by Anne Stuart
It might have been a sound, or her own highly tuned senses. She looked up at the moment, past the cracked window, and saw a dark figure skirting the outer wall, moving with a feline grace. It was too dark to see more than a shadow, and the creature blended with the night, but she knew who it was. Who it had to be.
She didn’t hesitate. The rain had stopped for the moment, the door opened silently beneath her hand. A minute later she was out in the night air, heading after the shadowy, catlike figure.
It was cooler than she’d expected, and damper, and the wind pulled her hair from its tight arrangement, lashing it against her face. For once she could thank fate that she was forced to wear the high-necked, heavy dresses she and Fleur had cut down from their mother’s wardrobe. She would have frozen in one of Fleur’s low-cut, diaphanous gowns.
He was heading for the stables, slipping through the night like a wraith. She followed him, hoping she was equally as circumspect, that her wind-tossed skirt and hair would blend with the darkness.
The stables were deserted at that hour, and in the distance Jessamine could hear the sounds of the servants in the hall. They must be eating—the Cat had timed his escape well.
She slipped into the stables after him, blinking as her eyes grew accustomed to the murky light. He seemed to have disappeared, and she stood motionless, peering through shifting shadows, breathing in the scent of hay and horses and leather, comforting scents from her childhood.
It took her a moment to recognize the muffled sounds she was hearing, the crisp clapping of hooves that told her that her nemesis had already made his escape, taking his horse and leaving the back way.
There must be madness in the air, Jessamine thought almost abstractedly, for her to even entertain the notion that the elegant Earl of Glenshiel was a common thief, that he would sneak out of the house and take off into the night on nefarious business.
And she had every intention of following him.
Madness, perhaps, but this time she was giving in to it. Glenshiel was a threat, the Cat was a threat, and she had the ability to neutralize both that night. If she went tamely back to bed, her self-disgust would know no bounds.
Besides, what did she have to lose? There would be no place in society for the likes of her, an eccentric who would never marry. No matter how wealthy Fleur’s future husband, it was unlikely his fortune would extend to making Jessamine a welcome member of society.
Most important of all, she was wildly curious.
She rode well, and even though it had been two years since she’d been on a horse, she had little doubt she could keep pace with any man. It was sheer luck that Marilla had seen to it that she knew how to saddle and bridle her own mounts, or she would have been helpless in the deserted stables.
As it was, it took precious time to ready one of the sleek, beautiful mares, and by the time she’d managed to scramble onto her back and head out of the stables, it should have been too late to follow him.
She paused, her hands on the reins, feeling the grace and power of the creature beneath her, and closed her eyes, focusing on the cards. The Prince of Swords, playing with right and wrong. She nudged the horse with her knee and let her take the lead.
It should have come as no surprise that they were heading out toward the London road. She kicked the horse into a faster trot, leaning forward to encourage her, whispering in her ear. Her gift with cards extended to animals as well, and the responsive creature moved faster, her sleek, strong body blending with hers.
She had no sense of time or place. She wore no gloves, and her hands were icy and chilled on the reins. Her hair had tumbled free, a witch’s tangle down her back, and the night was cold and damp. She didn’t care. She didn’t even care where she was going or what she would find. She had turned her will over to the fates, letting them, and the horse, take her where they wished. God only knew what she would find at the end of her destination. Alistair MacAlpin? Or the Cat? Or both?
It came at her out of the night sky, dark and smothering and immensely powerful, like a blanket of death, knocking her off the horse so that she landed, hard, on the deserted roadway, stunned, breathless, knowing only smothering blackness as she felt the huge weight that pinned her down.
She struggled for breath, for sight. Her breath came back to her in a choking rush, but the heavy folds of whatever covered her offered little in the way of fresh air, and she fought more wildly, kicking out, connecting quite solidly with bone and muscle.
