Bronwyn Scott - Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle - Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

Brandon wanted to strangle her. For the next hour he was peppered with questions: Did he prefer hats with ribbons or feathers for trimmings? What were all the ladies in London wearing for the Little Season?

Finally it looked as if the girls were satisfied. His torture was nearly over when Miss Habersham gushed insipidly, ‘Oh, my lord, you haven’t told them about the satin yet.’

Brandon shot her a quelling look. At what point had he lost control? For a spinster of limited experiences, Miss Habersham had quite a large amount of the devil in her.

Stockport Hall had never looked so welcoming. By the time he returned, Brandon was more than willing to put himself in the very capable hands of Cedrickson and his valet, Harper. They knew exactly what he needed—a hot drink and a hotter bath to thaw him out.

Brandon gratefully sank into the steamy retreat of his large copper tub and gave himself over to the luxury of being warm. He let his mind wander over the events of the day while he soaked, eyes shut. Sometimes he thought better when his musings didn’t take a particular direction, but were free to wander along their own paths.

There was something that niggled him about each of Miss Habersham’s interactions. He had it! Brandon’s eyes popped open and he sat upright, sloshing water on the floor. Money. He’d spent a considerable amount of time thinking about Miss Habersham’s financial situation, how carefully budgeted her funds were. Yet she was shopping in Manchester for items that could easily be obtained at stores in Stockport-on-the Medlock.

Going into the larger city for fashionable clothing or rare food items was understandable, but those were not the items Miss Habersham had spent her day shopping for. Brandon focused his thoughts with a probing question. Why would someone with few funds make the effort to travel to a large city and pay more for items that could be bought at local shops?

Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and sank back down into the water, now actively replaying each visit to the shops. What had she done at each stop? Was there a single habit she had repeated each time? Each visit did follow the same pattern: she’d give the shopkeeper her list, she’d carry on some overlong conversation and then pay for her purchases. In his mind’s eye he could see her handing over her banknotes for payment. Nothing unusual there. Wait.

He slowly opened his eyes as if not to lose the threads of his idea by rushing. Not once today did he see her receive any change. He saw her reach into her reticule, but never did he see a shopkeeper move to a cash box for change or go to a back room and retrieve smaller notes. It seemed highly unlikely that her purchases all came to exact amounts that she carried on her person. Assuming he was correct, what did it mean?

That answer was much easier to come up with. He had worked often enough with ledgers and finances in regards to his estate. He’d caught a dishonest steward once who had thought to pocket some of the estate’s profit by recording less than the actual profit in the estate ledgers. The same principle worked in Miss Habersham’s case, only in reverse.

Brandon drummed his fingers on the side of the tub. In her case, she overpaid for the goods received. It was a perfect way to conduct business for The Cat in plain sight without anyone noticing. Of course, his conclusion assumed that Eleanor Habersham was somehow linked to acting as an accomplice to The Cat.

He realised he was making some large leaps of logic here. Eleanor might not be connected to The Cat in any way. She might have other reasons for dressing as she did. It was entirely possible that she had no fashion sense, that she found her gowns pretty.

How to find out if his suppositions were correct? He couldn’t ask Miss Habersham without giving away what he knew. If she was connected to The Cat, she’d alert The Cat to his suspicions, making it that much harder to catch the wily burglar.

Another wild hypothesis was starting to take shape in his mind as well. If Miss Habersham was wearing a disguise, what was she hiding? Why not simply go around as herself? People went around in disguises because they didn’t want to be recognised. Was it possible that Miss Habersham was The Cat?

The idea was not without merit. Miss Habersham had arrived in the district at the same time The Cat began making appearances. Miss Habersham did indeed disguise her looks for a currently unconfirmed but still suspicious reason. The Cat knew Miss Habersham; had made specific reference to her in a conversation.

Those were good facts to start building on, but the best fact of all was Miss Habersham’s wit. The interplay between them today had been similar to the repartee he’d enjoyed with The Cat on both occasions. True, The Cat sparred with him verbally while Miss Habersham sparred with him on a different, less direct, level. It made sense. It would have been out of character for a woman of Miss Habersham’s background to make flagrant challenges that were so second nature to The Cat. Still, both The Cat and Miss Habersham duelled exquisitely in their own ways.

Brandon slid deeper into the fragrant water, chuckling to himself. If Miss Habersham was indeed The Cat, he was doubly glad he’d bought the satin.

The merriment of the Squire’s Christmas ball swirled around him in a cacophony of festive scents and noises while Brandon surveyed the ballroom in all its festooned glory. Throughout the ballroom, young couples in masks stole fun-loving kisses under strategically placed boughs of mistletoe.

Everywhere he looked, the room was alive with colour from the evergreen branches to the swags of rich claret silk draping the walls. Masked women in expensive brocades and velvets twirled past on the dance floor, partnered by elegant men in black. Overhead, the chandelier caught the spark of jewels and diamonds. Brandon already knew the refreshment tables in the other room groaned under the Squire’s largesse, sporting all nature of sweetmeats and cakes and silver.

It was a night of plenty and of possibility. Everyone was masked and no one was paying attention to anything beyond their own pleasure. The Cat would be in her element. Brandon was counting on it.

Tonight, she’d promised to give back his ring. The three one-hundred-pound notes were safely nestled in the breast pocket of his evening jacket. He didn’t intend to turn them over to The Cat. They were simply there to serve as bait. He planned to lure The Cat into a semi-private place under the guise of making payment and then give the pre-arranged signal to alert the four hired undercover guards who mingled undetected in masks around the room. His victory would be swift and decisive. Tonight it was his turn to surprise The Cat.

The Cat had been busy since her last visit to Stockport Hall two weeks ago. He might not have seen her, his forays to uncover where she fenced her stolen goods may have revealed nothing, but he’d heard about her.

She’d struck several times, always limiting her targets to those who had invested in the textile mill and her name was on the lips of every villager. There were tales that painted her as an angel to the poor, bringing medicine to the sick and food to the starving. To hear the citizens of Manchester’s slums talk, The Cat was a veritable paragon.

Brandon had difficulty reconciling this shining example of civic welfare with the brash bandit who taunted the law with her break-ins. None the less, he was intrigued beyond good sense. The dichotomous halves of her personality posed the question, was The Cat sinner or saint?

In an attempt to unravel the riddle, Brandon found himself developing an annoying habit of rising each morning and searching out news of her escapades. He’d begun riding into the village just to overhear conversations in hopes of catching even a snippet of news concerning her latest chicanery.