Читать книгу Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 21

How had he done that? Nora marvelled, standing on a pedestal swathed in fabrics, surrounded by two dressmakers and their assistants. She had thrown her last ace in an attempt to keep an insurmountable object between them; he’d glibly overcome it with a simple sentence to the effect that until this tangle is sorted out, it was best to continue with the ruse.

At best, his option was a delaying technique, but she saw the small victory he’d won with it. Going ahead with the ruse kept her by his side. It bought him time, time to convince her of his proposal’s reasonability. But time was dangerous to her. The longer she was in his sphere of influence, the more likely it was she would start to believe him. It would be so easy to capitulate to his logic. Of course, she couldn’t capitulate all the way, she did have a husband on the loose out there somewhere in England. And of course, Brandon hadn’t asked for the ultimate commitment.

Nora shifted and turned on the dressmaker’s pedestal, tamping down the rampant feelings that had begun to surge through her since his proposition. He had not spoken of marriage, merely of being under his care. They were both people of the world. He knew what he meant when he’d couched it in those terms. They both knew what those terms included and what they did not.

She might be an outlaw, but she had standards. She would not flagrantly live as any man’s mistress while being married to another. Sleeping with Brandon twice had been bad enough, but that was nothing more than a physical fling. And who could fault her giving into temptation after seven years of celibacy? In her book, it was a small infraction.

Being his mistress was more than an infraction. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, do it on principle as well as practice. Giving up The Cat and becoming his woman would force her into an emotional realm, a realm where she’d establish an attachment to him, where he’d have all the control, where he’d decide when it was over.

She could not let herself be devastated in such a manner. That day might be months or years off, but it would come and she could not tolerate standing by and watching him marry or take a different lover. And he would. She’d noted during his protestations this morning that he’d not spoken once of affection or love.

Nora was acutely aware that she needed to marshal her resolve and stand against Brandon’s ideas of protection. There would be difficult conversations in the near future. Stalling those conversations was the only reason she had permitted herself to be poked and fussed over. As long as she was surrounded with dressmakers, Brandon couldn’t begin to broach the many questions that were obviously rolling around his mind.

She hazarded a glance in his direction now. He lolled indolently on a sofa in the small parlour as if he had nothing better to do with his time but help his intended fuss over her selection of gowns. Only his eyes, sharp and shrewd as they took in the developing scene, belied his relaxed pose. She had sparred with him too often to miss the intensity in his gaze. For him, indolence was merely a façade.

The long case clock in the hall chimed the hour. Three o’clock. Good lord, they had been at it all day. Nora’s stomach grumbled in confirmation that they’d worked through luncheon.

The dressmaker held up two swatches of silk. ‘Miss, do you prefer the cerise or the cherry?’

Nora barely fought back a groan. Was there a difference? ‘I prefer green.’ She was gratified to see the dressmaker look suitably horrified. No doubt ‘green’ was too simple of word. A lady didn’t wear ‘green’. A lady wore emerald, jade, olive or lime, but not plain green.

Brandon swiftly stood up and clapped his hands, commanding all the attention in the room. ‘The lady prefers the forest green. I thank you all for your time, but I regret my betrothed grows weary from her exertions. I will expect the first of the gowns tomorrow afternoon.’

Her exertions! Climbing a tree to a two-storey window or breaking glass window panes were exertions. Standing still with pins stuck all over like a witch-doll was only boring. Nora would have laughed at the thought she had exerted herself if she hadn’t been so grateful for Brandon’s interruption.

In no time, the women had packed up their goods and exited, bobbing their heads and murmuring effusively ‘thank you, my lord’ to Brandon.

Brandon shut the parlour door when the last of them had left and rang for tea before sinking back down onto the sofa. ‘Tired?’ he asked.

‘Bored. I can’t believe ladies take such a thrill in visiting the dressmaker.’ Nora sighed, plopping down into a chair across from him, careful to keep the low serving table between them. ‘I had no idea there were so many shades of any given colour. I said blue and they said, “azure, periwinkle or sapphire,”’ she offered in fair mimic.