“Bitch,” came Alistair MacAlpin’s pleasant drawl. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”
Jessamine froze. She knew who it was --- she’d been certain that was who she’d been following. Yet the reality off his body on top of hers, pressing her down, shocked her into temporary acquiescence.
There was a sharp stone beneath one shoulder blade, another beneath her hip. His weight was solid, flesh and bone, atop her, and she felt annoyance, discomfort, and a strange, dangerous stirring.
“Get off me, Glenshiel,” she said through whatever muffled her face. “You weigh a ton.”
“That’s my sweet-tongued lass,” he said, rolling off her. He flipped the enveloping cover from her body, and she could see him sitting next to her on the deserted roadway, looking abominably pleased with himself.
He was dressed entirely in black. Tight-fitting black breeches, black boots, a black shirt with nary a ruffle on it.
Belatedly she realized the blanket that covered her was an inky black cloak, and she shoved it away from her with impressive disdain.
“What are you doing out here dressed like that?” she demanded in her archest voice.
He was clearly unimpressed. Despite the thin sliver of moonlight she could see him quite well, and the look in his eyes boded ill. “I could ask the same of you,” he countered pleasantly enough.
“I was following you.”
“Rather foolhardy, don’t you think? And it could be quite embarrassing. I’ve probably gone to meet a lover, and if you happened to sneak up on us while we were otherwise... occupied I imagine your sweet little virgin eyes would go blind with shock and horror.”
“I doubt it. And you haven’t come out to meet a lover.”
“You wound me, Jessamine. Most women find me well-nigh irresistible. Only you seem curiously immune to my somewhat tarnished charm. I wonder why? I’ve gone out of my way to seduce you, and no matter how diligently I apply myself, you still seem to despise me. I wonder, do you hold something against men in particular, or is it just me?”
“You aren’t trying to seduce me,” she said flatly. “You’re just trying to keep me from discovering who you really are.”
There was a sudden ominous silence. “What a very foolish little girl you are,” Alistair purred after a moment. “For one so very bright, you are alarmingly obtuse. Assume you’ve actually discovered my deep, dark secret. I have little doubt that no one knows you’re out here—no groom would have allowed you to take that horse, and no guest would have let you go unaccompanied. So what’s to keep me from strangling you and disposing of your body in some deserted spot?”
A trickle of fear slid down her spine. “You wouldn’t,” she said, more a guess than a certainty.
He rose on his knees in the dirt, towering over her. “Tell me, my pet. Exactly what do you suspect I am?”
Now was her time to back down, to come up with an easy lie so that she might escape from this man, who suddenly seemed entirely capable of doing her grave harm. He was no longer the useless, elegant creature from the drawing rooms who watched her as she read the cards. Nor was he the seductive rogue who’d backed her into far too many corners and come dangerously close to making her forget all that was most important to her.
Tonight he was dark and cold and fierce, and he frightened her. If she had any sense, she’d make up some airy excuse.
But she looked into his hypnotic eyes, and sense abandoned her. “You’re the Cat,” she said.
His faint smile was chilling. “And did th
e cards tell you that, my pet?”
“The cards don’t lie.”
“And you work with the runners, don’t you? A little-known fact, but I make it my business to be apprised of all apparently extraneous details. You feed information to Josiah Clegg, and in return he gives you money. That’s how you’ve been able to support your family these last years, isn’t it?”
She wanted to deny it as she’d denied it before. It was her social ruin, the end to all her dreams and plans for Fleur’s security. But she sensed it would be useless. Besides, it might not matter. If he were to kill her, how she’d spent her last few years would be unlikely to matter.
“It would be a waste of time to deny it,” she said. “But consider this. If I were working with one of the most powerful thief-takers in the country and I were to disappear, don’t you think Clegg would put his considerable resources to finding out what happened to me, and bringing the wrongdoer to justice?”
“No. Clegg doesn’t care about anything but his purse, and you know it. You were better to have allied yourself with someone like Robert Brennan.”
