Bronwyn Scott - Pickpocket Countess

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.