Brandon smiled his commiseration and carried on making small talk. His facile conversation made Nora nervous. She saw it for what it was—an obvious camouflage of the actual issue. He was waiting for the tea tray to arrive before launching into the real conversation.

Never one to put off the inevitable, Nora was relieved to see the tray arrive. The footman put it on the table between them. The door shut ominously in the wake of his departure, signalling the totality of their privacy. Pregnant silence followed while Nora poured out a cup for each of them. It seemed best if Brandon began. So she crossed her legs and sat back and waited.

He sipped from his cup.

He reached for a sandwich from the platter of food that accompanied the tray.

He took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

He was driving her mad.

She would plant a facer on that beautiful jaw of his if he took one more bite.

‘You’re not eating. Sandwich?’ Brandon picked up the platter and held it out to her.

She met his gaze levelly and took one. It might come in handy as an impromptu torture device.

‘So,’ he began casually, ‘tell me about this professed husband of yours.’

‘He’s not professed. He is quite real, I assure you,’ Nora said, taking a delicate, savouring bite of the sandwich in slow retribution before she delivered any more information. Two could play his game.

She took another bite. ‘Delicious.’

‘Fine, I’m sorry about the bit with the sandwich. Am I going to have to drag every detail out of you or could you just divulge the story without turning it into a parlour game of twenty questions?’

She supposed that was about as close to begging as he would allow himself to get. Nora put down her sandwich and showed mercy.

‘Fair enough, we have moved beyond the point of games,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘I fell in love when I was seventeen with a man named Reggie Portman. He was handsome and adoring. Back then I still believed in fairy tales.’

It was true. Reggie had not been anywhere near as accomplished as Brandon in bed, but his ardour had meant everything to her young heart and nothing to his. She had not understood at the time that sex was purely physical for men and usually devoid of any emotional connection.

‘I sold myself in marriage once. I did not enjoy it. I am not likely to pursue arrangements that would put me in similar circumstances again,’ Nora said baldly.

‘How do we get from young romantic to hardened cynic? It seems to me that you’ve left some pieces out of the story.’ Brandon was quick to note the gap.

Nora took a sip of tea to fortify herself. ‘I was alone and on the run, except for Hattie and Alfred.’

‘Are they your parents?’ Brandon looked perplexed.

‘No. They are not even relatives.’ Nora shook her head sadly, staring without seeing at the sandwich in her hand.

Brandon moved next to her, the tea tray forgotten. He took her hand and intertwined his fingers between hers. ‘What happened to your parents? How did you come to this?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s time for stories, I think. Nora, you can be yourself with me.’

It was amazingly easy to open up her memories after keeping them closed for so long. Nora found, once she started, that she couldn’t stop the flood of remembrances. ‘My father was a successful businessman here in Manchester. I was an only child and I had plenty of luxuries, a tutor and a good education. Then, one day, there was an explosion at the factory. My father died trying to save some workers trapped under fallen timbers.

‘My mother and I were left well provided for, but I saw what happened to the families of the workers who were killed. There was no help for them to repay them for what they had lost. We tried to help, but it didn’t matter. They were destitute and living in the slums before the year was out, through no fault of their own. Investigators later concluded the fire started because an improperly made machine became too hot. Carelessness cost those families everything and they were simply told they were expendable.’

‘My mother was ruined in an altogether different way. After my father died, she lost her will to go on. When I was fourteen, she passed away in the night. The doctors could not explain it. Nothing was wrong with her except for a broken heart. I was packed off to my only relatives, a strict aunt and uncle in Bradford.’

Nora shuddered at the recollection. They’d been puritanical in their beliefs and lifestyle. The home, while large, was austere and empty of frills. She was allowed only the most sombre, high-necked gowns, and the smallest modicum of freedom. Many days were spent serving out punishments in her room—punishments she had earned for sneaking out of the house with supplies for those in need. Her uncle believed the poor got what they deserved and her aunt feared the dirt and illness that came with poverty. In a way, she’d been playing The Cat long before it had become official.

