laugh with his gestures and little Anna grin at him with her eyes wide.

He would make a wonderful father. Nora mentally recoiled from the thought it. She was getting positively henwitted if Christmas brought out such a reaction in her. This was the second time she’d had uncomfortably sentimental thoughts regarding Stockport.

He looked down the table at her and winked, bringing her into the new story he was telling. Nora gave herself up to her fantasy, rationalising that it would be her little gift to herself. For the duration of the meal, she pretended she had the right to call him Brandon; that he could call her Nora; she didn’t have to eat dinner with him behind a mask; that they had a supper table filled with children around it who he would make laugh with his tales over the evening meal; two happy people living a simple life in a simple cottage somewhere, with happy children. It had been her ultimate fantasy since she was very young, part of a life she’d once had, but then lost. She took a deep breath and pushed down the memories that thought threatened to dredge up. She couldn’t risk the pain. It made her vulnerable, something she could not afford with the Earl of Stockport hovering so near.

When the meal was over, her daydream was too, firmly locked into its place in the depths of her heart. It was too dangerous to let such a powerful dream linger too long.



After dinner, Stockport roped the children into helping him do the dishes and storing the remaining food, leaving Nora a chance to speak with Mary alone.

‘You’ve done too much. I can’t imagine how you managed all this and I know you’ve brought baskets for so many others,’ Mary said when they were seated near the fire.

‘I’ve done very little.’

‘Everyone will be grateful.’ Mary coughed into a worn handkerchief.

‘How are you, Mary?’ Nora asked cautiously.

‘It is taking me a long time to get over this,’ Mary confessed.

‘Should I send a doctor?’ Nora didn’t know how she’d manage that. She had spent all the money from her robberies on the baskets and rent was due on The Grange. Even if she could find the money, she didn’t know how she’d find a doctor who would be willing to come to such a neighbourhood.

‘This is nothing sunlight and country air can’t cure.’ Mary waved a dismissive hand that looked skeletally thin in the firelight.

Along with hot food, clean living conditions and freedom from worry over an insecure future, Nora mentally added. Out loud she said, ‘I’ll send more food over later this week. The soup and bread should last a few days.’

‘I wish I could say we won’t take your charity, but I have nowhere else to turn and I am grateful,’ Mary said sadly. Mary nodded to Stockport as he sat jiggling Anna on his knee and telling the children a story. ‘Is this man your beau? Does he know who you are? He’s lovely to look at and there’s something in the air between the two of you.’ The thought of love added a soft spark to Mary’s eyes.

Nora shook her head. ‘He’s not my beau. I thought there might be something in it for us if he came today.’ She was saved from saying more when Stockport’s story came to an end and the boys clamoured for presents.

Nora rose and clapped her hands for attention. ‘Gather round over here and Brandon will bring the basket. There might be some presents in there.’ Brandon. The boys had called him by his Christian name and it slipped as easily off her tongue as it had theirs. Perhaps her daydream wasn’t as tightly locked away as she thought. Most likely, it was due to the shirtsleeves’ intimacy of the afternoon.

Brandon placed the basket in front of her and Nora distributed the gifts. There were oranges for the children along with a wooden toy for each of them. For Mary there was a small leather pouch that jingled with coins. Her eyes glistened with tears.

Too soon it was time to leave, but Nora had one more stop to make. Bravely, she hugged the children and made promises to Mary to send more food, wondering all the while how she’d manage it.




Chapter Seven


Stockport watched The Cat make her farewells, the children clinging to her and to him. Anna had him about the legs. He’d had a surprisingly good time with the children. He’d been moved by their delight over the simple fare and gifts. But those had been smaller revelations compared to what he’d learned about The Cat.

His sharp-tongued thief was the very soul of compassion, reaching out with all she had at her disposal. He felt something of a cad to have so verbally doubted her motives. Guilt gnawed at him. He couldn’t help but compare the extravagant and wasteful largesse of the Squire’s ball to the simple surroundings he found himself in today.

The Cat, a common thief, had provided for these people. What had he provided? He had far more at his command and what had he done?

The Cat intrigued him more than ever. He wanted to know who she was. The secret of her identity was creating a feverish mystery he was desperate to solve. But he was no closer to that answer than he’d been last night. She hadn’t trusted him enough to remove her mask all day, although the veiling had come off briefly at Mary Malone’s. As well she might, his conscience reminded him sharply. What would you do if you knew who she was?

It was a valid question, one for which Brandon did not have a ready answer. He should place her under arrest. That had been his plan less than twenty-four hours ago at the Christmas ball. Had his plan succeeded last night, these people would have been denied the happiness she brought today. He thought of the Malone boys delighting in the simple wood toys and Mary Malone’s gratitude for the hot meal. In one fell stroke, he would have taken all that away from them.

It was a sober reckoning to grapple with. When had the villain become the hero? Somewhere between playing swords with the boys and watching The Cat stir Christmas soup over a fire, his priorities had begun to shift. He was no longer as interested in exposing The Cat as he was in protecting her.

Brandon turned to the remarkable woman beside him when Mary Malone’s door finally closed behind them. ‘You’ve given them something special today; something to take into the morning.’ To his disappointment, her veils were back in place.

‘We’ve given them a moment. That is as far as our meagre influence can reach.’ The self-deprecation in her voice stunned Brandon. She believed her efforts were minimal at best.

He offered reassurance. ‘Yet you went and offered that moment anyway. It is more than most people would have done.’

She said nothing and Brandon let the conversation die. Outside, enough rays of daylight were left to see them out of the tenements and back to the wide avenues of affluent Manchester, but the trip home would be conducted in the dark. Not that Brandon was worried. On Christmas night the short road between Manchester and Stockport-on-the-Medlock would be devoid of highwaymen.

They didn’t speak until they reached the wagon and paid the boys who had gathered in shifts to watch the horse. Brandon spoke first in a low, tight voice. ‘Why did you bring me today?’

‘You want to build a mill in bucolic little Stockport-on-the-Medlock. Are you prepared for all this as well?’ The Cat made a sweeping gesture to indicate the slums they drove through. ‘You see how fleeting my efforts are. Mary has her older children and they can barely scrape together enough to pay the rent and buy food.’

Brandon felt duly chastised. He knew children worked in factories. Many mill owners had no scruples when it came to labour. He’d read the reports that came across his desk. Children could be paid less. Before today, he’d never come to face to face with the reality behind the papers. He had seen much of the world, but not that world.

‘The mill in Stockport-on-the-Medlock won’t employ children,’ Brandon blurted out.

The Cat cocked her head in his direction. ‘We’ll see how long those noble principles last when your investors learn of the profit they could pocket if they were to use child labour. Adults must be paid ten times more than a child’s salary.’

He expected the news to please her. He’d intended his statement to be an olive branch of sorts to The Cat, something that bridged the differences between them. He’d wanted to prove they weren’t as dissimilar as she thought.

His temper rose. ‘Nothing is ever enough with you, is it?’

‘That’s because there is never enough of anything!’ she snapped in quick reply. ‘There isn’t enough money for Christmas baskets for everyone who needs them. There isn’t enough money to send a doctor to Mary Malone. There isn’t enough compassion in the world to help those who really need it. There are five-hundred-and-sixty cotton mills in the Lancashire area. One factory not employing children isn’t enough to change anything.’

‘It’s a start,’ Brandon barked, rising to the fight.

She huffed, ‘And in the meanwhile?’

‘It’s the best I can do.’ Brandon muttered something inaudible and turned on to the wide streets of the affluent neighbourhoods. The Cat had elected to return that way, knowing the streets would be empty and everyone still at home.

He changed the topic, hoping for better. Didn’t the woman understand he was only one man? ‘You said last night that you intended to take my measure today. Did I measure up?’

The Cat was silent, seeming to weigh her answer. ‘I will say that, for the most part, you did not disappoint.’

‘Where was I lacking?’ His chagrin was petty, but he thought he’d done very well considering the circumstances.

‘You did very well for one day. What will you do for the next three hundred and sixty-four?’ she answered coolly.

The last vestiges of Brandon’s restraint vanished in the face of her charge. ‘We can’t all be like you and burglarise homes for our livelihoods.’

They were cruel words and he regretted them instantly. He spoke them in anger but it wasn’t anger, directed at The Cat alone. Her words shamed him. It was difficult to admit to one’s hypocrisy. The Cat risked her very life for those less fortunate. Certainly, he advocated worker’s legislation in Parliament, but compared to The Cat, he did painfully little in his daily life to act as a true champion of the cause. That was about to change.

Brandon yanked on the reins and pulled the wagon over to the side of the deserted street. The sounds of music and singing filtered out of the houses in fits and starts.

‘Wait here.’ Brandon leaped down from the wagon, the flaps of his greatcoat flying behind him. He strode up to the largest house on the street and knocked.



Fifteen minutes later, Brandon returned and settled on the wagon bench, clucking to the horse. When he spoke, his tone was gruff. ‘Are you happy now? That man owns a number of shops in town. I have asked him to send ready-made clothes and shoes along with foodstuffs to your families. They will be set until spring.’

The Cat said nothing.

Brandon let silence grow between them as he mulled over his recent action. When he’d leapt down from the wagon and arranged for supplies, he’d only thought he was acting of his own volition. It was clear to him now that it was the reaction The Cat had been angling for with the request that he visit Manchester, the very outcome she had been seeking when she changed the nature of redeeming his ring. He had never met a more manipulating minx.

Brandon chuckled softly into the darkness, his breath hanging in the frosty air. ‘That’s why you wanted me along today,’ he said, referring to the purchased supplies. ‘It’s quite a gamble you took, wagering a guaranteed three hundred pounds against my merit.’

The poor of Manchester were blessed with a resolute benefactor whether they knew it or not. What a comfort it must be to be cared for with such dedication. For a moment, Brandon gave in to the fantasy building in his mind—one where the resourceful Cat turned her devotion on him.

Brandon cast a cautious sidelong glance at the woman who sat next to him, staring straight ahead into the gloom, her posture rigid, her features hidden by the dark and her veils. What was she celebrating—her triumph or was she simply satisfied in knowing she’d helped the ones she cared about?

‘Why do you do it? Sooner or later, it will end badly. You can’t walk this road for ever,’ he asked softly when it was clear she wasn’t going to remark on his action.

‘As long as it’s later rather than sooner, I won’t mind. I’ll have my satisfaction.’

‘Or you could stop now before it’s too late.’

She gave a wry laugh at the suggestion. ‘It’s already too late, Stockport. The Cat can’t ever stop. Did you really think I could? Stopping would serve no purpose. Even if I didn’t rob another house, my past would still condemn me.’

What could he say to that? It was Brandon’s turn to embrace the silence. Perhaps silence was best. Darkness had a way of encouraging the exchange of confidences, but, this day aside, they were still adversaries. Tomorrow, he’d still be building the mill and she’d still be robbing his investors in an attempt to undermine his efforts.



At the crossroads, he handed her the reins and jumped down to untie his horse. ‘You’ll be able to see well enough in the dark?’ he inquired politely.

‘Yes. The ring will be sent to you tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ He could feel them revert back to their former roles. The Christmas truce they had implicitly negotiated was already evaporating.

‘Stockport,’ she called. ‘Why did you do it?’

Brandon pulled his horse alongside the wagon. ‘I did it for you. You won’t have to rob any houses for a while.’

‘Then you can’t catch me,’ her voice teased.

‘Exactly. Happy Christmas.’ He kicked the big bay into a gallop and set off, leaving The Cat to contemplate what kind of Christmas wish he had granted her.



When the intersection disappeared behind him, Brandon slowed his bay to a cautious lope. It wouldn’t do to have his stallion step in a rabbit hole because he’d acted foolishly. He’d hoped the cold wind generated by his brief gallop would have had a sobering effect. He desperately needed it.

There was no escaping it, he had allowed himself to be caught up in the emotions The Cat had evoked in him. As a result, he’d acted rashly. What if someone discovered he’d knowingly spent the day with The Cat and had done nothing to fulfil his legal obligations? Those ramifications would exile him from polite society for ever, if not see him tried for a miscarriage of justice.

To top off the list of questionable decisions he’d made, he had just granted The Cat immunity. Immunity! What had he been thinking back there at the crossroads? He didn’t have to search long for his answer. The Cat might have uncouth methods, but, from what he had seen today, her heart was pure gold. She had not lied to him about why she stole.

No matter what he’d experienced today, there was no future in pursuing The Cat beyond his capacity as the local magistrate. He detested the dichotomy it put him in. He detested the idea that his success relied on her demise. Unless…

An inspiration began to form. Brandon’s pulse raced as the possibility took shape. Perhaps there was a compromise between their situations if he could convince her to give up the mad game. She’d have her freedom. He’d have his mill. But for his plan to succeed, he had to figure out who she was. He could not protect her otherwise.

While he learned much that day about The Cat, he had no further clue as to her identity. The only link was through the whiny spinster Eleanor Habersham. The correlation between the arrival of a handsome spinster, who hid her form in ugly gowns, and the appearance of The Cat four months prior could not be ignored. The only way to confirm that would be to question Eleanor directly.

Eleanor might have routed him from her house, but she could not rout him from someone else’s home. The thought brought a smile to Brandon’s lips as he pulled into the stable yard. He didn’t know where The Cat would be tomorrow night, but he knew with a fair amount of certainty where Eleanor Habersham would be—Mrs Dalloway’s card party. The matron had mentioned it at the masquerade. He had not thought to attend, but circumstances had changed. Instead of wanting to avoid the boring card party, he was starting to look forward to it.



Mrs Dalloway’s card party was complicating her plans immensely, Nora groused, jabbing at a ripped hem with her needle as she sat in front of the Grange’s fireplace, turning over the dilemma in her head. Eleanor was expected at the party, but The Cat needed to return Stockport’s amethyst ring that evening or he’d think she’d welshed on their agreement.

Technically, Stockport was expendable. There wasn’t much Stockport could do if she didn’t return the ring, but it bothered her that Stockport might think the worst of her, especially after what they’d shared yesterday.

Nora pricked her finger and muttered a curse before sucking on the wounded digit. Her stitches were as unbalanced as her thoughts. Stockport was getting to be a hazardous distraction.

There was nothing for it. The Cat would have to return the ring herself. She would go after the card party. Nora’s heart sped up at the prospect of encountering Stockport. Already, she was anticipating the inevitable sharp-edged conversation. Perhaps they would sip brandy together as they had done before.

She might allow herself to kiss him again. After all, once the ring was returned, The Cat would have little reason to seek him out. The Cat must turn her attention in the New Year to other investors who could be more easily influenced to abandon the factory project. Yes, tonight would be The Cat’s farewell to Brandon Wycroft and it would be for the best.




Chapter Eight


Nora, dressed in her frumpiest Eleanor Habersham finery, concluded the evening was not going as planned a few hours later, after finding herself partnered at whist with none other than Brandon Wycroft himself.

‘What did we bid?’ Nora asked for the thousandth time that night in Miss Habersham’s nasally voice, hoping that her irritating mannerisms were enough to distract Stockport from the fact that they were on the brink of winning their second rubber.

She was certain a man like Stockport would never believe a silly woman like Miss Habersham could be so canny at cards. However, Nora could not bring herself to cheat at cards simply to live up—or down, as the case might be—to Stockport’s notions. If there were two things Nora could not abide, they were cheats and liars. She would not make herself both just to reinforce Stockport’s beliefs about the card-playing abilities of a spinster. So she spent the evening across from her self-sworn nemesis, tittering behind her hand of cards at Stockport’s polite conversation while soundly routing their opponents with astute play.

‘We bid spades,’ Stockport said with commendable patience while Nora made a production of peering at her hand through her thick lenses.

Nora tossed a card on the table, intensely aware of Stockport’s cobalt gaze fixed on her. ‘What is it, my lord? Have I misplayed?’

‘Quite the contrary, Miss Habersham, I think you want to fool us into underestimating you.’ Stockport smiled another of his drawing-room smiles, polite, charming and yet somehow slightly mocking—of who or what, Nora could not divine.

‘There is nothing to underestimate,’ Nora offered smoothly, playing a trump.

‘I think there is. You’ve shown yourself to be an outstanding card player this evening,’ Stockport complimented. He turned the conversation towards the woman seated to his left. ‘Mrs Tidewell, is Miss Habersham always so capable at card parties?’

The woman blushed and thought for a moment. ‘I suppose she is. Miss Habersham is always winning, but she’s so humble we forget how handily she plays.’

‘I am fortunate in my partners,’ Nora responded, gathering the last trick. ‘There, my lord. We’ve made our bid. You can speculate all you like about my card playing, but I say it is merely luck and good partners.’ Nora rose and stretched, grateful that the other two tables were finishing their hands and that the tea trolley had arrived.

Tables began to break up and guests milled around the tea service, Stockport among them. Nora was glad to be out from under his sharp eyes after enduring the evening under their scrutiny. Within the hour the party would reach its conclusion and she could get on with her business.

Nora took a seat on a nearby couch and tried to look unobtrusive. She failed completely. Within minutes, Stockport’s sharp eyes found her. Damn.

‘Miss Habersham, would you like some tea?’ She’d expected Stockport to join some of the male guests present but here he was, dancing attendance on the village spinster, a delicate tea cup in each hand and looking handsomely at ease with the difficult manoeuvre. How the London ladies must swoon over him, Nora mused, thanking her stars that she was made of sterner stuff.

‘Thank you.’ Nora took the tea he offered, trying to ignore the empty space on the couch next to her.

Stockport smiled gently. When she didn’t invite him to sit, he invited himself. ‘Miss Habersham, may I join you?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ Nora fluttered, covering up for her lack of manners. ‘Although I am surprised you are not seeking out the company of your friends.’

‘I already know them, Miss Habersham. I don’t know you. This is the perfect opportunity to get to know my newest neighbor. How long have you been at the Grange?’

Drat, the man could rise to every occasion. That spelled trouble. His benign question immediately aroused her suspicions. In her experience, there was nothing as perilous as seemingly harmless small talk, particularly coming from this man.

No matter how well cultivated his drawing-room manners were, nothing changed the fact that he was positively lethal, much more dangerous than any of her information made him out to be. She must tread carefully.

‘There’s not much to tell. I am a simple woman. You’ve already seen that I live a simple life.’ She tittered and stared into her tea cup. That would not be enough to put Stockport off, so Nora deflected his burgeoning inquisition with a tried-and-true trick. ‘I am sure it’s much more interesting to talk about you.’ In general, most men were always diverted by the opportunity to expound on themselves at large.

She’d forgotten Stockport was not most men. It was the second time in their association she’d made that mistake. The first time, she’d kissed him. She would do well to remember it. He wasn’t even half the men she knew. He had a category all his own.

