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Pickpocket Countess
Bronwyn Scott


It's Brandon Wycroft's duty as the Earl of Stockport to catch the "Cat," a notorious thief who is stealing from rich local homes to feed the poor.Discovering that the Cat is a woman, he changes his plan of action–to a game of seduction! Mysterious and tempting, she teases him. And, as the net closes around the Cat, Brandon realizes he wants to protect her as well as bed her. But the only way to catch her is to spring the parson's mousetrap–and make her his countess!









BRONWYN SCOTT

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS








For Jeff and Diane Clausen and Ellen Holt,

who are great fans and even better friends.

As always, for my awesome family.




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.




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