‘How does Reggie Portman figure into all this?’ Brandon prompted quietly when she fell silent.

‘My uncle had a marriage planned for me to a man that was stricter than he. I couldn’t fathom a worse fate and I couldn’t imagine how I would manage living such a life. It wasn’t the life I wanted. I felt I was in prison. There was a fair in town, and Reggie Portman was there, a charming and handsome travelling merchant. He offered me a way out. I was desperate and I took it, four days before the official betrothal.’

‘And taught you everything you know?’ Brandon supplied wryly. ‘A good role model.’

Nora grimaced in censure. ‘Everything has its place. I use my skills for good, not evil.’

‘That’s debatable.’

‘Not today it isn’t. Do you want to hear my story or not?’ Nora scolded, back on familiar ground, the hardest part of the telling over.

Brandon acquiesced graciously. ‘My apologies, please continue.’

‘Travelling with Reggie was exciting at first. But as Reggie and I moved from place to place, I saw the same stories being played out in different towns. The poor got poorer and the rich got richer, not caring who they stepped on to make a guinea. I promised myself I’d do something about it, just as my mother and I had tried to do for the workers at my father’s factory and as I had tried to do at my uncle’s, especially for children and widows; people who had limited ways of improving their station in life.’

Nora made a face. ‘Reggie didn’t share my attitude, although I thought he cared enough for me to help anyway, out of affection. But what he loved was making money at any cost. He sold fine fabrics, jewellery, expensive trinkets. He lavished gifts on me and my head was turned. I assumed he would want to use his largesse to help others. But I was wrong.

‘Once we married, I discovered he was singularly interested in making a pound wherever he could. His finer goods were acquired through illegal means and the items he sold at discount were so flawed that they were of little use.’

‘You married him for his philanthropy and he let you down,’ Brandon summarised.

‘He was boyishly handsome. He could make me laugh when he made the effort, which was seldom after we courted. His charming was an act. He just wanted someone to trail around the countryside, cooking and cleaning for him.

‘The worst part was once I got over the realisation that he was a borderline criminal with his business dealings, I couldn’t leave him. The law doesn’t allow for a woman to cast off a husband and, even if I had been able to, I had no way to support myself.’ Nora paused, letting Brandon assimilate the pieces of her history.

‘Then you ran away and became The Cat?’ Brandon guessed.

Nora shook her head. ‘Not at first. I started small. In the beginning, I left baskets of goods I pilfered from Reggie’s stock. He was a terrible book-keeper and kept a shoddy inventory. It was easy to take a length of cloth here and few tins of food there.’

‘He never caught on?’

‘Not for a while. He was quite angry when he discovered what I had been doing.’ Nora cringed at the memory.

‘He hit you?’

‘He beat me up quite thoroughly. I started carrying the knife in the sleeve sheath after that. One night he came back to our camp site drunk. It was worse than usual. I pulled the knife and, when he lunged for me, I stabbed him in the shoulder. Between the wound and the alcohol, he passed out. I knew I couldn’t be there when he woke up.

‘I took what was left of his stock, and had the good fortune to meet up with Hattie and Alfred at a fair. They were smalltime con artists, but they were getting on in years for such living. They liked the idea of settling in a house, even if it was just for a year or so at a time. After that, I started being The Cat in earnest. When it became clear that I had to have a means of income, I expanded The Cat’s range of activities.’

‘Incredible,’ Brandon breathed when she had finished.

Nora gave a bittersweet smile at the sight of his admiration. ‘That is why I can’t possibly marry you. I have to be The Cat for the sake of helping others and because I must live in hiding. Reggie is out there somewhere. As long as I keep moving and forgo my true identity, he can’t find me. You cannot risk being connected to me.’

‘Do you really expect me to let you walk away after knowing that?’ Brandon said softly.

‘Yes.’ Nora stamped her foot in frustration. ‘There’s nothing for you here but the harbouring of a fugitive.’ Especially since you don’t love me.