He rose then, towering over her, lithe and fluid. Reaching down, he pulled her up beside him, dangerously close. “I’m afraid you’ve come too far to go back, sweet Jessamine. I have business in London tonight, and I don’t have time to see you safely home.”
“I got this far without incident—I can find my way back,” she said, trying to still the spurt of hope that filled her.
“I’m afraid not,” he said with real sorrow. “You’ll accompany me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous...” She started to back away, but he caught her arm, and his grip, though gentle, was utterly inescapable. He wore thin black gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather, through her layers of clothing, and it chilled and burned her.
“You’ll come with me,” he said again, “and I’ll show you just who and what the Cat is. Come along, sweet Jess.”
She tried to yank her arm away from him, to escape, but it was useless. His grip was iron. “Don’t call me that!”
Her horse hadn’t run far. She was grazing near Glenshiel’s mount, dulcet and peaceful, waiting for her. “Why not?” Alistair murmured, releasing her arm and settling his hands on her narrow waist. “It’s your name, is it not? What about tender Jess? Loving Jess? Stalwart Jess?” His voice was a low, seductive purr.
“What about excessively angry Jess, who will see your hide nailed to the wall if you don’t let her go?” she shot back.
The hands tightened around her waist, lifting her, and in a moment she was back on the horse, staring down at him. His hands were still on her waist, and she could feel every finger pressing against her.
“They won’t nail my hide to a wall, Jess. They’ll hang me at Tyburn, and thousands of people will come to watch a peer die, and they’ll be selling apples and tracts of my so-called confession, and ladies will bid over articles of my clothing, and if you tell them you once bedded me, you’ll be the toast of that motley society.”
She shivered in the night air. “I wouldn’t be there to watch,” she said. “And I haven’t... bedded you.”
His smile was ineffably sweet as he looked up at her. “Ah, but you will, Jess. You’ll be there to watch me die, and you’ll weep hot tears of remorse.”
“I doubt it.”
“And you’ll remember the night I took you over the rooftops of London,” he continued, undaunted, as he vaulted onto his own horse, the reins to Jessamine’s mount held tightly in one gloved hand so she couldn’t escape. “And the night you gave yourself to me.”
“Never.”
He leaned across the saddle, caught her chin in one gloved hand, and kissed her, a brief, deep, erotic claiming of her mouth that she was powerless to resist. “Tonight,” he said.
And a moment later they were thundering down the London road, Jessamine clinging to the pommel to keep her balance as Alistair, the Cat, led her onward.
Fifteen
Robert Brennan was in a suitably foul mood. Frustration had something to do with it, sheer physical need that he thought he’d mastered a decade before. He was like a randy school lad consumed with lust for an errant barmaid. Except that Fleur Maitland was no barmaid, she was a lady. And he was no boy, he was a man with a man’s responsibilities and self-control.
Guilt had something to do with it as well. The look on Fleur’s face, the sheen of tears in her eyes, ate into his soul like acid. He’d done his best to keep away from her—she was temptation pure and simple, and resistance was becoming more and more difficult.
Anger had something to do with it. Someone was making a May game of the runners, and it angered him as little else could. The Cat was there at Blaine Manor, he had no doubt of that whatsoever. The tricks with the jewelry were just that, tricks to annoy and confuse the keepers of the peace. But he wasn’t fool enough to think things were going to stop at that.
It was a quiet night. Mrs. Blaine and most of her guests were out. The rest had retired early, and once again Brennan’s guilt and frustration surfaced. Not that Fleur would welcome his comfort. Just then she was probably sobbing her heart out on her sister’s shoulder.
Except that he didn’t think so. His instincts, usually infallible, were telling him things were afoot. Clegg and Samuel had gone into the nearby village to spend the evening at a pub, but Brennan had declined their invitation to join them. Something was going to happen, his very blood told him so. He just wasn’t sure what.
