Bronwyn Scott - Pickpocket Countess

‘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.