He narrowed his remarkable eyes now and furrowed his brow, looking as if he struggled with an unseen puzzle. A frisson of alarm went through Nora. ‘What is it, my lord? Have I said something wrong? Oh dear, I’m always putting my foot in it.’ Nora wrung her hands dramatically, making a show of muttering her stupidity under her breath while her mind raced, trying to catch her error.

What had triggered Stockport’s reaction? He looked like a man who had heard or seen something familiar, but could not place it in context.

Stockport mastered himself. ‘No, you’ve done nothing wrong. It is just that your conversation reminded me of another I had not long ago. I assure you, it’s not what you said, merely how you said it. I see you’re finished with your tea. Come, stroll about the room with me.’

Nora stared at Stockport as if he had two heads. The spinster walking about the room with the Earl? She had not expected this, but then she hadn’t anticipated anything that had happened so far tonight. There was no way out of it, so she placed her hand on his sleeve and consented to the stroll.

Stockport kept up a stream of seemingly innocuous small talk. She supposed other women would find the singular attention flattering. She found it worrisome. ‘Before tonight, Miss Habersham, I knew two things about you. First, you live at the Grange. Secondly, your cook makes the best teacakes in town. Now I have discovered a third. You play an outstanding game of whist. I am sure there is more to know.’

‘I assure you, those are the sum of my attributes,’ Nora said as rudely as Miss Habersham might dare with such a man.

‘We shall have to agree to disagree on that point, Miss Habersham,’ Stockport said in nonchalant tones that left her unprepared for the dangerous words that came out of his mouth next. ‘Ah, we approach the verandah. Fresh air, Miss Habersham?’

The hair on the back of Nora’s neck prickled in forewarning. She had waited all night for the other shoe to fall and now it had.



Victory at last! He had the nasally Miss Habersham right where he wanted her—private and alone, where he could confront her with his growing suspicions. He had worked all night for this moment, suffering through endless hands of whist and meaningless village gossip.

It had been highly enlightening to watch the lady in question play so ruthlessly. She was a far better partner than her conversation at the table indicated, which served to support the growing pile of evidence that Miss Habersham did not simply know The Cat. She was The Cat.

The previously reticent Miss Habersham had not been so timid during cards. Over cards, Miss Habersham had demonstrated a tenacity that seemed out of character for her, but not for The Cat. The Cat and Miss Habersham had sharp tongues. The whiny spinster had found the spine on two occasions now to reprimand him when he pried too closely into her personal life.

There were other characteristics they shared as well. They both had those piercing ice-jade eyes. Beneath the frumpy gowns of Miss Habersham there hid a delectable figure to rival the one The Cat flaunted. Now it was his turn to have the upper hand. He would make The Cat squirm before he pounced.

‘I must apologise, Miss Habersham. I find that I have business we must discuss and I’d rather do it privately.’ He wanted to laugh while Eleanor fussed with her glasses, pushing them up higher on the bridge of her nose, doing her best to look discomfited by such male attention. Didn’t she realise the game was minutes from being over?

‘If you want to bring up the issue of security at the Grange again, I must stick to my initial position and decline your offer,’ she began with characteristic nervousness.

Ah, very astute. Stockport gave her points for quick thinking. One of the conversations he’d had with ‘Eleanor’ had been about security, unlike the conversation he’d held with The Cat yesterday.

‘I am afraid I have a slightly different topic in mind. What do you know about The Cat?’ Brandon said without preamble.

‘Why, only what I hear in town,’ Eleanor said. ‘Why would you ask such a thing?’

‘Your house hasn’t been touched. I find that odd,’ he pressed, not allowing himself to be gulled by the wide-eyed shock and the hand flying to her throat in horror at his question.

‘Neither has yours, I understand,’ she retorted archly. ‘Perhaps I should be asking what you know about The Cat?’

Brandon smiled. ‘My point, exactly.’ He leaned intimately close. Perhaps if he could fluster her, she would forget herself. ‘Miss Habersham, I do know quite a lot about The Cat. I thought it was time for us to share what we know.’

His plan to discomfit her was failing. Eleanor made a great show of her chagrin. ‘Are you insinuating I am harbouring a fugitive? Take me inside at once. I find this conversation very unseemly.’ She was all Miss Habersham. So convincing was her outrage, his instincts faltered. Had he guessed wrongly about her identity?

All the signs couldn’t be wrong. Brandon pushed onwards. ‘What if I don’t?’ Two could play this game within a game. There was no harm in it since Miss Habersham didn’t really exist. He was ninety per cent sure of it.

‘I would scream,’ she said in high dudgeon worthy of any thespian.

The other ten per cent of him almost believed her.

Brandon bowed in mock-surrender. ‘I doubt you’d do either, but things will be as you wish. I’ll escort you inside.’ He stepped aside to let her pass ahead of him, taking the opportunity to audaciously whisper in her ear, ‘When the night began I knew three things about you, Eleanor. Now I suspect a fourth.’ It would serve her right to let her stew over the possibilities of what he knew.



An hour later, Brandon let himself into Stockport Hall and lit a brace of tapers left on the entry hall sideboard for his convenience.

He walked to the study, letting his candles cast shadows on the walls. He peered inside. Disappointment swamped him. His light illuminated nothing but emptiness. He’d thought she would be here. He had made sure that Eleanor had left the card party before him, giving the masquerading spinster plenty of time to change guises and sneak into the mansion.

This was rich! The Earl of Stockport plotting an assignation with a thief. What depths he had fallen to if the highlight of his social calendar was a clandestine rendezvous.

It was the final stroke in the evening’s débâcle with Miss Habersham. Doubt was beginning to replace his earlier confidence. At the card party, Eleanor had used the same deflecting technique in their conversation that The Cat had used at the Christmas ball. It was proving to be a ridiculous connection.

He must be more affected by The Cat than he’d thought if he was seeing the elegant, stealthy Cat in the dowdy form of the village spinster. He’d been so certain of his instincts on the verandah.

Brandon reprimanded himself the length of the stairs. Still, he had been so sure! But he’d also been sure The Cat would keep her word and return his ring. It was after midnight. The promised day of arrival was gone. For a man used to being right, he’d been wrong about a lot lately.

Brandon pushed open the door to his sitting room. A fire burned low and warm in the grate, assuring him from its glow that the room was empty.

He strode to the low table holding a decanter of his best brandy. He poured a glass, making a mental note to have his valet fill it in the morning. He did not remember drinking so much of it, but apparently he had. The decanter looked to have poured a glass or two.

Brandon headed to bed, tumbler in hand, eager to put the evening behind him. He raised his glass to his lips and halted at the threshold of his bedroom in disbelief.

‘Hello, Stockport. I’d offer you a drink, but I see you already have one.’ Rich tones purred from the bed where The Cat reclined in semi-darkness against the pillows, clad in her customary dark garb.

Ridiculous elation buoyed Brandon. She had come! He tamped down his relief, determined to play it coolly while heat flared within him. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’

‘Occupational hazard.’ The Cat uncurled her long limbs and rose from the bed.

Brandon took a swallow of brandy, trying to ignore the effect The Cat’s sinuous walk was having on him as she crossed the room to stand before him. There was something different yet disconcertingly familiar about her attire, but his jangled mind was too busy focusing on her presence in his bedroom to place it. ‘What are you doing here?’

She held up the small pouch for him to take. ‘That should be obvious. I am returning your ring and something else that belongs to you. You should keep your money in a safer place.’ She patted the breast pocket of her jacket. Only then did Brandon recognise that the coat she wore was his.

His heart leapt in victory. All the chastisements his logical mind had whipped him with as he climbed the stairs faded. She had kept her word to return the ring and she had returned his jacket from the Christmas ball with his money still tucked inside.

Stunned, he stood there, dumb in amazement. The Cat was purring about an affront to her dignity. ‘Should I be flattered that you’re surprised to see me or should I be insulted? Did you think I wouldn’t keep my word?’

‘If I am surprised, it is over finding you in my bedroom. I am not used to women making free with my private chambers. It’s usually the other way around.’

His urbane scolding did nothing to daunt her. She stood mere inches from him, her low voice making him hard as she spun fantasies with her words. ‘I wanted to arrange something special for our last meeting.’

‘Last? Are you leaving?’ He hadn’t thought buying supplies for her needy would drive her out of town. He found he didn’t want her to go. Maybe there was time to cancel the orders.

She gave one of her throaty laughs and he discarded his irrational thought. ‘Of course not! I still have investors who need my particular attentions. But since you fail to play by my rules and announce Stockport Hall has been burglarised, I must spend my time elsewhere on more likely subjects.’ She ran a finger lightly down his cheek along his jaw line where late-night stubble was starting to grow. ‘I need the publicity.’

Her continuation of the robberies did not bode well for his plan to dissuade her from her criminal activities. ‘I thought I’d provided enough supplies for your families to last until spring.’ Brandon was thoroughly confused. He’d believed he’d kept her out of harm’s way with his purchases. Apparently, she was addicted to danger.

‘You did. But that doesn’t change the fact that plans for the mill are still going forward.’

‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ he said with a flippancy he didn’t feel.

‘None, and I am very wicked.’ She stood so close to him now that the tips of her breasts pressed against his shirt. He wanted to forget the game they played over his mill. He wanted to throw her down on his bed and play an entirely different game, one that didn’t involve clothes or masks or secrets or politics; well, maybe sexual politics, he amended.

Brandon did not believe it was possible for him to get any harder and survive intact. He fully expected it to explode shortly. In a hoarse voice, he tried to turn the conversation down a neutral venue. ‘It’s foolishness to continue at this rate. You must slow down. Do you want to be caught?’

Her eyes glinted with mischief. ‘It depends on who is doing the catching.’ A nail lightly raked his chest where his shirt opened in a vee, causing him to shiver in aroused delight.

She continued, ‘I have no intentions of being caught by silly Squire Bradley and those nabob investors who have ponied up their pounds for the privilege of associating with you, my lord. I certainly shall not surrender to the pompous St John or that young braggart, Witherspoon.’

She smiled coyly at Brandon, making him feel that the cat had already licked the cream. ‘Tell me, my lord, haven’t you ever wanted to be caught? It can be invigorating with the right person.’

‘Yes,’ Brandon managed. They were no longer talking about catching The Cat. One moment they’d been talking about traps of one type and in the next were talking about traps of entirely another sort. An inappropriate sort. The sort that made him want to throw back the very proper damask cover on his bed and take her on the red satin sheets that hid beneath.

He groaned his lust as The Cat ran her nails down his chest. Her deft hands found their way inside his shirt to the hard planes beneath the fabric. Brandon sucked in his breath. Never in his intimate relationships had he been so stimulated and he had yet to remove his clothes.

‘You see,’ she whispered sensually, ‘it is nice to be caught.’

His groin swelled painfully. He wanted her to catch him. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to head in the reverse direction. He wanted to catch her in the manner she’d intimated.

His mind ran riot with all nature of exotic visions. He imagined a primal coupling among his scarlet sheets that would leave them both sweat-drenched and slaked. He imagined her sleeping and rumpled in the middle of his big bed, her dark hair fanned out against the crimson clad pillows. He imagined for a moment that The Cat and all her passion belonged to him alone. If he took her, it could not be otherwise. He was a man used to power and the responsibilities that went with it.

She stepped back and arched an eyebrow that both insinuated a dare and mocked his ardour. With languorous movements, she stepped away from him and took a chair, crossing her long, booted legs. ‘It’s clear from the look on your face, and dare I say “other parts”, that you think you are man enough to tame The Cat.’

Brandon’s blood was already hot. Her insouciant manner pushed him the rest of the way until he fairly boiled. It was time for this impudent wench to learn a lesson about what happened when she played with fire. ‘You need taming badly.’ He advanced towards her, hands on hips.

‘You think you’re that man?’ The Cat queried from her relaxed position in the chair, unmoved by his proximity.

He leaned over her chair, his hands braced on each of the arms. He inhaled. The scent of outdoor air with the tinge of winter on it still hovered about her. She hadn’t been there long ahead of him. ‘Damn right I am.’

‘Many men have tried and most have failed.’

‘I am not most men.’ He was impressed. She hadn’t flinched once.

‘No, you’re an Earl. There’s, what, roughly fifty of you?’ She rose from the chair, her movements forcing him to step back and aside.

She still wore his jacket. She made a great show of taking it off and laying it aside with all the care of a man preparing to engage in fisticuffs. ‘Well, my lord, are you going to come tame The Cat or stand there all night trying to figure out who the other forty-nine are?’

He saw her game and it was over. He would not suffer defeat twice in the same evening, nor would he be cowed into retreating by her brazen tongue.

‘I call your bluff. Consider yourself caught.’ He gripped her forearms and covered her lush mouth with his in a kiss that conveyed the power of his desire—a desire that both transcended the base need to be the sole possessor of such a wild creature and encompassed the primal need to protect what was his.

Indeed, whether she knew it or not, she was his—his equal in wit, in sensual gambits, in passion for a cause. In all the ways that mattered, she was his. His tongue probed the warmth of her mouth and she responded wholeheartedly, giving herself over to a complete embrace and, for once, letting him lead. Her body pressed against his. Her hands twined about his neck to pull him close. Her hips fitted against his jutting erection. At such contact, Brandon knew an elation as old as Adam.

Confident in himself and in her response, he moved his hand to rest in the provocative space between her breast and ribs. She sighed encouragement into his mouth and he cupped her full breast through the cloth of her shirt. Then he was falling backwards onto the bed, taking the weight of The Cat with him. In a flash he found himself pinned, The Cat looming above him, straddling him at midsection.

She changed her grip so that she imprisoned both of his wrists with her right hand. The charming smile on her lips persuaded Brandon to lay still and see where her shenanigans led. If she required the illusion of control, he could accommodate her whim.

With her free hand she pulled his cravat free and wound it around his wrists, her actions compelling her to stretch over his head so that her breasts were mere inches from his mouth. With a flick of his tongue, he could lick the nipples through the linen of her dark shirt. His sense of fair play startled him back to consciousness. He had not mistaken her motions. She was tying him up with his own clothing.

‘What are you doing?’ he inquired, a douse of sobriety cooling some of his ardour. He tried to make sense of the amusement playing across her masked features when she leaned back from her efforts.

The Cat leaned forward to sprinkle tantalising kisses against his jaw. ‘Have none of your other lovers ever invigorated you like this?’ Her hand drifted to his member and grasped it firmly, stroking him through the fabric, her thumb teasing its sensitive head.

‘I didn’t think so.’ The Cat laughed—a deep throaty sound men would pay handsomely to hear in the night. She tugged his shirttails from his waistband and popped the buttons of his shirt open to reveal his bare chest. Brandon knew his nipples were erect with need.

‘Still think you can tame The Cat?’ She took one erect nubbin in her mouth and laved it with her tongue.

Brandon moaned. If this was failure, he’d like to fail more often.

The Cat sat back on her haunches, smiling broadly. She swung off the bed and studied his long legs for a thoughtful moment. Then she began to tug. Off came his boots. Off came his trousers. His member stood at rigid attention for them both to see.

The Cat stepped away from the bed and walked backwards towards the door, her face still wreathed in her grin. ‘Consider yourself caught.’ She used his own words.

‘Where are you going?’ Brandon strained again to sit upright.

‘I’m going home.’

‘Going home?’ The implications slowly dawned on him. ‘Wait. You can’t leave me like this!’

‘Yes, I can.’ She fired her parting volley, ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust a smiling cat?’




Chapter Nine


In the end, the bonds hadn’t been tied so tightly as to prevent escape without calling for assistance. He silently thanked the vixen for that small consideration. It would have been far too embarrassing to call for his valet. How would he ever have explained this to Harper?

Brandon hoisted his form up and loosened one of the knots with his teeth. His hand slipped through the growing loop and he was quickly free. He recognised the favour for what it was—this private game of point and counterpoint was just between them. It had taken on a life of its own. It had somehow become separate from the fight over the mill.

Tonight, she’d meant to win their game, but not to make him look the fool. He’d wager the crown jewels she’d known he could get out of the bonds with little effort. Well, he was glad to give her the small victory. It was only fair after he’d cornered Miss Habersham on the balcony. They were even. For now.

Still, the loose knots had effectively prevented him from chasing after her. She was gone until the next time—and there would be a next time. There was unfinished business between them.

In the heat of their play, he had not confronted her with his thoughts about her identity or about his plan to see her stop the robberies. The Cat definitely addled his wits.

It was time to call for reinforcements. In the morning, he would send a note to his close friend, Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge. Between the two of them, they’d crack The Cat’s secrets.

Discovering her identity was for her own good. In spite of her games tonight, he recognised that he liked her too much to see her hang and she liked him.

No matter how much she protested to the contrary with her sharp tongue and daring innuendos, she was not impervious to his kiss or his touch. His experience with women told him she had enjoyed the naked passion of the evening as much as he. She had been pliant and willing in his arms. He had felt the moment she gave herself up to her own longings and their burgeoning mutual desire.

He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, and, in spite of her tricks, he wanted her, wanted her beyond reason and against all good sense. Brandon recognised trouble when he saw it and he was in it up to his neck. Jack had better come quickly.



Dear lord! She’d tied the Earl of Stockport to his bed and left him there naked, or nearly so. The ramifications of her actions burned Nora’s cheeks all the way back to the Grange. He’d be furious and all because she’d let her temper get the better of her.

Tonight, The Cat had gone too far. But she’d felt it necessary in order to throw Stockport off the scent that Eleanor and The Cat were one and the same. She hoped to convince him that such disparate personalities could not reside in the same person.

Stockport’s insinuations to Eleanor at the card party had left her distinctly uneasy. He wouldn’t behave in such a shocking manner if he hadn’t been sure he knew Eleanor Habersham was a fiction. Coupled with the impudent gift of satin for undergarments, she could no longer dismiss Stockport’s knowledge of The Cat. What he had once guessed at, he now felt he knew with almost absolute certainty.

Nora let herself into the kitchen, thankful for the dark interior. It meant Hattie hadn’t waited up. She was in no mood for a lecture tonight, not when there was so much to sort through. Her new knowledge about Stockport was like a flame—both illuminating and dangerous at the same time. A person was better off without some things. Knowing the enemy on a human level was one of them. The quickest way to get burned was to fall in love with one’s mark.

That bore thinking about, but not until she was in the sanctuary of her own room. Nora took the stairs quickly, avoiding the squeaky floorboard on the fifth tread. Slipping inside her own private domain, she let the thought loose. If she was to be a good thief, she had to be objective. She couldn’t protect herself if she lost perspective. Was she in love with Stockport?

Nora had little to work with from her disastrous, short-lived marriage. From her recollections of conversations with other women, people in love had pulses that raced when the object of their affection was near. They spent hours thinking about their adored one.