He’d half decided that Freddie Arbuthnot was the infamous Cat. To be sure, he seemed to have neither the wit nor the daring to pull off some of the crimes attributed to the Cat, but looks could be deceiving. He had the entree to the very top of society, and he was in need of money. So desperate was his need, as a matter of fact, that he was busy courting the singularly unpleasant Miss Ermintrude Winters.
The only other choice was the seemingly indolent Earl of Glenshiel. He’d seen the man from a distance, listened to his drawling, faintly sarcastic conversation, and come to the conclusion that he was more interested in the cut of his satin coat than exerting himself for the sake of larceny.
But there was something in Glenshiel’s odd golden eyes that hinted at more than appearances suggested. Something mocking, derisive, and devious. Wit was there as well, lurking. And he seemed far too interested in Jessamine Maitland.
Brennan had no idea whether he believed in her putative powers. To be able to track a criminal by the fall of a card seemed alien to his deliberately practical nature, but there was little doubt that Clegg’s success, and his fortunes, had risen astonishingly in the past year. Josiah Clegg was essentially a lazy man, far more ready to earn an easy penny than to exert himself for the larger reward, yet that was exactly what had been happening. It would make a great deal of sense if he were getting supernatural help.
If such a thing could be considered anywhere in the realm of sensible, Brennan reminded himself wryly. He looked toward the main wing of the house, the windows lit against the stormy night sky. Fleur lay behind one of those squares of golden light, probably cursing his soul. He told himself that that was what he wanted, and he almost believed it.
The Earl of Glenshiel lay behind another of those windows, suffering the grippe, too miserably ill from a surfeit of oysters to see anyone. Or so he said.
And there was no way Brennan could find his way into that portion of the house. Reserved for the quality, those pretty, useless creatures who knew nothing about hard work or real life. It was damnable—there was nothing he could do but bide his time. And watch.
Sooner or later the Cat would expose himself. Sooner or later he would make one fatal mistake, and then Brennan would pounce. He had no intention of letting Clegg claim that generous reward. Brennan wanted it, needed it. And Josiah Clegg’s nefarious ways deserved no more rich rewards.
Jessamine was cold. She hadn’t dressed warmly enough, she had no gloves, and the tearing ride across the countryside was jarring
and absolutely terrifying in the utter darkness. She couldn’t see where they were going, but Glenshiel had no such problem. Like a cat, he could see in the dark, and his hand on her reins kept her horse close behind.
When he finally drew to a halt, it was so abrupt she almost tumbled forward over the pommel of the saddle. The closed carriage that awaited them was black and somber, more like a funeral coach than a private phaeton, but Jessamine had no illusions. It would be light and very fast.
Glenshiel was already beside her, reaching up to help her dismount. “Come along, Jessamine,” he ordered.
She stared down at him through her tangled curtain of hair, glaring, unwilling to move. “If you think I’m going anywhere further with you...”
His hands were hard on her waist, and he hauled her down from the horse with nothing short of brute force. She fell against him, and if she’d had the presence of mind, she would have tried to knock him over.
It wouldn’t have done any good. He was in dangerous control of the situation, and of her, and there was little she could do for the time being but go along with him.
“What the ‘ell is that?” a coarse voice, followed by a pungent odor, demanded. Both emanated from a small, swarthy creature dressed in improbable black.
“This is my partner in crime, Nic. Miss Jessamine Maitland, about to embark on a night of larceny. This, dear Jess, is Nicodemus Bottom, my mentor and accomplice. He disposes of the purloined jewels for me and takes a share.”
“Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?” the man exploded. “Your bleedin’ lordship might have a bleedin’ death wish, but I hopes to live a long and happy life without being turned over to the likes of Josiah Clegg. What made you bring her along? She’ll be the death of both of us.”
“It wasn’t my idea. She followed me,” Alistair said mildly enough. “I couldn’t very well let her go back to the house and raise the alarm.”