Not an iota of affection. She had noticed that he admired her. She fired his blood like no other, but that was all lust and physical attraction. It was the novelty of her. Those things would fade and Brandon would be left wondering why he’d risked so much for so little. And, of course, she’d be left hurt because in the final analysis she liked him a great deal. A great deal.

‘It should be for me to decide,’ Brandon said. ‘You are my responsibility. I will not have you martyr yourself out of some misguided notion that I am the one who needs saving.’

There was that word again: responsibility. She was coming to hate it. She would hate it if it wasn’t so important to her too. She understood the power of responsibility all too well.

‘Be glad I have the good sense not to take advantage of you. My rejection is a gift,’ Nora fired back, relieved to feel her temper rising. Good. She wouldn’t dwell on all that she was turning down. She cared for him too much to tie him to her when he did not reciprocate her depth of feeling. When he worked that out, he’d be thankful for her decision.

‘You will see reason and you’ll know I was right to decline. I cannot abide the idea that you would marry me to fulfil your sense of duty. You cannot wish to be shackled to a woman you don’t know for the rest of your days.’

‘You’re wrong. I know you, Nora. I know you’re The Cat. I know you have a criminal past, all for a good cause. I know and I still admire you. When I saw Witherspoon point that gun at you, I knew I couldn’t lose you.’

Of course not. You can’t stand to lose, you insufferably stubborn man. Nora stared at him, letting silence permeate the room. She took a moment and let the import of his words sink in. It would be easy to interpret them to mean what she wanted them to mean—a replacement for ‘I love you’.

Any other woman might be taken in by those powerful words. But in the past month she’d come to know Brandon Wycroft. He was a man who hated to lose and hated to share. She knew what he really meant: he wasn’t going to let a chap like Witherspoon call the shots. This was his game with The Cat and his game alone. She understood, but it still hurt.

Brandon chuckled in the quiet. ‘Besides, Nora, you can’t leave just yet. I need to produce a betrothed for a reasonable bit of time or else it will look suspicious.’

‘How long?’ Nora said warily. Letting him determine how the betrothal gambit evolved put her in a tenuous position.

‘Two weeks ought to be sufficient.’

‘Two weeks and then you let me walk away?’

‘Yes, unless you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

Brandon smiled knowingly with all the confidence of an urbane rake prowling the London drawing rooms. ‘We’ll see.’

What had she got herself into? Nora wondered two days later, standing in what had become her suite of chambers, surrounded by boxes of hats, shoes, gloves and undergarments of the finest linens. Her wardrobe began arriving the afternoon following the dressmakers’ initial visit, providing a signal of sorts to those in the village who felt obliged to consort with the Earl and his intended.

The purported tragedy befalling her luggage and maid held would-be callers at bay for a day, long enough for Brandon and she to sort out what lay between them. For the ruse to succeed, they had to have a united front. Playing his role to the hilt, Brandon had dashed off a letter to his closest sister, inviting her to chaperon.

Now that her new clothing had arrived, the callers were not far behind. Indeed, Nora had been informed mere minutes ago that Witherspoon, along with his wife and sister, were downstairs in the front drawing room, hoping to be received. She supposed she could ask Brandon to tell them she was indisposed, but that would be the coward’s way out. Brandon expected more of her. He had performed his role as dutiful husband-to-be quite well.

She must respond in kind. Any believable candidate for an Earl’s wife would be an accomplished hostess. Acting like a shy country miss or wilting wallflower would not reflect well on Brandon.

Nora rang for the maid and pulled a morning gown of emerald-printed challis with Medici sleeves from the pile of gowns covering the bed. ‘Quickly, Ellie, we must not keep Witherspoon and his guests waiting overlong,’ Nora said in her best imitation of the lady of the house, which was what the servants expected of her. In their minds, she was to be the Countess.

Fortunately, she’d spent enough time robbing the rich to know something of their lifestyle and behaviours. She was not without her own resources when it came to avoiding major mistakes and Brandon had been diligently present behind the scenes, making sure she did not face insurmountable tasks alone.