If that was the criteria, she was safe. Certainly, she experienced adrenalin rushes at the thought of seeing him again, but that was due to the prospect of matching wits with a commendable foe. No rules of engagement said a thief couldn’t respect the target. She definitely did not spend hours idolising him. All of her thoughts focused on how to best him. That was not love-like in the least bit.

Nora breathed a little easier after her examination. She was not falling for Brandon. Stockport, she corrected hastily. Thinking of him by his first name was an unaffordable luxury. This venture didn’t need any more personalisation to confuse the issue. Besides, developing soft feelings for Stockport was tantamount to treason.

Industry had seen to the ruin of her family and tossed her into a life of chaos. She could not compromise her cause by forgetting Stockport was at the heart of the project to build the textile mill.

Her only sin was that she’d dallied too long with Stockport. He’d been a means to an end, but he had not reciprocated by ranting about The Cat all over town. She’d meant it when she’d told him she would not visit him again. There were other, more compliant, subjects and she had to hurry. Ground had been broken and the foundations laid. She had to keep the investors wary, worrying about when The Cat would strike next.

Nora fingered a small pile of post that lay on the vanity, sifting through it until she found a particular envelope. She opened it and smiled. Perfect. Inside was an invitation. Out of a sense of polite obligation and an acknowledgement of the social limitations a village like Stockport-on-the-Medlock presented, Eleanor Habersham was invited to a New Year’s Eve fête hosted by Mr Flack, one of the industrialists hoping to expand their fortunes with the new textile mill. The party would provide the ideal staging ground for planning her next move. Eleanor would be able to learn much in unguarded moments.

No one thought a spinster had a brain in her head. She might even manage to eke out a little excitement. Stockport was certain to attend. It would be an opportunity to ferret out what Stockport truly knew about Eleanor Habersham and The Cat.



‘This sleepy place is what you traded for the fireworks of Parliament?’ Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge, waved his ornate walking stick in disbelief at the village spread before him. ‘I raced from London for this? I left mere hours after getting the message and made excellent time because your letter indicated the situation was dire. This isn’t “dire”, my dear friend, it’s “boring”.’

Brandon stepped down from the carriage and stood beside his friend. He tried to see the little town through Jack’s jaded eyes. To a man used to the intrigues of London, Stockport-on-the-Medlock no doubt appeared harmless without a hostile bone in its civic body.

It was an outer image only. In the five days since Jack’s hasty summons, Brandon knew differently. The white-steepled church, well-kept shop fronts and neatly cobbled streets were superficial signs of prosperity—a prosperity purchased at the expense of others. Beneath the bucolic façade, there was another story, too—a story about farmers struggling to hold on to land that no longer produced the profits it once had, and agricultural workers who once hired out their labour and were now forced to leave their families to seek work in Manchester because their traditional jobs were gone.

The town was at war with itself, divided between those who wanted the new textile mill and those who did not. The Cat led the latter faction and, by merit of his rank and association with textile mill, he led the other.

‘If Stockport-on-the-Medlock was in truth what it seemed on the outside, I would not have called for you, old friend.’ Brandon clapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll walk the streets as long as we can stand the cold and then we’ll dine at the Cart and Bull. There’s no place finer in town for learning the news.’



A few hours later, Jack Hanley sopped up the last of his hearty rabbit stew with a thick chunk of bread and leaned back in his chair, ready to make his pronouncement. ‘I am beginning to see what you mean.’

They had spent an hour touring the shops and another hour over a pint of ale in the public room of the inn before retiring to a private parlour for luncheon. Brandon waited impatiently for Jack’s verdict.

If anyone knew how to see beyond the face of things, it was Jack. He made an art form out of being a man who dressed elaborately and acted the dandy in order to make people forget the shrewdness of his clever mind, a talent that King William frequently put to good use for the crown. It was that talent Brandon called upon now to help him unravel the mystery of The Cat.

‘How many people support The Cat?’ Jack asked.

Brandon shrugged. ‘It is hard to say. I do not believe anyone openly champions The Cat, but the support is there, especially from the lower classes.’

‘An army of one?’ Jack raised a cynical blond eyebrow. ‘I cannot believe one person could so easily tie a town up in knots. The Cat must have assistance.’

‘In Manchester, The Cat has a network.’ Brandon grimaced, remembering the day he’d spent shopping with Miss Habersham. ‘But here, the support is less obvious, although I am sure there are plenty who quietly support The Cat. In town, the issue of the textile mill has been met with strong minority resistance.’

‘I can see why.’ Jack reached for the decanter of red wine and refilled his glass. ‘The countryside is perfect for grazing. The river has made the area ideal for sheep. It is hard to convince people to give up on a known way of life that has been successful for generations.’

‘They don’t understand they’re not being asked to trade one for the other. I want them to see that the old and new ways can co-exist. We need sheep wool for the factories. It is an incredible benefit to the cost of production if the mill doesn’t have to import the raw wool from long distances.’ Brandon warmed to his subject.

Jack steepled his hands against the tidal wave of Brandon’s vigorous assessment. ‘Your ardour for the subject is sincerely touching, but, philanthropy aside, one cannot forget the reason you’re doing this. You need the mill.’

Jack’s cynicism did not sit well with Brandon. ‘Of course I need the mill. I need a secure source of income to ensure the family coffers survive into the future. You needn’t make it sound as if I am hoodwinking the village into something that only benefits me. The mill is a good idea for their future too,’ Brandon argued. ‘Agriculture will not be able to sustain the estate alone in years to come. I am thinking of the Earls who will come after me.’

Brandon leaned over the table and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. ‘I am very sure the project will turn a profit. Why else would I so obviously sully my “noble” hands in trade? Once the factory is a success, the ton will overlook my eccentricity.’

Jack gave a bark of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. You can do no wrong, with your elegant manners, good looks and glib tongue. Gawd, man, you’re like a woman’s Midas.’

Brandon refused to be provoked. ‘As I said, I have responsibilities that take all my attention these days and I need your help.’

Jack poured another glass of wine. ‘Speaking of responsibilities, you missed the best part of the session when you high-tailed it up here. The House of Commons and the House of Lords are at each other’s throats over reform of the boroughs. If the reform bill is to pass the House of Lords, an Earl is going to have to cross party lines and it will have to happen this spring while the momentum is still there.’ Jack raised an elegant eyebrow in query. ‘What will you do?’

Brandon wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation. The Prime Minister was hoping he would be the one to set a trend and vote for more liberal policies concerning the middle and lower classes. The Cat thought just the opposite, that he was a highbrow peer unwilling to use his power for the benefit of the masses.

‘Enough about my politics, Jack. Tell me what you have discovered about The Cat.’ Jack had access to all sorts of information that might shed some light on The Cat.

‘That’s a very abrupt conversational parry,’ Jack noted. ‘You are losing your touch.’

‘Enough, Jack. Now, tell me what you know.’

Jack leaned in close despite the privacy of their dining room. ‘The Cat of Manchester is not exclusive to this area. I think there is reason to believe that the moniker comes from the fact that The Cat is merely from this area. There are reports of similar burglaries taking place in Birmingham, Leeds and Bradford. As you know, those are cities whose situation is much like Manchester’s. They are highly industrialised and face the same social issues.’

‘Could it be that there are several people who call themselves by that name?’

Jack shook his head at the conjecture. ‘The timing of the burglaries does not suggest that there is a group of people acting in tandem. The timing would support that there is only one person and that the one person moves around from place to place. The only constant is the reference to the name. Wherever this thief goes, the name is the same as well as the cause.’

Brandon drummed his hands on the table, taking in Jack’s findings. ‘How long has The Cat been operating?’

‘Reports indicate three years. But that only indicates how long the name has been showing up. This person may have been active for years under different aliases.’

‘Are there any leftover Luddites still practising?’ Brandon knew the chance was slim. The Luddite movement, an organisation started by craftsmen who opposed the replacement of manual labor with textile machinery, had been wiped out years ago, but one never knew.

A sickening feeling formed in his gut. It was one thing to rationalise The Cat as being a misguided local with a Robin Hood complex. It was entirely another to know he had fraternised with a hardened criminal. The Luddites had used violent means to demolish machinery. Such behaviour had led to their downfall. How far would The Cat go to make her point? Would robbing lead to other crimes? Would she go as far as to destroy the mill if her earlier ploys failed to bring about the desired results? The truth was, Brandon didn’t honestly know.

Jack shook his head. ‘I checked the records from the 1813 Luddite trials in York. It is not likely that The Cat was among the group and is still rebelling nearly twenty years later. For starters, it would make The Cat awfully old for carrying on the shenanigans you’ve written to me about.’

‘What about Eleanor Habersham?’ Brandon asked the question he dreaded most. Once the connection was firm, he had no more excuses, but at least he could feel less guilty about his behaviour at Mrs Dalloway’s.

‘I have found nothing, which also means nothing. Your spinster is either what she claims to be and there are simply no records on her because she’s of no criminal threat to England or she’s a persona The Cat has conjured up. I can’t see why the burglar would do that. It makes no sense to create a spinster unless The Cat is a woman.’ Understanding dawned on Jack’s face. ‘You think The Cat is a woman, don’t you?’

Brandon nodded. ‘I know The Cat is a woman.’

‘How do you know?’

Brandon put a finger to his lips. ‘Wait until we get home.’



‘I need a drink.’ Jack poured himself a brandy and resumed his seat, where he’d sat riveted at Brandon’s encounters with The Cat. ‘I find it peculiar that you haven’t told anyone. Care to explain?’

‘At first I was embarrassed. I’d let The Cat get away.’

‘And later?’ Jack prompted.

‘Let it suffice to say that, later, catching The Cat held little novelty for me.’ Brandon took a swallow of brandy.

‘That must be how she gets away with it.’ Jack smiled triumphantly, gloating a bit at his friend’s discomfort. ‘Men don’t want to turn her in. If she’s caught, she simply cajoles them into compliance just as she’s done with you.’

‘She is not a trollop!’ Brandon protested, although he had nothing to base that claim on and plenty of evidence to the contrary. Jack’s comment had done its work.

‘I’ve yet to meet virgins who tie men to beds. Good lord, Brandon, do you think you’re the only man she’s tried this on?’ Jack pressed, then softened his tone. ‘You’re making no sense. You say you want me to help you catch The Cat. Now you’re telling me the opposite. Which is it? Do you want to catch her or not?’

Brandon said nothing. Jack’s eyes glinted with knowledge. ‘Ah, so that’s how it is. You want to catch her for yourself. Why? Jealousy? Can’t stand the thought of another man under The Cat’s thrall?’

‘I am not under her spell,’ Brandon argued, incensed by the implication that a thief could buy his loyalty with her charms. The claim to jealousy rankled. Was Jack right?

‘Then how do you explain this urge to protect her?’ Jack shook his head. ‘You should know already you can’t tame a wild thing. You can’t tame The Cat, Brandon.’

Brandon looked down into the remains of his glass, suddenly inundated with vivid memories of his last meeting with The Cat. ‘I suppose you’re right, Jack. Still, she’d be better off in a cage of my making than a cage of society’s making. If the investors catch her, it’s off to prison for certain. If what you believe is true and she’s guilty of robberies elsewhere, no judge can overlook three years of indiscretions.’ He recalled her comment Christmas Day that there was no sense in stopping the robberies because of her past.

‘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 anything 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.

Perhaps, like him, she was watching and waiting to plot her next move. The one certainty he had was that she would strike again and, if the investors were correct in their guesses tonight, he knew where and he knew when. He could prevent it if he could verify that Eleanor Habersham was The Cat.

To his way of thinking, there was only one way to find out quickly. He would have to take a leaf from The Cat’s own book and pay her a nocturnal visit of his own. If he was wrong and Eleanor was really no one more than Eleanor there would be hell to pay. But these were desperate times.



When to strike next? Nora paced the small parlour of the Grange, scanning the list of investors she held in her hand. The Cat was close to success. All the news she’d gathered at the New Year’s ball confirmed it; two investors were still needed and the others were getting nervous enough to consider pulling out. If she could keep up the steady pressure, the textile mill would become a moot development.

Once her work in Stockport-on-the-Medlock was done, she could move on, just like she’d done in Leeds, Bradford and Birmingham. The Cat of Manchester never stayed in any one place too long. It was her key to ensure The Cat lived all nine of her lives.

Eleanor Habersham could cease to exist. A new character could be created and the game could begin anew somewhere else where her efforts were needed; and there was always somewhere else. With approximately five hundred and sixty factories in the Lancashire region, employing one hundred and ten thousand workers, she had an amazing amount of job security—as long as she didn’t get caught.

The thought of accomplishing her goal and moving on did not fill her with its usual satisfaction. Instead, it left her feeling empty. Brandon Wycroft would be out of her circle of influence for ever. She would be responsible for his ruin and whatever feelings The Cat had aroused in him with her sensual games would be gone in the wake of his embarrassment and loss of face.

She did understand completely what he risked. A peer meddling in trade was highly uncommon, no matter how practical it might be. His failure with the mill would make him a laughingstock. The consequences he potentially faced sat poorly with her. It was becoming more difficult as the days passed to justify sacrificing one individual for the sake of many.

These were dangerous thoughts. She was too close to the Earl, developing real feelings for a man who should be her adversary. If she had any good sense at all, she’d seriously consider leaving Stockport-on-the-Medlock right away before the projected hazards became realities.

The mantel clock struck ten. Gracious! How long had she stood there, wool-gathering over Stockport? She glanced down at the list in her hand. St John’s would be her best option. It was time to hit there again and keep his fear alive. He was a big investor and, if he grew too complacent, he might decide to increase his level of financial commitment. She would go on Wednesday night when he and his wife were out at the Squire’s playing cards.

That decision made, she decided she could indulged in the luxury of going to bed early.



In the deep part of the night something or someone else found her too. Years of training had taught her to awake alertly and surreptitiously so as to rob the intruder of the element of surprise. Nora fought the urge to open her eyes. Instead, she let her other senses take in the alteration of the room. It might be nothing more than a branch scratching the window, but it always paid to be cautious.

She inhaled, her nose searching for a smell that verified the presence of another. The tang of spicy soap reached her nostrils. Stockport! He was burglarising her, the stubborn man.

If the situation wasn’t so dire, she would roll over and laugh at him, but now he had complete proof that The Cat at least lived with Eleanor Habersham, if not proof that they were one and the same. The dratted man must have been very sure of himself to have dared such an entrance.

Thankfully, she slept on her side, one hand under her pillow. Stealthily, she slipped that hand around the smooth handle of the small dagger she kept there for just such occasions.

The scent of his spicy soap intensified and Nora began to calculate how close he was. He must be very close for the smell to be so obvious. She listened for the sound of his breathing to affirm her guess. Yes, he was close, right next to the side of the bed at her back.

Nora tensed beneath the quilts and rolled, using the force of her arm beneath the pillow to fling it up and backwards, into Stockport’s startled face.

‘Stockport!’ She leapt out of bed, keeping the bedstead between them and brandishing her dagger.

Stockport staggered back a step under the surprise of the pillow and righted himself too quickly. She’d hoped he would trip or catch his foot on the bed, anything to slow him down and enhance her advantage. What she intended to do with that advantage, she had no idea. She was making this up as she went along. It didn’t help that Stockport looked completely collected.

‘Hello, Cat,’ he drawled in maddeningly smug tones, ‘Or should I say Eleanor? It’s hard to tell. That nightrail is definitely Eleanor’s, but the rest of you is all Cat.’ The conceited man let his eyes peruse her body in an all-knowing manner that made her feel exposed.

Nora tightened her grip on the dagger, desperately trying to quell the heat rising in her. ‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’

‘I’ve come to return your calls. It’s only seemly to reciprocate a call. I regret that I’ve been so tardy in doing so. You came to my bedroom and now I’ve come to yours.’ He smiled wolfishly and began to move.

‘Stay there. I won’t hesitate to use this,’ Nora warned as he circled the bed. She didn’t remember him being this large in their previous encounters. Tonight, she was fully aware of his height, the power of his broad shoulders.

‘I am not here to do you an injury, my dear Cat. I am here for proof.’ He bent to the lamp she’d left on the vanity and brought up the light until the room was visible.

‘What will you do with the proof?’ Nora asked warily. She had not believed until this moment that he would assist in her capture.

He grinned at her discomfort. ‘I rather like having you at my advantage for once. As to the proof, I want it so that you and I can strike a deal without any of your chicanery involved. I want you to know explicitly that I know The Cat and Eleanor are one and the same.’

Nora smiled at that. It was as close to conceding a small victory as she was going to get. Men like Stockport didn’t admit outright when they’d been gulled. She gave a small laugh. ‘So I did have you convinced that night at the card party. What changed your mind?’

Stockport looked up from a drawer he’d opened. ‘Nothing. Until I saw you sleeping tonight, I wasn’t fully certain my guesses were right.’

Nora raised her eyebrows at that, a smart retort rising to her lips. ‘Really? It is fascinating to speculate on what you might have done had you been wrong.’

‘I would have crawled back out the window and left poor Eleanor in peace. Aha!’ Stockport reached into the vanity drawer and pulled out her spectacles. ‘Eleanor’s glasses.’ He held them aloft and peered through them. ‘Just as I suspected, these lenses are hugely distorted.’

‘Satisfied?’ Nora lowered the dagger and moved towards him, wondering if her wiles would work dressed in unbecoming white flannel. She felt out of her element, not dressed for the part.

This time, Stockport was ready for her. ‘Not a chance. I might have proven to myself that I was correct about the connection, but this only proves to the public that Eleanor wears a wig and glasses. Where’s The Cat’s garb?’ His blue eyes darted around the room, seeking a likely hiding spot.

‘The deal you propose is nothing short of blackmail,’ Nora accused.

‘Tsk, tsk. Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer “protection”.’ His eyes lit on the wardrobe. ‘There’s a likely hiding place. Let’s see what Eleanor hides behind her bevy of ugly dresses.’

Nora experienced a moment of true panic. He strode towards the wardrobe and she knew it was do or die.




Chapter Eleven


Nora flung herself across the door.

Stockport laughed. ‘You might as well admit to the hiding place if you’re going to be so obvious. Step aside.’

She didn’t mind him finding the costume. He knew already. But she did mind him finding other items like the list of investors and the small amount of loot she had hidden there, waiting for a chance to change it into pounds.

‘I will not step aside, Stockport. However, I will admit that The Cat’s costume is inside. No gentleman would force his way into a lady’s closet.’ She hoped the appeal to his sense of propriety and honour would work. She looked up at him with a gaze of wide-eyed innocence known to have been the undoing of other men before him.

