Читать книгу Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Essentially, but in less crass terms.’

‘You’re certain?’

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

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

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

‘Is there a chance of them deserting?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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