Nora let Ellie drop the dress over her head and straighten it before sitting down at her vanity to arrange her hair in a hasty but tasteful coiffure. Ellie was a genius with hair, gathering Nora’s heavy curls into a low knot at the base of her neck that at once gave the admirer an impression of maturity and innocence when studying Nora’s face.

As Nora fastened on a pair of earrings, a knock sounded at the door. Brandon peered in and smiled. ‘Are you ready to go down? When I heard Witherspoon was here, I thought we could receive him together,’ he offered politely.

Nora graciously accepted. Witherspoon was their first visitor—the first of many. Nora knew Brandon wanted to offer guidance and cues so that she could manage well on her own for later visits. No one would expect the Earl to actually be present for the social calls. That was a woman’s domain.

There were other reasons she was glad of Brandon’s presence by her side. The way Witherspoon had looked at her when she’d descended the stairs the night he and the others brought Brandon home from the dinner party made her nervous, as if he were trying to unravel a great mystery. And, of course, there was the fact that he’d been ready to shoot her the night of the St Johns’ dinner party—not that he knew The Cat and Brandon’s intended were one and the same. Still, there was something edgy about socialising with someone who wanted to see her dead.

‘I don’t suppose we can get out of this,’ Nora said as they descended the stairs.

‘Don’t say you’re nervous.’ Brandon winked. ‘I have a plan for avoiding other callers today.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s called a picnic,’ he said in a playful tone of high drama.

‘A picnic?’ Nora said excitedly, then sobered. ‘But it is the middle of winter, Brandon.’

‘Did I neglect to say a picnic in the summerhouse? We’ll be warm enough, no matter the rain outside. Now, let’s dispatch our guests with all due haste.’

‘Witherspoon, welcome, it is good to see you.’ Brandon shook hands with the tall, blond-haired man, sounding genuinely delighted to receive the visitors. Nora marvelled at Brandon’s talent for easy conversation.

Nora stepped forward and let Brandon make the introductions. She saw the ladies seated comfortably on the couch near the fire while Brandon and Witherspoon took the two wing-backed chairs opposite. She probably should ring for tea, but she didn’t want to encourage Witherspoon to stay. It would take fifteen minutes to get a tea tray together and another twenty to politely partake of it with company. It was difficult to play the gracious hostess when a picnic in the summerhouse with Brandon loomed on the horizon.

Witherspoon must have sensed the need to expedite his visit. He shifted in his seat to directly face Brandon. ‘I appreciate being received, my lord. We did not have an appointment.’

Nora watched his face. The man might sound self-effacing as he kowtowed to the Earl, but his eyes told a different story. She hoped Brandon could see the calculation in them.

‘I am always glad to meet if I am at home.’ Brandon inclined his head slightly.

‘I felt what I have to say cannot wait, considering the state of affairs in Stockport-on-the-Medlock. It has to do with The Cat.’

Brandon affected a look of cool interest. ‘Have you heard something?’

‘It is something I noticed during the incident at St John’s. I think we may have been looking in the wrong direction for The Cat. I think there is reason to believe The Cat is a woman.’

It took all of Nora’s self-control to avoid looking at Brandon. Any contact might arouse suspicions.

‘Why would you think that, Witherspoon? It’s a highly unlikely hypothesis,’ Brandon said in an even tone that conveyed only the tiniest bit of inquisitiveness. For all intents and purposes, he sounded like a bored man forced to listen to ludicrous tales.

Witherspoon swallowed hard. Nora was gratified to see that the Earl’s haughty demeanour had disconcerted him. Then, Witherspoon gathered his backbone. ‘When the intruder turned to watch you with the bag, the cloak fell away enough to reveal certain, ah, womanly parts.’ Witherspoon choked out the last.

Nora couldn’t resist the jibe. ‘You mean breasts?’ she asked with an air of innocence. The three guests blanched at the use of such a term in mixed company.

Brandon coughed discreetly. ‘I see. We will need more proof, but in the meanwhile it can’t hurt to expand our search to encompass both genders. I appreciate your thoughts, Witherspoon.’ Brandon rose and held out his hand. ‘I am sorry to rush our visit, but my betrothed and I have an appointment shortly.’