‘Touché, madame.’ Stockport put a hand over his heart. ‘Your appeal to my honour has me at a disadvantage.’

Nora dropped her pose, all business again. ‘Now that’s settled, tell me your bargain, Stockport.’

He had the gall to smile grandly as if he were enjoying this nocturnal visit far too much for his own good. ‘Call me Brandon. Since we are to be accomplices of sorts, we should be on first-name basis, Eleanor.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Nora snapped.

Brandon raised his eyebrows in query. ‘What shall I call you? I can’t call you Cat.’ He tapped a long finger against his chin. ‘I know, I shall call you Ermentraude. Yes, that’s precisely the name that comes to mind when I think of you, white flannel and all.’

‘Stop your teasing. This isn’t a game, Brandon. I have no wish to hang.’ Nora brought up the dagger once more, tensing.

‘Tell me your name,’ Brandon demanded.

‘It’s Nora,’ she ground out through her teeth. She stepped close to him so that the blade pressed against his white shirt. ‘I will thank you to take me seriously.’

Something akin to mischief flickered in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you will thank me to take you—preferably horizontally over seriously, but we can work with that. I’m told I am quite skilled at a variety of positions.’

Nora’s free hand shot up and slapped him with resounding force across the planes of his gorgeous face. ‘If that was the deal you were coming to negotiate, you can climb back out of the window right now.’ She gave an expert jab with her blade, slicing off an onyx stud from his shirt front to emphasise her point.

‘Ouch, that pricked, you vixen!’ Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrist holding the knife. Nora kicked him hard in the shins, succeeding only in raising his ire.

Instantly, she felt herself lifted off the ground and slung over his shoulder. He took two long strides and she was tossed on to her bed. Stockport followed her down, imprisoning her with the sheer size of his looming frame and forcing her to meet his impossibly azure eyes.

Her breath came in pants, her anger quickly turning to something more lethal than the blade limp in her hand. By all the saints, he was gorgeous and at close range he was nigh on irresistible.

‘How dare you?’ Nora berated. ‘I don’t like fast men.’

‘I don’t like conniving women.’ He was nearly as breathless as she.

She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You do too. You like the way I do things, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’ She twined her arms about his neck and brought his lips to hers in a searing kiss.

Nora could feel the pressure of his erection hard against the juncture of her thighs and felt her body thrill to it. She wanted him. Negotiations and deceptions suddenly seemed secondary in light of the primal need surging through her.

He drew back, resting on his knees, straddling her at the thighs. Nora cast him a questioning glance at his retreat.

‘I want you, Brandon,’ she said bluntly in case he had somehow misunderstood her body’s invitation.

‘I want you too, but not at knife point.’ He jerked his head towards her right hand. ‘Drop the dagger.’

‘Deal. Drop your trousers.’

‘Deal.’

The dagger clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the softer shush of trousers.

Negotiations were complete.

‘Say it again, Nora. Say you want me,’ Brandon murmured quietly as he resumed his position over her, hands on either side of her head, his lips flicking fire-hot kisses along the column of her neck.

She could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow she found the wherewithal to whisper it again. ‘I want you, Brandon.’

‘No games?’ His hand gently kneaded a breast through the flannel. His body might be ready, but his mind was sceptical, no doubt recalling the last time they’d played along these lines. He’d ended up tied to the bed.

Hungry for his full commitment, Nora offered the reassurance he sought. ‘It’s no game, not tonight.’ She leaned up to kiss him again. ‘Tonight, it’s just you and me, no politics between us.’

He studied her face, a sudden tenderness present on his own countenance that startled Nora. ‘Truly?’ he asked in near-reverent tones, indicating this was no game for him either.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, reaching for him once more and growing tired of the delays. With her two hands she reached up and rent the fabric of his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Then she began tugging at her nightgown.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, turnabout’s fair play.’ Brandon gave a sensual laugh and reached for the gown himself. ‘Do you have many like this?’

‘Two others.’

‘Good. Then you won’t miss this one.’ He grabbed up the fabric at the hem in both hands and ripped. Slowly. Revealing her to him inch by aching inch.

He was a torturer of the highest order. Nora closed her eyes against the onslaught of desire that took her the moment his lips caressed her exposed calf and moved their way up to her thighs. Never had she been so thoroughly or successfully wooed. His skill had not been exaggerated.

Nora tried to keep a part of her mind detached, focused on something else so that she would not be wholly consumed by the act she and Brandon were engaged in. She tried to think of her next robbery, tried to visualise the floor plan of the St John house, tried to remember Brandon was her enemy, and while there could be an objective moment of shared pleasure between them, there could be nothing more.

She failed utterly.

Her mental exercises were no match for the musky scent of his maleness and the clean spicy smell of his soap. His hands caressed and his kisses worshipped as he made his way up her body, laving and revering by turn until she was at last bare to his gaze.

With a lazy finger, he traced a circle about the aureole of her breast. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said simply.

Her heart sang at the plain compliment. It meant all the more for its lack of adornment and her desire mounted. She could feel her own slickness welling and she prayed it wouldn’t be long before Brandon brought his sweet brand of agony to an end. Nora writhed against him in encouragement.

‘Patience, Nora.’ He laughed softly before calming her mouth with a kiss. ‘I would not rush this and have it over so quickly.’ He tested her with a gentle finger and even that small, intimate invasion left her gasping.

His erection prodded the entrance to her soft core and she opened to it, spreading her legs wide to accommodate him between them. His heat was contagious and she was seized with an urgency to have him inside.

The sooner this exquisite distress was over, the sooner she could find her balance. She was fighting futilely and frantically now to save herself from complete capitulation.

He entered her with a sharp push that caused her to gasp and then he sighed, sliding home the rest of the distance. She found his rhythm and raised her hips to join him. Had anything ever felt so divine? Her body pulsed around his shaft, faster and faster until she knew she’d burst from the ecstasy of it. Desperately she strove to hold on to a piece of herself, to not give him everything.

‘Let it happen, Nora. We’ve been moving towards this since we met,’ Brandon coaxed hoarsely. ‘There, now, let it go. Come soar with me.’

And she did.

Nora exploded. Her senses were raw and vulnerable. She could feel Brandon’s weight as it sagged in satiation against her, having found his release as well. She could smell the musk of their lovemaking. She could taste the sweat of their efforts on her skin. Had she ever been more alive than she was right now?

Brandon rolled to his side and pulled her to him so that her backside lay tucked against him. Not for all the sterling in Britain would she have moved from that position, even if she could have willed her languid bones to do so. Overcome with an odd sense of completion, Nora fell asleep for the first time in years not wondering about tomorrow.



This was not what he had come here for, Brandon mused in the dark, watching Nora sleep beside him. He wished he could rest that easily. He idly fingered a long curl and let it fall against her exposed shoulder. He had come to strike a deal with her. He would warn her about the trap at St John’s in exchange for her promise that she would stop the raids. He wouldn’t expose her identity. She could move on. Then she would be someone else’s problem.

He didn’t want her to be someone else’s problem. He wanted her to be his problem, and his alone; not Witherspoon’s or St John’s, just his.

Tonight had complicated matters. He had not come here with any intention to bed her, but, having done so, he was forced to recognise that his attraction to Nora was more than easily slaked lust.

He would be severely compromised if the investors discovered this little liaison. Hell, the investors were the least of his worries. He was the local magistrate and he was bedfellows with the local underworld. Literally. Being with Nora could not happen again.

Nora, Nora, Nora, his mind chanted. At last, his passion had a name and visage beyond the alias and the mask of The Cat. They had made love twice more and each time had served to heighten his desire for her.

She fired his blood like no other. She was not interested in him for his title or his vote like the powdered women of the ton. She wanted him as a man and only as a man. The thought was stimulating and highly complimentary if he didn’t realise the reality behind it. She could not have him any other way. As a man and a woman, there were no barriers between them. Acknowledging him as an Earl and a mill owner erected plenty of obstacles.

Nora stirred beside him, reminding him that the night was passing and that he could not be caught at The Grange when the sun rose. He doubted his ability to resist another coupling if she awoke.

Brandon reluctantly rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He dressed in the dark, the lamp having gone out hours ago. He shrugged into the sleeves of his greatcoat and felt the imprint of the small notebook he carried in his inside pocket. Inspiration struck.

Kneeling by the sill, he took out the small lead pencil and notebook and wrote. He left the paper on the table next to her bed and said a silent farewell before exiting through the window.



He was gone. Nora knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt empty. A brush of her hand over cold sheets where he had lain confirmed it. Well, what had she expected? He could have not stayed. He couldn’t very well have walked downstairs and declared his presence to Hattie and Alfred or risk being seen leaving the Grange by anyone who happened to be taking a morning ride. It simply wasn’t practical.

Of course, ‘practical’ was merely a rationalisation to salve her wounded pride. He probably woke up and realised how foolhardy their passionate foray had been, just as she was doing now. And it was that—it was the most foolhardy thing she’d done since her brief marriage.

Nora rolled over on her back and moaned. What was it with her and handsome men? They were her Achilles’ heel. Her first husband had been handsome, conceited and lazy. She hadn’t discovered the last two traits until it was too late. Now it seemed she was on the brink of falling for another handsome face, this one entirely out of her league. A thief had no business giving her heart or her body to a peer of the realm. It would only serve to complicate things between them.

‘Hah!’ Nora snorted out loud to the empty room. ‘It was only sex.’ Perhaps saying it out loud would help her put everything into perspective. It wasn’t as if she was expecting him to offer for her after their night together—their incredible, exceptional night together.

It didn’t help. No matter how many times she said it, she could not convince herself it was only sex. She had wanted Brandon on a higher plane. She’d wanted him body and soul. And last night, he’d wanted her too, all politics aside.

Unless he’d been pretending. Doubt gnawed at her innards. Oh, please, no. Was it possible to fake the way he had looked at her? The way he’d seduced her with such reverence as if she were a goddess? Remembering made the doubt worse. Perhaps he thought to ensnare her, lure her close with protestations of love and undying devotion. She remembered his simple words: ‘You’re so beautiful.’

Nora cringed. Someone trying too hard would have made the mistake of using flowery language, comparing her lips to roses or some other body part to some other ridiculous commodity. Not Brandon Wycroft. He was a master at his craft.

Nora reprimanded herself. She’d willingly eaten from the proverbial tree of knowledge last night. She and Brandon had made love and now there was doubt, slinking like a serpent between them. Before last night, everything had been clearly defined; she wanted to see the mill fail and he wanted to see it succeed. It had all been so uncomplicated.

Nora’s eyes lit on the table beside her bed. A note. She reached for it. Nora, do not go to St. John’s on Wednesday night. It is a trap. B.

Nora crumpled the small sheet in her hand. The note was short, concise and, after last night, positively deadly. Was he telling the truth and wished to protect her from harm? Was it a lie? Maybe he hoped she would believe the note and forgo the raid. It might be nothing more than a ploy to get The Cat to stop the robberies. If the robberies stopped, the investors would stay. The mill would go forward. He would get what he wanted. He would win.

She hated herself. He had her right where he wanted her—between doubt and disaster.



‘She’s got you right where she wants you—panting like a stallion around a mare in season,’ Jack drawled, sprawled in a chair before the fire in Brandon’s library, a glass of brandy in one hand. His growing familiarity with that position was starting to irritate Brandon.

Brandon shot Jack a ferocious glare. ‘Don’t be crass. That’s not funny. I brought you here to help me, not to make jokes at my expense. So far, you’ve done nothing but drink my whisky and abuse my hospitality.’ Looking for insight into his problem, Brandon had confessed his night with Nora to Jack, daggers and all.

‘It’s not crass, it’s true.’ Jack twirled the snifter’s stem carelessly. ‘She beds you…’

‘She did not bed me,’ Brandon retorted, his pride stinging.

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Correction. You bedded her. That’s what she’s convinced you to think anyway. In return, you spilled the beans and told her everything.’

Brandon stared into the fire. He was mad at Jack for making his time with Nora into something manipulative and tainted. He was mad at himself for partially believing his friend might be right. There was nothing like a little disgust and self-loathing to queer his pitch with Nora.

He was conscious of Jack rising from his chair. Jack gained the door and turned back. ‘Tell me, did you ever get a look in that wardrobe she so zealously defended?’

Brandon met his question with stoic silence. No, he hadn’t and, worse, he hadn’t thought anything of it until Jack brought it up. Whatever she was hiding in there, she had successfully defended. So successfully, in fact, he hadn’t even realised she had diverted him until a day later.

‘That’s what I thought. Now, explain to me again how she doesn’t have you where she wants you?’

Brandon sighed and slumped down in his chair. By Lucifer’s stones, sleeping with Nora was the worst best thing he’d ever done.




Chapter Twelve


Wednesday night found Nora guiding her horse up the dark Cheetham Hill Road towards the wealthy neighborhood where Magnus St John lived.

She was glad she had chosen to come. She couldn’t stand hypocrisy in any form. It irked her endlessly that men like St John and Witherspoon made money off the grime of industry, but wouldn’t dare to dirty themselves by living amid the squalor they wrought.

They might think twice about their fortunes if they couldn’t look down on the factories of Manchester from their lofty mansions on Cheetham Hill, but instead had to live in Ardmore, a once-elegant, but quickly succumbing, suburb of Manchester or some other such neighbourhood.

The decision to carry out her plans at St John’s had been a classic prisoner’s dilemma and she’d spent the better part of the week debating her decision.

Go or stay? There appeared no way she could win. If she went and there was no trap, it would mean that Brandon had used their intimate encounter to manipulate her plans. If not, it would mean Brandon held some modicum of feeling for her, but going would put her in significant danger.

Nora knew she should hope the first option was true, but part of her didn’t want to believe Brandon could fake such an intense encounter or, even if he could, that he would have done so with her. After all, she’d been honest with him from the start about who and what she was.

While Nora, the woman on the brink of catapulting into love, was tempted to play the coward and renege on her Wednesday raid, The Cat knew her duty. The Cat did not shirk her responsibilities.

Despite the hiccup of her interlude with Brandon, The Cat was succeeding; the investors were scared; word in the village had it that two were asking to pull out. The mill was short on funds. Everything was going according to plan.

Experience taught her that was when the bottom usually fell out of the bucket. Just not tonight, she prayed, please, just don’t let it be tonight. Still, in spite of her responsibilities, she might have opted for remaining at home this evening if it hadn’t been for the note that arrived Monday afternoon.

The regular food supplies had not improved Mary Malone’s health. She desperately needed a doctor and expensive medicines. Nora was her only hope. That Mary had written to ask for help indicated how dire her situation must be.

The street on which St John lived in his palatial townhouse was near. Nora turned off and followed the lane behind the fine homes leading to the mews where the residents stabled their cattle. She found a quiet corner behind St John’s home, not far from the gate leading to his small city garden where she could discreetly leave her horse.

She’d been here twice before and knew the gardens and house well. The dining room, with its imported Venetian crystal chandelier, was St John’s pride. The elegant room could be accessed from the outside by French doors that opened into the room so guests could be entertained by the burbling fountain in the spring. In the winter, the doors were kept shut and the gardens dark.

It would be the perfect entrance as long as the undercook had done her job and slipped the sleeping potion Nora’s network had provided into the staff’s afternoon tea, the last meal they would have before serving St John’s guests. The powder would induce a sound eight hours of sleep before wearing off.

If the potion worked as planned, all the non-essential staff would be asleep, leaving her to deal only with the footmen in the dining room serving the meal. She wasn’t worried overmuch. Many of them were hired just for the evening and already had sympathies with The Cat. The others didn’t care much for St John and his blustering ways. She was counting on them enjoying the sight of their arrogant master being brought to heel too much to pose any real problem.

Nora dismounted and continued the short distance to St John’s on foot. She deftly scaled the garden wall and dropped silently to the ground. Her first task was to unlock the gate. There was no sense in scaling the wall on her way out too.

When she left, she had only to run to the gate, push it open and she’d be in the street with only a short distance between her and the horse. Better yet, should Brandon be telling the truth about the party, the guests would have their carriages and horses hidden from common view. By the time they retrieved their horses to give pursuit, she would be long gone into the night.

Her escape route secured, Nora turned her attention to the house. Customarily, on Wednesday nights the St Johns played cards. She scanned the exterior. Her eyes lit on the dining-room window. The room was dark, the exquisite chandelier dim. Her spirits sank.

She supposed a part of her had hoped to see the chandelier blazing, but that was ridiculous. Witherspoon and St John wouldn’t overlook that obvious detail. A lit chandelier would warn off a burglar, a sure sign that someone was dining at home.

She pulled a small watch out from beneath her cloak and consulted its face. Five minutes before nine. St John and company were to have sat for dinner at a quarter past seven. By now they would be finishing their third course, the fowl course, and have had plenty to drink. It was well known that St John served drinks before dinner and kept an excellent wine cellar for his entertainments.

Nora did quick calculations in her head. Her information indicated St John served his meals à la Russe. That meant there would be ten footmen in attendance, one for each guest.

Her tallies totalled twenty people in all. Unless Brandon was in the room—then that made twenty-two, Brandon and the footman serving him. The thought drew a shiver from her that she did not dare to contemplate. She had not seen him since their night together. She could not stop to dwell on him now. She had a performance to give—if not to the group quietly waiting for her in the dark house, then for Brandon when she finished here.

She neared the panes and her breath caught. She glanced again and was sure. Candle flames, invisible at a distance, flickered on the dining-room table. Elation surged through her. Brandon hadn’t lied. Do not think on him! she cautioned herself, breathing deeply to center her thoughts.

She checked the two pistols and knife she carried at her waist—three weapons, not counting the hidden dagger in her sleeve sheath, the one she’d pulled on Brandon. She thought of Mary’s three children and shoved fears for her own safety aside and bravely plunged ahead.



The glass-paned doors that gave out on to the terrace from the St Johns’ dining room shattered the polite tones of supper conversation. Women screamed. Men bit off barely restrained expletives at the interruption of their well-ordered evening. A dark form vaulted on to the white-clothed table. In each hand, two deadly, long-nosed pistols gleamed in the dim candlelight.

‘I say!’ St John half-rose in his seat to protest the intrusion.

‘You’ll say nothing more until I command it!’ came the reply.

Sitting to the right of St John, Brandon felt the tension he’d been carrying between his shoulder blades all evening dissipate in anticipation of what was to come. The Cat had arrived. The trap—laying in wait for The Cat to come—had been sprung, only now it seemed more to her advantage than to theirs.

The investors’ plan seemed silly in the wake of the reality playing out before him. They’d thought to catch her by changing the St Johns’ weekly schedule and being at home when The Cat came calling. They had not planned for the contingency of The Cat confronting them directly. The servants were supposed to have subdued the intruder.

