Bronwyn Scott - Regency Sins - Pickpocket Countess / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

No matter how much she protested to the contrary with her sharp tongue and daring innuendos, she was not impervious to his kiss or his touch. His experience with women told him she had enjoyed the naked passion of the evening as much as he. She had been pliant and willing in his arms. He had felt the moment she gave herself up to her own longings and their burgeoning mutual desire.

He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, and, in spite of her tricks, he wanted her, wanted her beyond reason and against all good sense. Brandon recognised trouble when he saw it and he was in it up to his neck. Jack had better come quickly.

Dear lord! She’d tied the Earl of Stockport to his bed and left him there naked, or nearly so. The ramifications of her actions burned Nora’s cheeks all the way back to the Grange. He’d be furious and all because she’d let her temper get the better of her.

Tonight, The Cat had gone too far. But she’d felt it necessary in order to throw Stockport off the scent that Eleanor and The Cat were one and the same. She hoped to convince him that such disparate personalities could not reside in the same person.

Stockport’s insinuations to Eleanor at the card party had left her distinctly uneasy. He wouldn’t behave in such a shocking manner if he hadn’t been sure he knew Eleanor Habersham was a fiction. Coupled with the impudent gift of satin for undergarments, she could no longer dismiss Stockport’s knowledge of The Cat. What he had once guessed at, he now felt he knew with almost absolute certainty.

Nora let herself into the kitchen, thankful for the dark interior. It meant Hattie hadn’t waited up. She was in no mood for a lecture tonight, not when there was so much to sort through. Her new knowledge about Stockport was like a flame—both illuminating and dangerous at the same time. A person was better off without some things. Knowing the enemy on a human level was one of them. The quickest way to get burned was to fall in love with one’s mark.

That bore thinking about, but not until she was in the sanctuary of her own room. Nora took the stairs quickly, avoiding the squeaky floorboard on the fifth tread. Slipping inside her own private domain, she let the thought loose. If she was to be a good thief, she had to be objective. She couldn’t protect herself if she lost perspective. Was she in love with Stockport?

Nora had little to work with from her disastrous, short-lived marriage. From her recollections of conversations with other women, people in love had pulses that raced when the object of their affection was near. They spent hours thinking about their adored one.

If that was the criteria, she was safe. Certainly, she experienced adrenalin rushes at the thought of seeing him again, but that was due to the prospect of matching wits with a commendable foe. No rules of engagement said a thief couldn’t respect the target. She definitely did not spend hours idolising him. All of her thoughts focused on how to best him. That was not love-like in the least bit.

Nora breathed a little easier after her examination. She was not falling for Brandon. Stockport, she corrected hastily. Thinking of him by his first name was an unaffordable luxury. This venture didn’t need any more personalisation to confuse the issue. Besides, developing soft feelings for Stockport was tantamount to treason.

Industry had seen to the ruin of her family and tossed her into a life of chaos. She could not compromise her cause by forgetting Stockport was at the heart of the project to build the textile mill.

Her only sin was that she’d dallied too long with Stockport. He’d been a means to an end, but he had not reciprocated by ranting about The Cat all over town. She’d meant it when she’d told him she would not visit him again. There were other, more compliant, subjects and she had to hurry. Ground had been broken and the foundations laid. She had to keep the investors wary, worrying about when The Cat would strike next.

Nora fingered a small pile of post that lay on the vanity, sifting through it until she found a particular envelope. She opened it and smiled. Perfect. Inside was an invitation. Out of a sense of polite obligation and an acknowledgement of the social limitations a village like Stockport-on-the-Medlock presented, Eleanor Habersham was invited to a New Year’s Eve fête hosted by Mr Flack, one of the industrialists hoping to expand their fortunes with the new textile mill. The party would provide the ideal staging ground for planning her next move. Eleanor would be able to learn much in unguarded moments.

No one thought a spinster had a brain in her head. She might even manage to eke out a little excitement. Stockport was certain to attend. It would be an opportunity to ferret out what Stockport truly knew about Eleanor Habersham and The Cat.

‘This sleepy place is what you traded for the fireworks of Parliament?’ Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge, waved his ornate walking stick in disbelief at the village spread before him. ‘I raced from London for this? I left mere hours after getting the message and made excellent time because your letter indicated the situation was dire. This isn’t “dire”, my dear friend, it’s “boring”.’

Brandon stepped down from the carriage and stood beside his friend. He tried to see the little town through Jack’s jaded eyes. To a man used to the intrigues of London, Stockport-on-the-Medlock no doubt appeared harmless without a hostile bone in its civic body.

It was an outer image only. In the five days since Jack’s hasty summons, Brandon knew differently. The white-steepled church, well-kept shop fronts and neatly cobbled streets were superficial signs of prosperity—a prosperity purchased at the expense of others. Beneath the bucolic façade, there was another story, too—a story about farmers struggling to hold on to land that no longer produced the profits it once had, and agricultural workers who once hired out their labour and were now forced to leave their families to seek work in Manchester because their traditional jobs were gone.

The town was at war with itself, divided between those who wanted the new textile mill and those who did not. The Cat led the latter faction and, by merit of his rank and association with textile mill, he led the other.

‘If Stockport-on-the-Medlock was in truth what it seemed on the outside, I would not have called for you, old friend.’ Brandon clapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll walk the streets as long as we can stand the cold and then we’ll dine at the Cart and Bull. There’s no place finer in town for learning the news.’

A few hours later, Jack Hanley sopped up the last of his hearty rabbit stew with a thick chunk of bread and leaned back in his chair, ready to make his pronouncement. ‘I am beginning to see what you mean.’

They had spent an hour touring the shops and another hour over a pint of ale in the public room of the inn before retiring to a private parlour for luncheon. Brandon waited impatiently for Jack’s verdict.

If anyone knew how to see beyond the face of things, it was Jack. He made an art form out of being a man who dressed elaborately and acted the dandy in order to make people forget the shrewdness of his clever mind, a talent that King William frequently put to good use for the crown. It was that talent Brandon called upon now to help him unravel the mystery of The Cat.

‘How many people support The Cat?’ Jack asked.

Brandon shrugged. ‘It is hard to say. I do not believe anyone openly champions The Cat, but the support is there, especially from the lower classes.’

‘An army of one?’ Jack raised a cynical blond eyebrow. ‘I cannot believe one person could so easily tie a town up in knots. The Cat must have assistance.’

‘In Manchester, The Cat has a network.’ Brandon grimaced, remembering the day he’d spent shopping with Miss Habersham. ‘But here, the support is less obvious, although I am sure there are plenty who quietly support The Cat. In town, the issue of the textile mill has been met with strong minority resistance.’