‘Thank you for your time, my lord,’ Witherspoon said, rising too. ‘And, of course, we want to extend our felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.’

Nora’s head was reeling by the time Brandon shut the door behind their guests. ‘He knows The Cat is a woman.’

They’d both lost their appetite for a picnic. The allure of the summerhouse faded in the wake of Witherspoon’s visit. In silent accord, they drifted into Brandon’s study and shut the heavy door behind them.

Nora settled on the sofa, the whole nasty scene with Witherspoon playing out again in her mind. His revelations spelled disaster for The Cat. ‘I think The Cat should rob him blind and force him out. I am sure I could “persuade” his wife to apply some more pressure. She’d decamp to London with a little more effort from The Cat.’

Brandon joined her, sternly denouncing her plan. ‘Absolutely not. As long as you’re here, you’re in retirement. Besides, I need Witherspoon’s money.’

‘You’re hard up?’ Nora gasped incredulously, thinking of the fortune that had been paid out for a wardrobe full of gowns for occasions she’d never attend. The ruse was getting dangerously expensive.

‘You shouldn’t have bought all those gowns. I am horrified when I think of the money wasted on them. Did you know I have six gowns specifically for afternoon tea? I’ll never wear them. It will take me some time, but I will pay you for the clothes,’ Nora said with resolve.

Brandon rolled his eyes at that. ‘By doing what? Robbing my neighbors? You most certainly will not. A wardrobe will not beggar me.’

Nora furrowed her brow, perplexed. ‘But you need Witherspoon’s money. You’re poor.’

Brandon gave a friendly chuckle. ‘Hardly. Poor is a bit over the top. My pockets aren’t to let. But it is getting more difficult each year to keep the estates functional. My estates generate enough to support repairs to the tenants’ cottages, to buy seed and farming implements for the fields, but there’s less and less profit for expansion and other expenses. I fear it will only be a few more years before the tenants will be forced to look elsewhere for their livelihoods. Aristocracy is an expensive career. The agricultural economy hasn’t helped.’

Nora saw the pieces fit together at once. ‘The mill is your plan for financial security.’

Brandon nodded. ‘It’s at the foundation of it, the first building block. I need the investors’ money to build for the future of Stockport-on-the-Medlock. I can’t build that future alone. My pockets aren’t that deep.’

Nora felt sick. Her plans would ruin more than his credibility. A few weeks past, such ironic justice would have suited her perfectly. Now, looking at the man across from her, she could barely stomach the thought of all she’d be responsible for. She had to cut ties here before she was too emotionally involved to see reason.

‘None the less, Brandon, I am not comfortable being a kept woman,’ Nora said slowly. ‘Even if you were the richest man in England, I would be reluctant to accept the wardrobe you’ve lavished on me these past few days.’

‘My intended needs the appropriate clothing. No one would believe I was to marry a woman of dubious fashion.’

‘I will pay for the gowns,’ Nora insisted.

Brandon took her hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance. ‘You talk too much. Maybe I’ll get my money’s worth out of the gowns. After your two weeks are up, you might decide to stay.’

Nora sighed. ‘I am not free to marry and I won’t be your mistress.’

‘If he were dead, you would have a choice,’ Brandon said softly.

Nora drew back. ‘What have you done, Brandon? You will not commit murder on my behalf.’

Brandon laughed. ‘Nothing that bad, Nora. Did you imagine I sent thugs to kill your errant husband?’ He sobered. ‘I did send my friend Jack, Viscount Wainsbridge, though. If Reggie Portman is still of this world, Jack will find him.’

Brandon slipped a hand behind her neck, sifting her hair through his fingers and drawing her close for a deep kiss. ‘Until then, we have two weeks to ourselves to wait and see and enjoy. Promise me, two weeks, Nora. The Cat can take a holiday,’ he whispered against her neck.

‘I promise,’ Nora replied softly. But it was already a broken promise. She still had the haul from St John’s to pawn for cash and get to Mary Malone. Brandon kissed her again and Nora felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn’t see the fingers she crossed behind her back.