That worried him. What would she do when the servants stormed the dining room? She couldn’t hold off the entire staff. But then, The Cat wouldn’t leave such a detail uncovered. Perhaps there would be no staff. Looking covertly around the room, it became clear that the footmen were not going to leap to St John’s aid. Maybe no one else would either. Brandon relaxed. The odds were looking up.

Now, the investors’ very nemesis danced on the table and held them at gunpoint against the odds of ten to one. Silently Brandon applauded her tenacity but he didn’t want to see her hurt and he’d prefer not to be compromised by coming to her defence. Although, at the moment it didn’t look like she needed much protection.

His conscience mocked him. It was a bit late in the game to be worrying about compromising situations now. Besides, he’d chosen to put himself in this predicament by coming to dinner at all. His curiosity had gotten the better of him; had Nora believed him and used the information he had given her to protect herself or had she been filled with the same doubts that plagued him and come anyway, thinking he had lied for his own benefit?

Tonight would be a litmus test. If she stayed away, it meant she trusted him. If she came…Well, then he’d owe Jack twenty quid and Nora would owe him an explanation about what exactly she thought had transpired between them.

Oh, indeed, his curiosity had led him to St John’s dining room. Inarguably it certainly had gotten the best of him. Now, as he watched Nora hold court on St John’s damask cloth, he hoped curiosity wouldn’t kill The Cat.



With nimble steps, Nora stepped towards St John and presented him with a black bag. ‘Pass the bag about the table and deposit your jewellery and effects into it,’ she snapped, giving one of the guns an ominous wave.

St John was too flustered to do anything but comply. He fumbled with the ruby cravat pin he wore and put it in the bag. Mister Flack on his left had no such compunction.

‘Now see here, you insolent bastard, you cannot commandeer us in such a fashion!’

She cocked the pistol, an unmistakeable sound. ‘Can I not?’

‘Damn it all, man,’ Flack beseeched the host. ‘Call for your servants.’

Eyes blazing at the man’s insistent mutiny, Nora kicked over his crystal goblet of red wine and let the burgundy stain seep into the pristine cloth. ‘Better wine than blood, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Flack? At the next interruption, I shoot. Don’t take any notions about servants coming to your rescue. They have been effectively subdued thanks to a wee potion in their afternoon tea.’ She hoped that sufficiently cowed Mr Flack. She would rather not shoot anyone although, if it came to it, a flesh wound to the shoulder might do some of them good.

The women put up no resistance as she trained the pistols on each guest in turn, causing them to make their donations quickly so that the pistols might be turned on their neighbour instead. The bag came to Brandon last. Her eyes locked on his, compelling him to keep her secret. Don’t make me have to try to shoot you.

His gaze was riveting and demanded her attention, which almost cost her. In order to keep the bag and Brandon in sight, she turned her attention slightly away from the other half of the table. Brandon’s face saved her at the last moment. His sharp eyes slid to the left and she whirled with his gaze, hearing the noise as she did so.

Stinging from the loss of his diamond cravat pin, Mr Witherspoon tried to play the hero. A gentleman’s derringer flashed in his hand. Only his penchant for the dramatic bought her the needed extra seconds. If he had shot first and talked later, the outcome might have been vastly different.

‘Drop your weapons!’ Witherspoon bellowed.

Nora laughed fearlessly. ‘Drop your weapons, sir!’

‘I am not afraid. I don’t think you’ll shoot,’ Witherspoon retorted.

‘How willing are you to risk your companions on that bet? For instance, would you be willing to risk the Earl?’ She turned one of her pistols on Brandon. Damn the seating arrangement. She had no choice. The shattered door lay to his right—her escape and he was in the way. She wished it was anyone but him. This was the very scenario she wanted to avoid. If she couldn’t shoot him, she would have to take him with her.

She started barking instructions while the table erupted into muffled shrieks of horror at the possibility of a murdered Earl. ‘My lord, take the bag and start backing towards the door. Do not try to run. I will use my second pistol to shoot you down in your tracks. To the rest of you, I command you to stay seated in your chairs for ten minutes. Do not follow me. My lord is my hostage. It will go poorly for him if you attempt any more heroics.’

To her relief, Brandon moved towards the door. She backed up, using a careful sidestepping motion to keep both him and the table in her line of vision. It wouldn’t do for Brandon to play the traitor now. For good measure, Nora fired a shot at the chain holding the chandelier, sending the Venetian crystal confection crashing on to the table, scattering china.



‘What do we do now?’ Brandon asked once they cleared the house and were out in the street.

‘I’ve a horse hidden down the street. I don’t expect those idiots in there to actually wait ten minutes before they come hunting.’ She stuffed the guns into her belt. ‘Now we run.’ Nora sprinted down the street, leaving Brandon to follow, although it never occurred to her that he might not.



Her assumption that he would blindly follow orders and play the hostage-cum-accomplice galled Brandon beyond the point of good sense. The tumult of emotions that had roiled within him all night rose to the fore while he ran after her; all the anxiety of waiting for her to show or not—did she trust him or not?—and the awkward mixture of fear and pride at watching her perform her antics on St John’s white-clothed table. It angered him that she would risk her own life to test him.

Deuce take it, he’d worried himself sick on her behalf and she was using him as a hostage. Jack would get a hearty laugh out of that along with his twenty quid. Clearly their night together hadn’t meant the same to her as it did to him. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it. The game stopped here and it stopped tonight.

They gained the dark corner where the horse waited. Brandon didn’t wait a moment longer. He grabbed for her arm, bringing her to a jarring halt. He spun her around amid a torrent of protests and backed her into a wall, both of his hands now fiercely gripping her shoulders beneath her dark cloak. ‘Listen to me, you little minx. Whatever game you and I are playing is finished. I could have exposed you back there at dinner and I didn’t. You owe me and you’re going to pay,’ he growled in menacing tones.

‘Do you think I’ll kiss you for it or perhaps you hope for something more? Would another night between the sheets be enough to cover my supposed debt?’ She was all sauce and boldness, making the most of their bodies’ close proximity. ‘Any debt I owe you has already been paid. I could have shot you for good measure and ensured no one would follow us since they’d be too busy looking after your wounded self.’

Her brassy behavior, coupled with her cocky assumptions, fired Brandon’s ire further. ‘Stupid fool! You wouldn’t have shot me. You were betting on me behaving more like your accomplice than your hostage the whole while.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Brandon growled, ‘Because you’d never take an unbound hostage who has a height advantage of five inches and several pounds of brawn. You’d be setting yourself up to be overpowered. Like this.’

In a fast motion, Brandon pulled her to him, trapping her against his chest. He lowered his lips to claim a primitive kiss while she bucked against him in outrage. He used her in rough fashion, finding an outlet for his earlier frustrations over the danger she’d put herself in by storming the party. He tasted salt where her teeth bit the tender flesh of his lips. He revelled in the fight she posed.

Their mouths duelled. She bit. He nipped. Their tongues tangled. Brandon felt the tempo change as their duel became infused with a heat of a different sort. It wasn’t so much the heat of battle that raged between them now, but the heat of passion, of an attraction that, once acknowledged, was not easily quenched. He drew back for a moment to gather breath.

‘How dare you!’ she cried, remembering to be angry at his advances.

‘Tonight, I want something more than kissing from you. I want the truth and I’ll have it as soon as we get to safety.’ He had more to say, but a glimmer in the next lane demanded his attention.

He was loathe to let Nora out of his sight; however, the appearance of lanterns could only belong to a hastily launched search party. His plans were thwarted.

Brandon jerked his head to the west, calling her attention to the cluster of bobbing lights. ‘In the meanwhile, you might want to cultivate some common sense and develop some anxiety over your precarious position.’ He was gratified to note a flicker of concern pass through her as she took in the burgeoning scene.

‘Unhand me at once. You can stay here. Finding you in one piece will take the necessity out of their cold evening search,’ she ordered, taking charge again.

Brandon shook his head and held his ground. ‘No. We’ll do this my way. I’ve had enough of your plans for one evening.’

He knelt on one knee and began rubbing handfuls of dirt into his evening clothes. He smudged his cheek and then proceeded to gather his shirt between his hands and rent the cloth until he looked thoroughly abused. ‘I will go to them and tell them I’ve eluded you. I’ll show them my wound and ask to be taken back to St John’s for bandaging. That way no one will be looking for a trail you might have left behind. You will go on to my estate and await me there. You and I are not finished tonight.’

‘What if I don’t follow your dictates? You cannot force me to show up at your house and turn myself over to your dubious care. How do I know it’s not a trap of your own making?’ she argued coolly, her mind as sane as ever, but Brandon saw the nervousness in her eyes as she assessed the nearing lanterns and raised voices.

‘You don’t have a choice. If you do not comply, I’ll call out the hounds myself. I doubt Eleanor Habersham will appreciate her servants being subjected to the indignities of a house search, to say nothing of having to explain the oddity of her own nocturnal absence.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Nora raged in impotent fury.

‘Follow my wishes and I’ll protect you if needed.’

‘There’s another consideration you’ve overlooked. You don’t have a wound,’ Nora pointed out.

‘Not yet. Give me your dagger.’

Reluctantly, Nora threw back the cuff of her shirt, revealing the hidden sheath and pulled out the dagger, handing it to him handle first.

He gripped it and quickly flashed the sharp blade across the palm of his hand.

Nora stifled an undignified yelp at the sight of dark blood welling in his hand. He’d cut deep, giving himself a realistic gash. Instinctively, she wadded the hem of her cloak to press against the cut. ‘You go too far!’

He stayed her with his good hand. ‘Meet me at the estate in an hour and you can doctor me all you wish.’ With an impish smile that suggested adventure sat well with him, Brandon took off in the direction of the lanterns. His hand hurt like hell. She was probably right—he’d cut it far more deeply than necessary. But he could not deny he’d enjoyed himself immensely tonight. It surprised him to realise that there wasn’t a night in recent memory that he could recall having so much fun despite all that was at risk.



The magnitude of the risk she was taking struck Nora all at once and all too late. She was already ensconced in Brandon’s private rooms, wrapped in a paisley robe she’d liberated from his dressing room and sitting before the fire his valet had kept stoked against my lord’s return later in the evening, when she realised what she had done. She had trusted Stockport unconditionally not once, but twice that evening.

First, he was right. She had indeed bet that he wouldn’t revolt against playing the role of ‘hostage’ when Witherspoon pulled out his derringer. Second, she actually believed that she would have his protection when he returned to the estate. She believed it so thoroughly she had made free with his chambers, shedding her damp clothing and curling up before his fire in anticipation of the forthcoming conversation.

What was she thinking? At what point had her wits become so addled that she’d started thinking the Earl of Stockport was her ally? In reality, there was nothing to stop Stockport from returning to St John’s and leading the company straight to her. After all, he’d told her where to be. It made sense that he was setting her up so he could capture her. Arresting The Cat in front of the people to whom her arrest mattered most would be a feather in his cap. Such an act would go far to restore his damaged credibility over the factory.

As if her doubts had suddenly sprung to life and assumed human form, voices rose from the vestibule downstairs. Stockport had returned, bringing with him unlooked-for companions. Her fears were realised and about to be played out. Being here in Stockport’s home was the real trap. The dinner party had merely been foreplay to the true betrayal. Nora’s heart plummeted at the sting of it all. She could imagine Stockport telling everyone how he had lulled The Cat into complacency, weaving his own web of deceit around The Cat and fooling her into believing she had the upper hand.

The voices grew strident and Nora detected the seeds of an argument rising between the new arrivals. Stockport’s voice rose in protest. He didn’t need any further assistance and the men were free to return to their evening. The others with him countered that it might be unsafe to leave him alone while The Cat ran free in the countryside. One of them, probably Witherspoon, suggested a search of the house. Stockport protested again. Nora grinned to herself. Maybe Stockport hadn’t told them everything after all. She would wager the contents of the jewel bag she’d collected that night he hadn’t told them The Cat was a woman.

The knowledge that he had most likely withheld some information didn’t exonerate him from the betrayal he’d wrought by bringing the men here, but it did serve to harden her heart. Brandon had promised her protection this night and he was damn well going to give it to her even if she had to drag it from him in the most compromising of manners.

Nora looked down at the fine paisley silk of Brandon’s robe and suppressed a laugh. He thought to show them The Cat, dressed in dark trousers and shirt. He could let Witherspoon and the others search the house. They wouldn’t find The Cat of Manchester in residence. Neither would they find anyone hiding away timidly awaiting discovery.

Nora tossed her hair once, giving it a sleep-rumpled look. Feigning wide-eyed innocence, she marched to the top of the stairs, ready to do battle with Witherspoon, Brandon and whatever else fate decreed to throw in her path.




Chapter Thirteen


‘Darling, what happened to you?’ The siren on the stairs gushed with concern, causing Brandon and the five men with him to stop their conversation in mid-sentence and gaze slack jawed at the vision draped in a man’s dressing gown at the top of the landing.

‘Your clothes are ruined and your hand—why, you’re wounded!’ The dark-haired angel managed a feminine gasp of horror and began descending the steps, leaving no ambiguity as to the status of her undress beneath the robe.

Brandon watched her performance in a state of consciousness that hovered somewhere between thoroughly amused and utterly horrified. She was magnificent, so boldly taking them all by surprise. He’d been racking his mind, trying to think of a way to be rid of the men who had insisted on following him home. He’d been unsuccessful. Dismissing them and their offers to search the house for the sake of his safety had proved too difficult to thwart without looking like a graceless cad. From the look of things, he need not have worried. Nora had it all well in hand with her tousled hair and wide eyes.

‘My lord…’ Witherspoon sputtered incoherently, looking to him for an explanation of the woman’s presence. Witherspoon might be maliciously ruthless, but he was also a prude.

Nora reached his side and put a possessive hand on his sleeve. ‘I have discomfited you. I must apologise. I thought Brandon would have told everyone by now.’ She playfully tut-tutted him in a chiding manner. ‘Before he was called away from London, we were about to announce our engagement. I am his betrothed, Nora Hammersmith.’

Brandon felt his face freeze into a smiling mask. She’d thought his self-inflicted wound was too much. This time she went too far! Was that her real last name or another alias?

Shockingly, he realised he didn’t mind her claim. What bothered him was the impossibility of carrying off such a charade. Did she know all that an Earl’s wedding entailed? More importantly, a nobleman’s intended would not be alone in his home unchaperoned. Her enticing dishabille cast his entire character in dishonour, suggesting to all assembled that they had anticipated their wedding night not just once, but were in the habit of frequently doing so. It would be much more difficult to wriggle off the hook of an already consummated betrothal.

Nora smiled and blushed, having the good sense to feign modesty. Belatedly, she clutched at the neck of the robe. ‘I am so sorry, my lords. I am a simple country girl at heart and seeing my betrothed in such a state has undone my wits. I must beg forgiveness for such a lack of decorum.’

Brandon scrutinised the group, watching for their reaction. He had no need to worry. She had them utterly convinced. Reassurances flowed, followed by congratulations, and a few of the men dared to slap Brandon on the back for finding such a lovely and concerned lady. Others ribbed him about keeping her a secret for so long.

Nora demurely took her leave and retreated upstairs. The men took her departure as a signal for their farewells and Brandon ushered them out of the hall within minutes, happy to see their backs, if only temporarily.

Several of them had assured Brandon their wives would call on his intended come the morrow. To which he had only answered that perhaps such visits were best delayed until his betrothed recovered from her journey.

He shut the door behind the last guest and leaned his head heavily against the solid oak panel. He would worry about tomorrow later. Right now, there was plenty in the present that demanded his attention. The Cat awaited him upstairs and she’d better have a good explanation for her behaviour tonight.

Brandon opened the door to his private chambers, ready to lay claim to those explanations and didn’t get a word out before she pounced.

‘Protection! You call that protection?’ she railed, punctuating her outrage with a well-thrown pillow at his midsection. ‘Your “protection” was self-defence at best!’

He schooled his features into a cool expression, a remarkable feat considering the heat she was raising in him, dressed as she was. ‘In defence of my actions, I’d hoped to re-direct their attentions to a lengthy search of the countryside. I did not guess they’d feel obliged to accompany me home and search the house or the grounds. If you’re angry at how events unfolded, you have only yourself to blame. Let me remind you—you told them you were my betrothed.

‘Do you know what it takes to pull off marrying an Earl? How will you extricate us from that one?’ Brandon pushed a hand through his hair in sign of his evident frustration. ‘Your escapades tonight were over the top. Whatever were you thinking to take on the entire dinner party? You could have been captured. Witherspoon’s more dangerous than you realise. I shudder to think of what might have happened with his gun if I hadn’t been there.’

She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead in a mockingly dramatic pose. ‘My hero! Am I such a simpleton that I would have gone into a situation where I had my doubts?’

‘Laugh all you want, but, thanks to me, you are not languishing in the Squire’s cellar tonight contemplating your upcoming trial.’ Brandon’s tone was harsh.

He strode to the window and looked out, turning his back to her, his hands fisted in his trouser pockets. He had to keep a cool head when dealing with this virago. He asked the question that had plagued him all night. ‘Why did you do it? You knew you were being set up.’

‘Did I?’ Nora challenged from the chair by the fire where she’d staked out her territory.

‘I told you.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Nora snapped. ‘You might have been trying to keep me away from the investors with the ploy of this invented trap.’

Brandon turned from the window. ‘You should know better than to think I would lie to you. You know I am capable of more than cheap tricks.’

‘Do I? It’s easy to be brave with words and a wagon load of supplies you can afford without troubling your pocket,’ she threw at his back.

‘I’d say tonight proves all. Do you have any appreciation for what I risked at St John’s? If they had realised I knew you or that I signalled you when Witherspoon pulled out his gun, we’d both be ruined. I let you point a gun at me and use me as a hostage to ensure your escape. What does that prove to you?’ Brandon barely kept his temper reined.

‘It proves what women have known for ages. Men are ruled by their cocks. A man will do anything for a woman who arouses him.’

Brandon swallowed hard. ‘Aha, so I am not the only one in this room with “motives”. What about you? How am I to believe you’re entirely innocent? Perhaps you seduced me in order to get me to bare my secrets.’

‘Then we are nothing more than a pair of double-crossers,’ Nora said with smug satisfaction.

He breathed deeply and found clarity in the moment. He saw through her ploy. She wanted to drive a wedge between them and she thought this double-edged sword of doubt had successfully put an obstacle between them. Well, then, he would parry with a riposte of his own.

‘I can’t accept that we are nothing more than two people playing a duplicitous game, Nora.’ Brandon lowered his voice, using a trick he often used when speaking in Parliament to gain attention when a loud voice failed to get it. ‘I won’t quarrel with you tonight. We are not such different creatures despite our disparity in social standing.’ Brandon moved to stand in front her chair, bending slightly to gently grip and massage her forearms through the silk.

‘Can’t you see that we want the same things, Nora?’ he murmured in a tone that implied the ‘same things’ carried a romantic connotation as well as a political one. To emphasise the duality of his comment, Brandon wrapped a dark, errant curl around his finger.

Now that the initial danger had passed, he wanted to remind her in all ways how similar they were, how right they were together, but Nora was still fighting.

‘I am your enemy. You are building a mill. I am trying to stop it. The comparison escapes me,’ she argued in breathless refutation of his claim, but her attempt to hold him off was empty.

Brandon felt her breath hitch at his touch. He saw her eyes lose their hardness. They flickered now with uncertainty and he knew what she was thinking—dare she put down her verbal armour? The first time had been a voyage into the unknown, but this time she knew what lay ahead.

Brandon gave a half-smile, delighting in her fire. She was a fighter to the end, but he had patience and whether she knew it or not, the end was very near. ‘Poor Nora, you’ve fought for so long—all you know is the fight, isn’t it? My mill will make a difference here. If I don’t build it, someone else will, someone who isn’t so concerned with the inequities of factory life. Someone like Cecil Witherspoon.’

He dropped the curl he’d been winding about his finger and let it fall against her silk-clad breast. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she assessed his words. She was calculating, weighing pragmatic reality against the urgings of her heart. She wanted to trust him. She cared for him. But scepticism was a difficult opponent to defeat.

‘Why are you doing this, Brandon?’ The disbelief he sensed was evident in her words.

Brandon watched her. This was not a moment for teasing; this was the moment for reassurances. He could have told her any number of lies. He opted for the truth, even though it exposed his hand, left him open for manipulation if she chose to do so.

‘You fire my blood, Nora. Not just your pretty face, but the whole of you, body and soul. Never have I met a woman with such tenacity or such concern for her fellow mankind. Your passions, all of them, stir me in a way I’ve not been stirred in a long time.’

Brandon bent his mouth to hers, catching it in a gentle kiss so unlike the rough kisses they’d shared on other occasions.

She pushed against his chest, showing her characteristic stubbornness. His Cat was not easily conquered. But then, any battle worth fighting contained an element of difficulty. ‘It’s not that easy, Brandon. A few kisses and a flowery proclamation cannot solve what lies between us.’

‘You cannot ignore that we’re drawn to each other,’ he argued softly, drawing her to her feet and bringing her close enough to nibble at the tender part of her ear.

‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’ She sighed.

‘You can believe in me, Nora.’ Brandon whet his lips and prepared to lay siege.



What if she could believe in what Brandon offered? If they were on the same side of the political spectrum, what other dreams might she dare to give wing? Dare she believe that he might admire her, and that beneath that admiration there might be something more? She would not know if she didn’t pursue this thing taking shape between them. It was all she needed to give her desire free reign.

She wound her arms about his neck and invited his lips back to hers. She pressed against him, letting her body say that for which she could not yet brave the words to speak. She tossed back her head and let him trail glorious kisses down her neck, allowing the vee of her dressing gown to dip open until it revealed more than it concealed of her naked form beneath.

Brandon groaned against her, bending to lave her breasts with his hot tongue, and she knew the pleasure was mutual. She felt his fingers tremble as his hands rose to push back the robe from her shoulders. She let the silk slither into a pool at her feet and she let his eyes feast upon her utterly exposed body.

Standing before him, naked, knowing where they were headed, was infinitely more intimate than the spontaneous act between them a few nights ago. This was premeditated.

She felt no shame in her nakedness, or any coveting lust in Brandon’s gaze, although it might have been better for her heart if she had. Instead, the look he gave her was full of sincere reverence. At least, in this moment, she was cherished. With that realisation, all barriers vanished.

‘Undress me,’ Brandon commanded in a hoarse voice filled with awe.

Nora knew what he asked. This was the point of no return. If she disrobed him, they would spend the night consummating the relationship in the most intimate, most complete of ways. There could be no excuses of haste and impulsiveness.

This act was deliberate. As such, it could not be brushed off as a game, an experiment, come the morning. This act would serve to seal an unspoken contract between them and it would bring with it binding implications.

She held his gaze as if she could signal with her eyes her understanding and acceptance of the significance of what they were about to do. The intensity of his stare indicated he understood as well. And he accepted.

‘Undress me, Nora,’ he repeated, extending the unwritten contract again. He wanted her and he fully comprehended what the price of wanting her meant.

‘Patience, Brandon.’ Nora smiled, reaching for the placard of buttons on his ruined waistcoat. Now that the decision had been made, she was free, her passions could be hers alone tonight. There would be no worries about manipulation and hidden agendas. Just pleasure.

‘Brandon. I like the sound of that. I haven’t been simply Brandon for a long time.’ His breath caught as she slid back the waistcoat and the panels of his dirty white shirt, thumbing his nipples with her nails.

Her elation increased. He understood! Although it was for entirely different reasons, he too longed to simply be himself, to lay aside the strain of the earldom, of life as a peer of the realm, and to just be.

She bent to suckle him in imitation of his earlier overture. Her hands moved lower to release the fastenings of his trousers. She paused long enough for Brandon to pull off his boots and kick free of his clothes.

Naked and in the obvious throes of full arousal, Brandon held out his hand to her. ‘Come to bed with me, Nora.’

She did not miss the import of his words, all designed to set the rhythm of partnership this night. There would be no leading and following. There would be mutual explorations. They would learn each other’s bodies together with no artifice between them, and at the end of it would be completion.




Chapter Fourteen


The sun had been up for a scant hour when the door to Brandon’s study slammed open and bounced off the mahogany panelling of the wall.

Brandon looked up from the papers spread before him on the desk, startled by the intrusion. Jack filled the room, his elaborate cape swirling about his knees in fair imitation of a whirlwind. ‘What have you done? I’ve been away from your side for a mere twelve hours and now the village is on fire with news of your engagement. I hope you haven’t done anything foolish.’

Brandon leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head while he studied his friend’s chagrin. Calmly, he replied, ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this early in the morning before, Jack. Sit down and settle yourself. You look as if you’ve been up all night.’ Brandon gestured to a chair and rang for coffee.

‘If I’ve been up all night, it’s your fault. I spent the wee hours in the public house, listening to the latest scandal brewing on your behalf. First, there were harrowing tales of The Cat hauling you out of the dinner party up in Cheetham as a hostage. Then Witherspoon and his friends launched into stories of your delectable betrothed who was beside herself with worry over your wounds.’ Jack gave a wry smile. ‘What wounds would those be?’

‘Self-inflicted.’ Brandon held up his cleanly bandaged hand.

‘It didn’t take me long to add up all the bits and deduce that the supposed intended was none other than The Cat. Deuce take it, Brandon, I’ve heard politics make for the most unusual bedfellows, but this is beyond the pale.’

Jack might have gone on with his scolding, but a footman entered with a tray of morning coffee and toast.

Brandon gathered his thoughts against Jack’s attack. Jack was only the first of many visitors who would demand explanations. He’d left Nora sleeping peacefully more than an hour ago in order to organise his defences, beginning with a missive to Manchester’s leading dressmaker.

Jack voiced the most pressing issue facing him as the servants left the room. ‘Now that you’ve got her, what are you going to do with her?’ Jack asked over the rim of his coffee cup.

‘I am going to play out the ruse and present her as my intended. It will buy some time until everything settles down.’ Brandon laid out the plan that had been taking shape in his head. ‘It’s the only way I can think of to get what I want.’

Jack gave a disbelieving guffaw. ‘If it were me voicing those sentiments, I’d know exactly how self-serving that plan was. Humour me, Brandon, and tell me what it is that you want? Somehow I don’t think the answer will be the mill progressing.’

‘I want to keep her safe. If she goes back to The Grange, she’ll try something else just as dangerous as that performance she gave last night at St John’s.’

‘And you worry that you might not be there to rescue her?’ Jack’s flippant tone softened. ‘You can’t keep her, you know that, don’t you? The Cat’s as wild as they come.’

‘Not all of us are as jaded as you, Jack. It’s not a character flaw to be less cynical.’

‘Still, it’s my job as your friend to disabuse you of any foolish notions you might harbour about taming The Cat. It’s what you called me up here for,’ Jack reminded him.

He gave Brandon a half-grin. ‘But I can see my preaching falls on deaf ears. You’ve got that “morning after” glow about you.’ Jack rose and put down his cup. ‘I’ll leave you to play house with your supposed betrothed and let your ruse run its course.’

Brandon drew a deep breath. ‘That’s another thing, Jack. I am not sure I want to see the ruse end.’

‘Well, it has to eventually, unless you actually—’ Jack broke off the sentence. Brandon was rewarded with a view of Jack at his most nonplussed, a feat few accomplished. ‘Are you suggesting you would make the relationship more permanent in nature? Make The Cat your Countess?’ Jack managed to get out when the initial shock passed.

‘Yes, my Countess. I have not forgotten,’ Brandon said placidly. ‘It is time I marry and look to my nursery.’

Jack resumed his seat, scrubbing at his face with his hands. ‘Yes, yes, of course it’s time to spring the parson’s mousetrap and all that. We’re getting no younger, but why couldn’t you find a nice débutante?’

Brandon hooted with disbelief. ‘A nice débutante? Listen to yourself, Jack. I could no more settle for a nice, white-gowned virgin half my age than you could. Just because I must marry to beget an heir doesn’t mean I’ll leg-shackle myself to the first débutante and her mother who come along. If that was the case, I would have married ages ago. There would have been no point in waiting. I have standards that must be met. I’ve waited to marry because no one has yet met them.’

‘Until now? Surely you’re not in love with her?’

‘Until now, no one has provoked me enough to think of a more permanent arrangement,’ Brandon said tentatively. ‘As for love, well, I’m not sure I’d know exactly what that is, having not ever truly been in love.’ He toyed with a pen, avoiding Jack’s knowing gaze. Too many people thought love could be feigned if the prize was large enough. He wanted more than that.

Brandon sighed heavily. ‘I’m probably not in love with Nora any more than she’s in love with me, but she makes me feel alive, Jack, in a way I’ve felt with no other. When I am with her, life is a grand romp.’

‘An illegal romp, don’t forget. Surely that can’t be one of your standards.’ Jack was all silky sarcasm. ‘I admit I find myself insanely curious as to what those standards might be. What does a thief have that an eligible girl of good family lacks?’ Jack stretched out his booted legs and waved his empty coffee cup toward the decanters collected on the polished sideboard. ‘I’ll need something stronger than coffee, however, to get through this.’

Brandon rose and obliged, pouring a healthy dose of brandy into the cup before adding a splash of coffee from the silver urn on the tray.

Jack sipped and sighed deeply. ‘Much better. Nothing like good French brandy to dull the shock that one’s best friend has gone completely mad. Now, about those standards.’

‘I want a wife who shares my causes and has a passion for the political welfare of the country.’ Brandon began ticking his standards off on his fingers. ‘I want a wife who cares for people. I want a wife who has a healthy appetite for the bedroom and a sense of adventure. I want a woman who wants me for myself, who looks at me and doesn’t see estates, titles, coronets and enormous pin allowances, but sees an intelligent man who thinks and has ideas of his own. In short, I want a woman who will be my partner in all aspects of my life.’

‘In short, you want a paragon. The irony of it all is that you think you’ve found this paragon in the notorious Cat of Manchester, who is robbing your investors blind and hobbling the very ideas for which you want to be appreciated,’ Jack asserted.

He shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t wish to demean your standards. We all want the paragon. In the end, we all settle for the débutante and the glimmer of hope that we might make her blank canvas into someone we can passably spend the rest of our lives with.’

‘I don’t settle,’ Brandon said with conviction.

Jack rubbed his hands on his thighs. ‘True enough. I’ve known you since our school days. You’ve always found a way to get what you want. It’s what I like about you, Brandon. I hope she’s worth it. For your sake, I hope she’s not upstairs stealing your mother’s damnable amethyst ring, again.’

Jack rose. ‘I will take my leave of your hospitality. When you decide you need me, I’ll be close by. Send word to the inn. In the interim, I wish you well.’



Nora sleepily groped the big bed, searching for the warmth of Brandon’s body. Her seeking hands found only cold sheets. Disappointingly, Brandon’s side of the bed was empty.

She pulled herself up into a sitting position and scanned the room, looking for traces of him. His clothes were gone. He was up and dressed.

She sighed heavily, flopping back against the down-filled pillows. It was better this way. She could be dressed and gone out the window before he knew it.

The two of them were unsuited for a long-term future together, as much as she wished that could be different. The realisation that she did wish it could be different struck her with such force she sat upright, trying to quell her rising emotion.

Her mind cruelly played the ‘what if’ game. What if there could be more than a short-term relationship between them? What if their passion was based on more than mutually shared lust? What if Brandon had been right, that they wanted the same things?

But they were only fantastical ‘what ifs’. In order for them to come true the world would have to be a far different place, a place where Earls married outlaws, a place where The Cat was not needed. That would be a perfect world indeed, an utter utopia where workers were treated fairly, where children did not risk limbs scavenging cotton droppings from under machines.

Those days were far away and probably beyond her lifetime, which might be a short one if she wasn’t careful. As much as her body yearned for Stockport, she had no business giving him her trust carte blanche. And really, Brandon had no business giving her his. He was in this game up to his neck and she wondered if he realised how deeply he played these days.

She could not allow him to develop a connection to her. It would be too dangerous for them both. She would end up dead. He would end up hurt if he developed a connection to her that could be traced or an attachment of an emotional nature. That was putting the cart before the horse. They had never spoken of love or affection last night or ever.

But sometimes sex did crazy things to a relationship, creating the illusion of something being there that wasn’t. Neither one of them could afford that delusion.

The solution was simple. She needed to leave. She dressed rapidly, thrusting legs into her breeches and arms through her shirt. Her hands fumbled on the buttons in her haste. She hoped her absence would send a message. There was no need for him to come looking for her and offering futile explanations for things that didn’t need to be explained.

Drat it, where was the other boot? Nora knelt on the floor and bent to peer under an armoire. There it was. She reached out and grabbed for it with a hand. But she was out of time.

‘As lovely as your derrière looks in those breeches, I am sure I can find something more suitable for my betrothed to wear.’ A familiar male voice broke the quiet of the room.

Damn that boot. If the boot had been handy when she was dressing, she would have been out the window. Now, she would have to face Brandon. From the sound of it, he was not pleased. The last thing she needed right now was a male caught up in some primal sense of protection for the woman he’d bedded.

‘Don’t get up.’ Brandon’s voice held a dangerous tone. ‘It’s the perfect position for spanking, which is what I’d like to do to you right now for even contemplating leaving.’

That was the sound of cold fury. Nora shut her eyes and took a deep breath before rising from her ignoble position on the floor. Her acerbic wit failed her, so she opted for silence, countering his anger with crossed arms and a defiant pose. She waited.



Brandon stared at Nora in disbelief. After Jack left, he’d come upstairs, expecting to find her still abed, still drowsy and on the brink of fully awakening. If he had waited a minute more, she would have been gone.

It was quite a blow to his ego to find that, while he was contemplating some level of serious commitment with a woman, the woman in question was contemplating escape out of a two-storey window. The whole scenario was worthy of a Drury Lane farce: an Earl, rich and handsome, able to have any woman, made sport of by the only woman he wanted.

Brandon shut the door behind him and met her stare evenly. He was gratified to see she was at a loss for words. ‘What did you think you were doing?’

‘We both know I’m not really your intended,’ she said at last.

‘We’re the only ones who know that.’ Brandon folded his arms and settled against the bed post, entrenching. ‘You cannot simply make such a claim in front of witnesses and then walk away, leaving me to clean up the mess. How am I to explain your disappearance or live down the scandal of broken nuptials? It’s hardly fair to me.’ He tried to sound cool, neutral, as if he weren’t furious at finding her in the midst of leaving.

‘I am sure you’ll think of something. Tell them you discovered I was a woman of loose virtue and that I misled you into believing I was something I was not.’ Her tone was punishingly devoid of any warmth. They could have been strangers for all that her tone implied. Brandon hated it.

‘I don’t lie well.’ Brandon pinned her with his gaze. ‘You are not a woman of loose virtue, but a woman of more honour than any person I’ve ever known. As for the bit about pulling the wool over my eyes, I resent the implication that I might be capable of being hoaxed. It reflects poorly on my manhood, to say nothing of being highly unbelievable. I fear Witherspoon and others would smell a rat. After all, I am the Cock of the North. I know my way around women, adroitly.’

Nora rolled her eyes. ‘Then it’s settled. We should definitely let people go on believing in our little deception for the sake of keeping your precious manhood intact.’

Brandon felt a smile crease his lips. This was better. He would rather joust with her wit than shadow-box her silence. ‘If there has to be any deception involved, I’d rather deceive others than deceive ourselves.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Nora fired back.

‘You want to walk out of here and pretend last night or the first night didn’t happen.’

‘For the record, I wasn’t going to walk out of here, I was going to climb. And pretending they didn’t happen is better than what you want.’ Nora bent to tug on her boot.

Brandon smiled wickedly and advanced towards her, making it difficult to look at him and put her boot on at the same time. ‘Tell me, what is it that I want?’

Nora gave up on the boot to meet him squarely. ‘You want to believe last night meant something, that you are under obligation to protect me.’

‘That is true enough. Protection is an issue we must consider. Witherspoon is set on capturing The Cat. We can’t risk him discovering The Cat’s identity.’

Nora interrupted, caution infusing her tone. ‘This is my fight. I will not have you entangled. The game has become too perilous.’

Brandon ignored her and forged ahead. ‘I will politely debate that point. The moment Witherspoon realises my betrothed and The Cat are one and the same, I am suddenly in the middle of a very tricky situation. I find myself in great need of guaranteeing your safety. The only way we can guarantee your safety is to stop the raids. Once the raids stop, people will lose interest in The Cat.’ He braced himself, knowing she wouldn’t like it.

‘You are asking me to give up my goals. How do I know you are not using the situation to get what you want? You want me gone so your investors won’t flee,’ Nora said shrewdly.

Brandon nodded. ‘You need assurances of my trustworthiness and you already have them. I have had opportunities to turn you in and I have not. Instead, I played out your ruse. Those are not the actions of a desperate man who could take the easy way out.’

Nora crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I have to leave at once if I want to live to fight another day.’

Brandon’s tone turned sharp. ‘There will be no more fighting for you. Consider yourself retired.’ He was close enough to touch her.

He reached for her. She let him draw her into his arms, but he could feel the tension of her reluctance. ‘Nora, when I said “protection”, I meant permanent protection. If Witherspoon doesn’t catch you, someone else, somewhere, will. You can’t play The Cat indefinitely. The only way to be safe is to stop being The Cat altogether.’

She was ready to bolt and Brandon knew he was on tenuous grounds. ‘Nora, don’t be The Cat. Don’t be Eleanor Habersham or any other bit of fiction you can dream up. Stay with me and let me keep you safe.’

‘What did you say?’ The pallor of her face did her credit. Her shock was real.

‘I said, stay with me.’ He felt her tense for a protest. He put a finger on her lips. ‘Shh. You can talk in a moment. You told me Christmas Day that you could never stop being The Cat because there would always be the fear of arrest for a past burglary. With me, you would be protected from that. No one would dare challenge you while you are under my care.’

Nora’s chest heaved, indicating she wanted to break into the one-way conversation. Brandon shook his head. ‘I’m not finished. I haven’t forgotten your other reasons. You won’t have to give up your cause. All my funds, all my political connections, will be at your disposal, Nora, to do with as you wish. You already know I share your concerns. You know I support the Reform Act. Nora, we would be splendid. Stay with me and know that your fears have been laid to rest.’

Brandon found himself slightly out of breath. He could not think of anything more compelling to add. He watched her face for signs of acceptance. There were none.

‘Brandon, all you say is true. It’s a good offer. But I won’t stay with a man so that he can fulfil an obligation of honour and for other reasons. Please let me go and don’t ask any more of me.’

‘You cannot expect me to let you go without a reason, Nora, not with the possibility that we’ve had two opportunities to create a child.’

He had not wanted to push things that far, to use conception as a trump card, but his hand had been forced. He’d not expected her to leave. He’d expected her to stay with him and they’d be able to face that eventuality if it arose in the natural course of time. But Nora had not done the expected. As always, she’d done the opposite.

‘Tell me what it is that would drive you away and I will fix it.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘You can’t fix this, child or not, Brandon. You can’t jump down off the wagon box and throw your fortune at it.’ It was said with sorrow, without any mocking at his actions on Christmas Day.

Brandon felt a finger of fear move down his spine as he watched her eyes harden. She was steeling her resolve. He was suddenly seized with the desire to retract his statement. He didn’t want to know.

But the decision was in motion. She was going to tell him. He knew with distressing certainty it would be like hammering the final nail into a coffin. He swallowed hard.

‘Brandon, I am married. I will not stay with one man while I am legally bound to another.’

Brandon took an involuntary step backwards, a hand covering his mouth, his other hand groping for a chair or a bed post, anything with which to steady himself. His world was reeling. The coffee and toast he’d eaten with Jack threatened to come back up.

At last he choked out the word. ‘Married?’ This was worse than being on opposite sides of politics and even the law. This was about losing Nora. An Earl could do a lot of things, but he could not be a bigamist. The jealousy he’d so adamantly denied to Jack raised its green head. He did not want to share her with anyone from the past or the present.

‘Yes. At least I think so. I haven’t seen my husband for seven years.’

A glimmer of hope, then, Brandon thought, as morbid as it was. The rotter might be dead. Deuce take it, what was he coming to when the possibility of someone’s death brought him a surge of joy? This whole situation was becoming more ludicrous by the moment.

A knock sounded at the door of his chambers. Brandon had no further opportunity to pursue this latest twist. The present and all its implications reasserted itself.

‘This is not over,’ he said sternly, waving Nora into the dressing room where she would be out of sight. It wouldn’t do to have his servants see her in The Cat’s garb.

‘Enter,’ he called when Nora was hidden away.

‘My lord, I have come to inform you that the dressmakers you called for earlier this morning have arrived and are downstairs awaiting your pleasure,’ the valet said.

‘Excellent, tell them we’ll be down shortly.’ Brandon reached for a waistcoat and jacket. Shrugging into them gave him time to regroup. When Nora appeared in the doorway from the dressing room, casting him a questioning look, he felt back in control of himself. He had a meagre plan, a delaying action, really, but it was all he had time to come up with as he finished dressing.

‘The dressmakers from Manchester are here to help my betrothed restore her wardrobe after the unfortunate mishap yesterday that claimed her luggage,’ he explained.

She quirked a brow at the fabrication Brandon was spinning. Brandon didn’t give her a chance to respond. ‘My dear, you aren’t the only one who can improvise.

‘Shall we? We have much to discuss between us. You might as well do it in fine fashion. Until we resolve this tangle, I think it is best to see the ruse through,’ Brandon said sternly, crooking his arm, knowing she didn’t dare refuse. This was a role of her making. She had committed herself when she’d hastily concocted the idea to pose as his betrothed.

Nora took his arm and the challenge he invoked with her customary cockiness. ‘The curtain rises.’

‘So it does.’ With any luck, it wouldn’t be the final curtain. As long as he kept her with him, he could protect her from Cecil Witherspoon. He would learn more about this errant husband of hers and send Jack out to find him. In the meantime, he could persuade her about the merits of being his wife, an idea that he was starting to grow fonder of by the moment. He would not let her go without a fight.




Chapter Fifteen


How had he done that? Nora marvelled, standing on a pedestal swathed in fabrics, surrounded by two dressmakers and their assistants. She had thrown her last ace in an attempt to keep an insurmountable object between them; he’d glibly overcome it with a simple sentence to the effect that until this tangle is sorted out, it was best to continue with the ruse.

At best, his option was a delaying technique, but she saw the small victory he’d won with it. Going ahead with the ruse kept her by his side. It bought him time, time to convince her of his proposal’s reasonability. But time was dangerous to her. The longer she was in his sphere of influence, the more likely it was she would start to believe him. It would be so easy to capitulate to his logic. Of course, she couldn’t capitulate all the way, she did have a husband on the loose out there somewhere in England. And of course, Brandon hadn’t asked for the ultimate commitment.

Nora shifted and turned on the dressmaker’s pedestal, tamping down the rampant feelings that had begun to surge through her since his proposition. He had not spoken of marriage, merely of being under his care. They were both people of the world. He knew what he meant when he’d couched it in those terms. They both knew what those terms included and what they did not.

She might be an outlaw, but she had standards. She would not flagrantly live as any man’s mistress while being married to another. Sleeping with Brandon twice had been bad enough, but that was nothing more than a physical fling. And who could fault her giving into temptation after seven years of celibacy? In her book, it was a small infraction.

Being his mistress was more than an infraction. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, do it on principle as well as practice. Giving up The Cat and becoming his woman would force her into an emotional realm, a realm where she’d establish an attachment to him, where he’d have all the control, where he’d decide when it was over.

She could not let herself be devastated in such a manner. That day might be months or years off, but it would come and she could not tolerate standing by and watching him marry or take a different lover. And he would. She’d noted during his protestations this morning that he’d not spoken once of affection or love.

Nora was acutely aware that she needed to marshal her resolve and stand against Brandon’s ideas of protection. There would be difficult conversations in the near future. Stalling those conversations was the only reason she had permitted herself to be poked and fussed over. As long as she was surrounded with dressmakers, Brandon couldn’t begin to broach the many questions that were obviously rolling around his mind.

She hazarded a glance in his direction now. He lolled indolently on a sofa in the small parlour as if he had nothing better to do with his time but help his intended fuss over her selection of gowns. Only his eyes, sharp and shrewd as they took in the developing scene, belied his relaxed pose. She had sparred with him too often to miss the intensity in his gaze. For him, indolence was merely a façade.

The long case clock in the hall chimed the hour. Three o’clock. Good lord, they had been at it all day. Nora’s stomach grumbled in confirmation that they’d worked through luncheon.

The dressmaker held up two swatches of silk. ‘Miss, do you prefer the cerise or the cherry?’

Nora barely fought back a groan. Was there a difference? ‘I prefer green.’ She was gratified to see the dressmaker look suitably horrified. No doubt ‘green’ was too simple of word. A lady didn’t wear ‘green’. A lady wore emerald, jade, olive or lime, but not plain green.

Brandon swiftly stood up and clapped his hands, commanding all the attention in the room. ‘The lady prefers the forest green. I thank you all for your time, but I regret my betrothed grows weary from her exertions. I will expect the first of the gowns tomorrow afternoon.’

Her exertions! Climbing a tree to a two-storey window or breaking glass window panes were exertions. Standing still with pins stuck all over like a witch-doll was only boring. Nora would have laughed at the thought she had exerted herself if she hadn’t been so grateful for Brandon’s interruption.

In no time, the women had packed up their goods and exited, bobbing their heads and murmuring effusively ‘thank you, my lord’ to Brandon.

Brandon shut the parlour door when the last of them had left and rang for tea before sinking back down onto the sofa. ‘Tired?’ he asked.

‘Bored. I can’t believe ladies take such a thrill in visiting the dressmaker.’ Nora sighed, plopping down into a chair across from him, careful to keep the low serving table between them. ‘I had no idea there were so many shades of any given colour. I said blue and they said, “azure, periwinkle or sapphire,”’ she offered in fair mimic.

Brandon smiled his commiseration and carried on making small talk. His facile conversation made Nora nervous. She saw it for what it was—an obvious camouflage of the actual issue. He was waiting for the tea tray to arrive before launching into the real conversation.

Never one to put off the inevitable, Nora was relieved to see the tray arrive. The footman put it on the table between them. The door shut ominously in the wake of his departure, signalling the totality of their privacy. Pregnant silence followed while Nora poured out a cup for each of them. It seemed best if Brandon began. So she crossed her legs and sat back and waited.

He sipped from his cup.

He reached for a sandwich from the platter of food that accompanied the tray.

He took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

He was driving her mad.

She would plant a facer on that beautiful jaw of his if he took one more bite.

‘You’re not eating. Sandwich?’ Brandon picked up the platter and held it out to her.

She met his gaze levelly and took one. It might come in handy as an impromptu torture device.

‘So,’ he began casually, ‘tell me about this professed husband of yours.’

‘He’s not professed. He is quite real, I assure you,’ Nora said, taking a delicate, savouring bite of the sandwich in slow retribution before she delivered any more information. Two could play his game.

She took another bite. ‘Delicious.’

‘Fine, I’m sorry about the bit with the sandwich. Am I going to have to drag every detail out of you or could you just divulge the story without turning it into a parlour game of twenty questions?’

She supposed that was about as close to begging as he would allow himself to get. Nora put down her sandwich and showed mercy.

‘Fair enough, we have moved beyond the point of games,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘I fell in love when I was seventeen with a man named Reggie Portman. He was handsome and adoring. Back then I still believed in fairy tales.’

It was true. Reggie had not been anywhere near as accomplished as Brandon in bed, but his ardour had meant everything to her young heart and nothing to his. She had not understood at the time that sex was purely physical for men and usually devoid of any emotional connection.

‘I sold myself in marriage once. I did not enjoy it. I am not likely to pursue arrangements that would put me in similar circumstances again,’ Nora said baldly.

‘How do we get from young romantic to hardened cynic? It seems to me that you’ve left some pieces out of the story.’ Brandon was quick to note the gap.

Nora took a sip of tea to fortify herself. ‘I was alone and on the run, except for Hattie and Alfred.’

‘Are they your parents?’ Brandon looked perplexed.

‘No. They are not even relatives.’ Nora shook her head sadly, staring without seeing at the sandwich in her hand.

Brandon moved next to her, the tea tray forgotten. He took her hand and intertwined his fingers between hers. ‘What happened to your parents? How did you come to this?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s time for stories, I think. Nora, you can be yourself with me.’

It was amazingly easy to open up her memories after keeping them closed for so long. Nora found, once she started, that she couldn’t stop the flood of remembrances. ‘My father was a successful businessman here in Manchester. I was an only child and I had plenty of luxuries, a tutor and a good education. Then, one day, there was an explosion at the factory. My father died trying to save some workers trapped under fallen timbers.

‘My mother and I were left well provided for, but I saw what happened to the families of the workers who were killed. There was no help for them to repay them for what they had lost. We tried to help, but it didn’t matter. They were destitute and living in the slums before the year was out, through no fault of their own. Investigators later concluded the fire started because an improperly made machine became too hot. Carelessness cost those families everything and they were simply told they were expendable.’

‘My mother was ruined in an altogether different way. After my father died, she lost her will to go on. When I was fourteen, she passed away in the night. The doctors could not explain it. Nothing was wrong with her except for a broken heart. I was packed off to my only relatives, a strict aunt and uncle in Bradford.’

Nora shuddered at the recollection. They’d been puritanical in their beliefs and lifestyle. The home, while large, was austere and empty of frills. She was allowed only the most sombre, high-necked gowns, and the smallest modicum of freedom. Many days were spent serving out punishments in her room—punishments she had earned for sneaking out of the house with supplies for those in need. Her uncle believed the poor got what they deserved and her aunt feared the dirt and illness that came with poverty. In a way, she’d been playing The Cat long before it had become official.

‘How does Reggie Portman figure into all this?’ Brandon prompted quietly when she fell silent.

‘My uncle had a marriage planned for me to a man that was stricter than he. I couldn’t fathom a worse fate and I couldn’t imagine how I would manage living such a life. It wasn’t the life I wanted. I felt I was in prison. There was a fair in town, and Reggie Portman was there, a charming and handsome travelling merchant. He offered me a way out. I was desperate and I took it, four days before the official betrothal.’

‘And taught you everything you know?’ Brandon supplied wryly. ‘A good role model.’

Nora grimaced in censure. ‘Everything has its place. I use my skills for good, not evil.’

‘That’s debatable.’

‘Not today it isn’t. Do you want to hear my story or not?’ Nora scolded, back on familiar ground, the hardest part of the telling over.

Brandon acquiesced graciously. ‘My apologies, please continue.’

‘Travelling with Reggie was exciting at first. But as Reggie and I moved from place to place, I saw the same stories being played out in different towns. The poor got poorer and the rich got richer, not caring who they stepped on to make a guinea. I promised myself I’d do something about it, just as my mother and I had tried to do for the workers at my father’s factory and as I had tried to do at my uncle’s, especially for children and widows; people who had limited ways of improving their station in life.’

Nora made a face. ‘Reggie didn’t share my attitude, although I thought he cared enough for me to help anyway, out of affection. But what he loved was making money at any cost. He sold fine fabrics, jewellery, expensive trinkets. He lavished gifts on me and my head was turned. I assumed he would want to use his largesse to help others. But I was wrong.

‘Once we married, I discovered he was singularly interested in making a pound wherever he could. His finer goods were acquired through illegal means and the items he sold at discount were so flawed that they were of little use.’

‘You married him for his philanthropy and he let you down,’ Brandon summarised.

‘He was boyishly handsome. He could make me laugh when he made the effort, which was seldom after we courted. His charming was an act. He just wanted someone to trail around the countryside, cooking and cleaning for him.

‘The worst part was once I got over the realisation that he was a borderline criminal with his business dealings, I couldn’t leave him. The law doesn’t allow for a woman to cast off a husband and, even if I had been able to, I had no way to support myself.’ Nora paused, letting Brandon assimilate the pieces of her history.

‘Then you ran away and became The Cat?’ Brandon guessed.

Nora shook her head. ‘Not at first. I started small. In the beginning, I left baskets of goods I pilfered from Reggie’s stock. He was a terrible book-keeper and kept a shoddy inventory. It was easy to take a length of cloth here and few tins of food there.’

‘He never caught on?’

‘Not for a while. He was quite angry when he discovered what I had been doing.’ Nora cringed at the memory.

‘He hit you?’

‘He beat me up quite thoroughly. I started carrying the knife in the sleeve sheath after that. One night he came back to our camp site drunk. It was worse than usual. I pulled the knife and, when he lunged for me, I stabbed him in the shoulder. Between the wound and the alcohol, he passed out. I knew I couldn’t be there when he woke up.

‘I took what was left of his stock, and had the good fortune to meet up with Hattie and Alfred at a fair. They were smalltime con artists, but they were getting on in years for such living. They liked the idea of settling in a house, even if it was just for a year or so at a time. After that, I started being The Cat in earnest. When it became clear that I had to have a means of income, I expanded The Cat’s range of activities.’

‘Incredible,’ Brandon breathed when she had finished.

Nora gave a bittersweet smile at the sight of his admiration. ‘That is why I can’t possibly marry you. I have to be The Cat for the sake of helping others and because I must live in hiding. Reggie is out there somewhere. As long as I keep moving and forgo my true identity, he can’t find me. You cannot risk being connected to me.’

‘Do you really expect me to let you walk away after knowing that?’ Brandon said softly.

‘Yes.’ Nora stamped her foot in frustration. ‘There’s nothing for you here but the harbouring of a fugitive.’ Especially since you don’t love me.

Not an iota of affection. She had noticed that he admired her. She fired his blood like no other, but that was all lust and physical attraction. It was the novelty of her. Those things would fade and Brandon would be left wondering why he’d risked so much for so little. And, of course, she’d be left hurt because in the final analysis she liked him a great deal. A great deal.

‘It should be for me to decide,’ Brandon said. ‘You are my responsibility. I will not have you martyr yourself out of some misguided notion that I am the one who needs saving.’

There was that word again: responsibility. She was coming to hate it. She would hate it if it wasn’t so important to her too. She understood the power of responsibility all too well.

‘Be glad I have the good sense not to take advantage of you. My rejection is a gift,’ Nora fired back, relieved to feel her temper rising. Good. She wouldn’t dwell on all that she was turning down. She cared for him too much to tie him to her when he did not reciprocate her depth of feeling. When he worked that out, he’d be thankful for her decision.

‘You will see reason and you’ll know I was right to decline. I cannot abide the idea that you would marry me to fulfil your sense of duty. You cannot wish to be shackled to a woman you don’t know for the rest of your days.’

‘You’re wrong. I know you, Nora. I know you’re The Cat. I know you have a criminal past, all for a good cause. I know and I still admire you. When I saw Witherspoon point that gun at you, I knew I couldn’t lose you.’

Of course not. You can’t stand to lose, you insufferably stubborn man. Nora stared at him, letting silence permeate the room. She took a moment and let the import of his words sink in. It would be easy to interpret them to mean what she wanted them to mean—a replacement for ‘I love you’.

Any other woman might be taken in by those powerful words. But in the past month she’d come to know Brandon Wycroft. He was a man who hated to lose and hated to share. She knew what he really meant: he wasn’t going to let a chap like Witherspoon call the shots. This was his game with The Cat and his game alone. She understood, but it still hurt.

Brandon chuckled in the quiet. ‘Besides, Nora, you can’t leave just yet. I need to produce a betrothed for a reasonable bit of time or else it will look suspicious.’

‘How long?’ Nora said warily. Letting him determine how the betrothal gambit evolved put her in a tenuous position.

‘Two weeks ought to be sufficient.’

‘Two weeks and then you let me walk away?’

‘Yes, unless you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

Brandon smiled knowingly with all the confidence of an urbane rake prowling the London drawing rooms. ‘We’ll see.’



What had she got herself into? Nora wondered two days later, standing in what had become her suite of chambers, surrounded by boxes of hats, shoes, gloves and undergarments of the finest linens. Her wardrobe began arriving the afternoon following the dressmakers’ initial visit, providing a signal of sorts to those in the village who felt obliged to consort with the Earl and his intended.

The purported tragedy befalling her luggage and maid held would-be callers at bay for a day, long enough for Brandon and she to sort out what lay between them. For the ruse to succeed, they had to have a united front. Playing his role to the hilt, Brandon had dashed off a letter to his closest sister, inviting her to chaperon.

Now that her new clothing had arrived, the callers were not far behind. Indeed, Nora had been informed mere minutes ago that Witherspoon, along with his wife and sister, were downstairs in the front drawing room, hoping to be received. She supposed she could ask Brandon to tell them she was indisposed, but that would be the coward’s way out. Brandon expected more of her. He had performed his role as dutiful husband-to-be quite well.

She must respond in kind. Any believable candidate for an Earl’s wife would be an accomplished hostess. Acting like a shy country miss or wilting wallflower would not reflect well on Brandon.

Nora rang for the maid and pulled a morning gown of emerald-printed challis with Medici sleeves from the pile of gowns covering the bed. ‘Quickly, Ellie, we must not keep Witherspoon and his guests waiting overlong,’ Nora said in her best imitation of the lady of the house, which was what the servants expected of her. In their minds, she was to be the Countess.

Fortunately, she’d spent enough time robbing the rich to know something of their lifestyle and behaviours. She was not without her own resources when it came to avoiding major mistakes and Brandon had been diligently present behind the scenes, making sure she did not face insurmountable tasks alone.

Nora let Ellie drop the dress over her head and straighten it before sitting down at her vanity to arrange her hair in a hasty but tasteful coiffure. Ellie was a genius with hair, gathering Nora’s heavy curls into a low knot at the base of her neck that at once gave the admirer an impression of maturity and innocence when studying Nora’s face.

As Nora fastened on a pair of earrings, a knock sounded at the door. Brandon peered in and smiled. ‘Are you ready to go down? When I heard Witherspoon was here, I thought we could receive him together,’ he offered politely.

Nora graciously accepted. Witherspoon was their first visitor—the first of many. Nora knew Brandon wanted to offer guidance and cues so that she could manage well on her own for later visits. No one would expect the Earl to actually be present for the social calls. That was a woman’s domain.

There were other reasons she was glad of Brandon’s presence by her side. The way Witherspoon had looked at her when she’d descended the stairs the night he and the others brought Brandon home from the dinner party made her nervous, as if he were trying to unravel a great mystery. And, of course, there was the fact that he’d been ready to shoot her the night of the St Johns’ dinner party—not that he knew The Cat and Brandon’s intended were one and the same. Still, there was something edgy about socialising with someone who wanted to see her dead.

‘I don’t suppose we can get out of this,’ Nora said as they descended the stairs.

‘Don’t say you’re nervous.’ Brandon winked. ‘I have a plan for avoiding other callers today.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s called a picnic,’ he said in a playful tone of high drama.

‘A picnic?’ Nora said excitedly, then sobered. ‘But it is the middle of winter, Brandon.’

‘Did I neglect to say a picnic in the summerhouse? We’ll be warm enough, no matter the rain outside. Now, let’s dispatch our guests with all due haste.’

‘Witherspoon, welcome, it is good to see you.’ Brandon shook hands with the tall, blond-haired man, sounding genuinely delighted to receive the visitors. Nora marvelled at Brandon’s talent for easy conversation.

Nora stepped forward and let Brandon make the introductions. She saw the ladies seated comfortably on the couch near the fire while Brandon and Witherspoon took the two wing-backed chairs opposite. She probably should ring for tea, but she didn’t want to encourage Witherspoon to stay. It would take fifteen minutes to get a tea tray together and another twenty to politely partake of it with company. It was difficult to play the gracious hostess when a picnic in the summerhouse with Brandon loomed on the horizon.

Witherspoon must have sensed the need to expedite his visit. He shifted in his seat to directly face Brandon. ‘I appreciate being received, my lord. We did not have an appointment.’

Nora watched his face. The man might sound self-effacing as he kowtowed to the Earl, but his eyes told a different story. She hoped Brandon could see the calculation in them.

‘I am always glad to meet if I am at home.’ Brandon inclined his head slightly.

‘I felt what I have to say cannot wait, considering the state of affairs in Stockport-on-the-Medlock. It has to do with The Cat.’

Brandon affected a look of cool interest. ‘Have you heard something?’

‘It is something I noticed during the incident at St John’s. I think we may have been looking in the wrong direction for The Cat. I think there is reason to believe The Cat is a woman.’

It took all of Nora’s self-control to avoid looking at Brandon. Any contact might arouse suspicions.

‘Why would you think that, Witherspoon? It’s a highly unlikely hypothesis,’ Brandon said in an even tone that conveyed only the tiniest bit of inquisitiveness. For all intents and purposes, he sounded like a bored man forced to listen to ludicrous tales.

Witherspoon swallowed hard. Nora was gratified to see that the Earl’s haughty demeanour had disconcerted him. Then, Witherspoon gathered his backbone. ‘When the intruder turned to watch you with the bag, the cloak fell away enough to reveal certain, ah, womanly parts.’ Witherspoon choked out the last.

Nora couldn’t resist the jibe. ‘You mean breasts?’ she asked with an air of innocence. The three guests blanched at the use of such a term in mixed company.

Brandon coughed discreetly. ‘I see. We will need more proof, but in the meanwhile it can’t hurt to expand our search to encompass both genders. I appreciate your thoughts, Witherspoon.’ Brandon rose and held out his hand. ‘I am sorry to rush our visit, but my betrothed and I have an appointment shortly.’

‘Thank you for your time, my lord,’ Witherspoon said, rising too. ‘And, of course, we want to extend our felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.’

Nora’s head was reeling by the time Brandon shut the door behind their guests. ‘He knows The Cat is a woman.’

They’d both lost their appetite for a picnic. The allure of the summerhouse faded in the wake of Witherspoon’s visit. In silent accord, they drifted into Brandon’s study and shut the heavy door behind them.

Nora settled on the sofa, the whole nasty scene with Witherspoon playing out again in her mind. His revelations spelled disaster for The Cat. ‘I think The Cat should rob him blind and force him out. I am sure I could “persuade” his wife to apply some more pressure. She’d decamp to London with a little more effort from The Cat.’

Brandon joined her, sternly denouncing her plan. ‘Absolutely not. As long as you’re here, you’re in retirement. Besides, I need Witherspoon’s money.’

‘You’re hard up?’ Nora gasped incredulously, thinking of the fortune that had been paid out for a wardrobe full of gowns for occasions she’d never attend. The ruse was getting dangerously expensive.

‘You shouldn’t have bought all those gowns. I am horrified when I think of the money wasted on them. Did you know I have six gowns specifically for afternoon tea? I’ll never wear them. It will take me some time, but I will pay you for the clothes,’ Nora said with resolve.

Brandon rolled his eyes at that. ‘By doing what? Robbing my neighbors? You most certainly will not. A wardrobe will not beggar me.’

Nora furrowed her brow, perplexed. ‘But you need Witherspoon’s money. You’re poor.’

Brandon gave a friendly chuckle. ‘Hardly. Poor is a bit over the top. My pockets aren’t to let. But it is getting more difficult each year to keep the estates functional. My estates generate enough to support repairs to the tenants’ cottages, to buy seed and farming implements for the fields, but there’s less and less profit for expansion and other expenses. I fear it will only be a few more years before the tenants will be forced to look elsewhere for their livelihoods. Aristocracy is an expensive career. The agricultural economy hasn’t helped.’

Nora saw the pieces fit together at once. ‘The mill is your plan for financial security.’

Brandon nodded. ‘It’s at the foundation of it, the first building block. I need the investors’ money to build for the future of Stockport-on-the-Medlock. I can’t build that future alone. My pockets aren’t that deep.’

Nora felt sick. Her plans would ruin more than his credibility. A few weeks past, such ironic justice would have suited her perfectly. Now, looking at the man across from her, she could barely stomach the thought of all she’d be responsible for. She had to cut ties here before she was too emotionally involved to see reason.

‘None the less, Brandon, I am not comfortable being a kept woman,’ Nora said slowly. ‘Even if you were the richest man in England, I would be reluctant to accept the wardrobe you’ve lavished on me these past few days.’

‘My intended needs the appropriate clothing. No one would believe I was to marry a woman of dubious fashion.’

‘I will pay for the gowns,’ Nora insisted.

Brandon took her hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance. ‘You talk too much. Maybe I’ll get my money’s worth out of the gowns. After your two weeks are up, you might decide to stay.’

Nora sighed. ‘I am not free to marry and I won’t be your mistress.’

‘If he were dead, you would have a choice,’ Brandon said softly.

Nora drew back. ‘What have you done, Brandon? You will not commit murder on my behalf.’

Brandon laughed. ‘Nothing that bad, Nora. Did you imagine I sent thugs to kill your errant husband?’ He sobered. ‘I did send my friend Jack, Viscount Wainsbridge, though. If Reggie Portman is still of this world, Jack will find him.’

Brandon slipped a hand behind her neck, sifting her hair through his fingers and drawing her close for a deep kiss. ‘Until then, we have two weeks to ourselves to wait and see and enjoy. Promise me, two weeks, Nora. The Cat can take a holiday,’ he whispered against her neck.

‘I promise,’ Nora replied softly. But it was already a broken promise. She still had the haul from St John’s to pawn for cash and get to Mary Malone. Brandon kissed her again and Nora felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn’t see the fingers she crossed behind her back.




Chapter Sixteen


Brandon took off his glasses and stretched back in his leather chair behind the desk. He had been poring over the latest dispatches from London. Even though Parliament was out until spring, dedicated politicos like Earl Russell were still hard at work, trying to lobby support for the Reform Act which would be the focus of the spring session.

Brandon used his break from paperwork to study the beautiful woman sitting demurely in the wing-backed chair near the fire, her neck bent slightly forward as she read a slim volume of poetry, a silver tray containing hot fudge and strawberries next to her elbow. Nora.

After nearly a week of her constant presence, he still couldn’t believe his good fortune. She had stayed. She had admitted she cared for him; so much that she would throw away the passion they shared together in order to protect him. It was the partnership he craved, the knowledge that he was not alone. He had found the one person who could bring him the solace his soul demanded, not just in the dark watches of the night but in all aspects of his daily life, from the mundane to the more extraordinary.

Never had his heart been so committed. He could not resist her. She could not resist him, yet she did for reasons he did not perceive or understand. For every obstacle she erected, he countered with a solution and still it wasn’t enough to win her capitulation.

Looking at her now with the firelight dancing on her features, her toes tucked beneath her soft rose-coloured skirts, her hair gathered into a loose chignon at her neck, he could hardly reconcile the image with the brazen Cat who had dangled her trousered legs over the same chair and swigged down his brandy like a dockhand a month ago. Anyone seeing her tonight would see a lady of gentle refinement. Of course, it was all an act, a trick wrought of fine clothes and a competent lady’s maid.

He liked the illusion. He liked it even more because he knew what lay beneath the soft wool and pearls. He had only to look in her sharp jade eyes and see the truth of her—the keen intelligence, the ardent passion for her cause. That passion made sense now in the wake of her tale. She’d been disappointed by important people in her life and by the world in general. But instead of letting those disappointments overwhelm her, she’d elected to change the world so that others would not be similarly disappointed.

Not so unlike him. He wished he could convince her of that.

She raised those eyes to meet his. ‘You’re staring, Brandon,’ she chided softly.

‘Better to look at you than these damnable papers,’ Brandon said with a weary tone. ‘I swear they tread over the same ground time and again, never gaining an inch. The act has passed the House of Commons three times, but the House of Lords will not admit the need to change.’

Nora rose and put down her book. She came around the desk to stand behind him, her capable hands massaging his shoulders. ‘Was there anything else of interest in the post today?’

Brandon knew what she was really asking. Had Jack come up with any news of Reggie Portman? ‘No.’

He reached up and covered her hand. ‘It is too soon for him to know anything conclusive. It doesn’t matter what he finds. If Portman is dead, you are free now. If Portman is alive, we will petition the courts for a divorce on grounds of abandonment. You will be free either way,’ he consoled her. ‘It’s been seven years—perhaps we can have him declared legally dead.’

‘Divorce, Brandon? You cannot consider it. A divorced woman may be your mistress, perhaps, but not your wife. You must not forget your station.’ Nora’s soft tone carried a warning edge to it. ‘Besides, he’d have to be the one to divorce me. The law doesn’t allow a woman to sue for divorce. You know that, Brandon.’

There it was again, that damnable tendency to block his solutions. Debating with Nora was as frustrating as his opponents in Parliament; more frustrating, perhaps, because the next minute she was all soft compliance, making him forget how hard-headed she could be.

‘Besides, I am free now, Brandon. There is no sense in going through the public display of a divorce if he’s alive. He hasn’t found me for years. Perhaps you’re right and he isn’t as bent on revenge as I imagined.’

Brandon drew her around to his lap. ‘I would never stop looking for you.’ He smiled at the blush rising on her cheek.

He had discovered in their short time together that The Cat might be a tough, saucy-tongued woman, but true flattery was the chink in Nora’s armor. A sincere compliment was her undoing. It thrilled him that in many ways he was the first to love her honestly and in the truest sense. It also touched a tender spot deep inside him that this woman, who risked herself so completely in order to give to others, had received so little affection in her life.

‘I know, let’s play a game, Nora. I’ve had enough of paperwork tonight. It’s called Truth or Consequence. You choose if you want to answer a question or if you want to take a challenge of my making.’

Nora smiled like a cat with cream. Any thought of ‘demure’ exited his head. ‘That sounds decidedly wicked, my lord,’ she said in the husky voice he loved.

‘It can be,’ Brandon conceded. He had played a few bawdy versions of the game before when he and Jack had been in their salad days. ‘You go first.’

Nora twisted a lock of hair that had come loose from her chignon. ‘What will it be, truth or consequence?’

‘Truth.’

‘Do you really have a sister? You cannot answer yes or no. You must elaborate,’ Nora said.

‘Not only do I have one sister, I have four.’ Brandon laughed outright at the incredulous look on her face. ‘How do you think I got to be such a ladies’ man? I learned a lot about the whims of women growing up in a household where my father and I were severely outnumbered and regularly outflanked by the fairer sex. There’s Margaret. She’s the oldest. Then, Elspeth, she’s the scholar in the family. I’m the third child, but, being male, I was instantly catapulted to the head of the line.’ That earned him a punch in the shoulder from Nora. ‘Then there’s Clara and Dulcinea. Dulcinea’s the wildest.’

‘Was it Margaret you sent for?’ Nora asked, referring to the letter he had sent out for a chaperon.

‘Heavens, no! She’s the most reliable of them all, the perfect oldest child. She’s married with three children of her own. I wrote to Dulci.’

‘The wild one?’ Nora raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t meet the criteria for a proper chaperon.’

‘I wasn’t after a “proper” chaperon. But you have broken the rules. That’s two questions.’ Brandon tapped her on the nose. ‘It’s my turn. Will it be truth or consequence?’

‘Truth,’ Nora said gamely.

‘That day in Manchester, when “Eleanor” tried to give me the slip at the drapers, where were you going?’

‘To Anacoats. I needed to see Mary Malone and give her some money for medicines.’

Brandon’s conscience pricked. His desire to catch The Cat in action had prevented her from doing a good deed. ‘Did she get them?’

‘Yes. When I went back in, I gave instructions to Jane.’

‘Outside the baker’s in Manchester, did you know I was there?’ Brandon broke his own rule and plunged ahead with another question.

‘That you’d been following me? Yes.’ Nora laughed so hard Brandon had to right her to keep her from falling off his lap. ‘I spotted you almost immediately. I confess I was quite mean to you, staying in the bakery longer than necessary. I hope you didn’t freeze too badly but you deserved it, sneaking around behind poor “Eleanor”.’

Nora reached for his cravat and tugged. ‘You were too canny from the start. The day you came to tea at the Grange it was as if you could see right through me. No one in town had caught on after four months of me living under their noses. But you were different. You were too alert and too handsome for your own good. I had to convince you utterly that “Eleanor” was what she appeared to be: a gentry-class spinster with a small amount of breeding, a smaller amount of funds and a ton of missish manners.’

‘You should have let me impress you with my manners and good looks, then,’ Brandon teased. ‘It was your resistance to my charm that put me on your scent.’

Nora pushed at him playfully. ‘You arrogant man! All women are dying of love for you, is that it?’

‘All but you, apparently. I even risked my neck going into the Manchester slums on Christmas Day with you. There were times while I waited for you that I thought I might lose my boots.’

Nora shook her head. ‘You are far too capable for any thug to risk his neck, as nice as your boots are.’

‘Capable, am I?’ Brandon felt himself growing warm. She smelled of rosewater and lavender as she fiddled with his cravat. The game was going to take a decidedly different turn within moments. ‘Is that why you kissed me that first night?’ He dipped his head and feathered a kiss along the column of her neck.

‘I kissed you because I thought it would be a successful distraction and assist my escape.’

‘Why did you think that would work?’ Brandon asked, desire mounting in his voice.

‘I could tell right away that you were a man used to having his commands obeyed.’ Nora traced his jaw with a finger. ‘Men who command sometimes like to be commanded.’

‘Is that why you tied me to the bed after the card party?’ He was completely hard now. He was sure she could feel the progress his member was making beneath her buttocks.

Nora grinned mischievously. ‘I tied you to the bed because you deserved it for torturing “Eleanor” on Mrs Dalloway’s balcony. That’s too many questions for you. We’re not very good at following the rules.’ She was the absolute coquette. She squirmed strategically on his lap. ‘This is harder than I thought.’

Brandon didn’t have to ask what she was referring to by ‘it’.

She breathed against his neck. ‘It’s your turn to pick and you choose consequence.’

‘Do I?’ Brandon asked in hoarse anticipation. ‘I forgot, men like me want to be commanded.’

‘There are no men like you.’ Her hands were in his hair, her mouth at his ear, sucking provocatively on his ear lobe. ‘Take me upstairs.’

‘Your command is my very wish.’ Brandon rose with Nora in his arms and headed for the door.

‘If your skill in bed matches your wit, this should prove to be very pleasurable,’ Nora rejoined, tossing back her head, enjoying the moment thoroughly.




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