Lady Thief

by Kay Hooper

  A beautiful, raven-haired, golden-eyed young woman stared back. The shining black hair was drawn away from her face and wound in a braided coronet about her head, exposing the delicate bones of her face. Her nose was small and straight, and the gently curved lips seemed more inclined to a smile than a frown.

  But the most outstanding feature of all was the golden eyes. They were enormous, with long, curling lashes. Catlike, they had a slight upward slant. There was no serenity in their golden depths, only wild, restless emotion.

  She continued to stare into the mirror, remembering with a bittersweet pang how her father had always teased her about her eyes. He had told her that one day she would meet a man who would calm her restless spirit and tame the wildness in her soul. She had flung back her head and told her father that no man would ever master her.

  Her father had smiled and gently touched her cheek. “He won’t master you, kitten. If he’s smart, he’ll just love you.” His calm golden eyes had been warm with love. “And if you love him, you’ll find peace of mind.”

  She leaned against the dressing table and stared down at her clenched fists. “I haven’t found him yet, Papa,” she whispered. “I don’t think he exists. Oh, Papa, why did you have to die? Everything would have been so different.” For a long time, she stood silent, telling herself fiercely that she wouldn’t cry. She could only remember crying once, years ago, when her father had died. Never before, never since.

  Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door. She stiffened, her heart thundering in her ears.

  “Jenny?” It was almost a whisper.

  Jenny relaxed and went to open the door. A slender wraith in a pale pink dressing gown slipped through the doorway. A stray blond curl had escaped from her nightcap, and her blue eyes were wide with fright. “Oh, Jenny,” she whispered breathlessly, “Father wanted to see you, but I knew that you were riding tonight, so I told him that you had a headache. He was furious!”

  Jenny went to turn up the lamp and then turned to face her stepsister, her expression grim. “Was he drinking, Meg?”

  Meg sat down weakly on the bed. “Oh, yes. He was ranting and raving. Jenny, he said that you had refused the Earl of Stoven! He was furious!”

  Jenny’s wild eyes darkened with rage. “I don’t care how angry he was. I will not marry that pompous, self-opinionated ass. He has a red face and sweaty hands, he’s fifty if he’s a day, and fat as a pig besides.” She began to pace restlessly around the room. “Your father only wants me to marry Stoven because he’s rich. Well, he can just forget it. I won’t marry him.”

  “But, Jenny—” Meg hesitated. “He—he won’t live forever! You could have a fine house and beautiful clothes, and you could spend the Season in London.”

  “I can’t, Meg.”

  “But, why? Oh, Jenny—at least you could get away from Father.”

  Jenny turned to Meg, her eyes blazing. But, when she saw the innocence in her stepsister’s eyes, her anger melted. Gently, she said, “Honey, I can’t. You don’t understand—I can’t bear to have the man touch me.”

  Meg’s face pinkened. “Oh! You—you mean the way he holds your hand and puts his arm round your waist?”

  Jenny managed to smile faintly as she sat down beside Meg. “There is a little more to it than that. A husband and wife are—intimate. They sleep in the same bed and they—hold and touch one another.”

  Meg went scarlet suddenly. In a small voice, she said, “You mean when they make a baby?”

  “Yes. I just couldn’t bear to let Stoven touch me that way. The thought of it makes me ill.”

  “Jenny, will I—will I feel that way about the man I marry?”

  “Oh, my dear, of course not. If you love him, you’ll want to be close to him.”

  Meg’s blue eyes widened in sudden fright. “Oh, Jenny—what if he makes me marry Stoven?”

  Jenny gave her stepsister a gentle hug. “You’re only sixteen—not even your father is monster enough to marry you to a man like Stoven.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m sure I am. Meg, anytime your father tries to make you do anything against your will, just tell me. I’ll stop him, or get you away from here.”

  Meg smiled. “I know. You’ve always protected me from Father’s temper.” Her smile died as she looked gravely at her stepsister. “But, Jenny—who will protect you?”

  Jenny stood up abruptly. “It’s late. You had better get to bed.”

  Meg slowly got to her feet, blue eyes concerned. “You didn’t answer my question, Jenny.”

  Jenny smiled brilliantly. “I’ll protect myself. I always have and I always will.”

  Meg suddenly looked older than her sixteen years. “Jenny, you can’t stand alone forever. You need someone. Someone big and strong. You need someone to rely on occasionally.”

  “Well, if that’s so,” Jenny responded lightly, “then I think I met him tonight.”

  Eagerly, Meg asked, “Who? Jenny, who is he?”

  “The Duke of Spencer. He’s tall and strong—he’s even handsome.”

  “A duke. Just think—you could be a duchess.” She sighed rapturously. “It’s like a fairy story.”

  Jenny, no stranger to her stepsister’s romantic nature, smiled wryly. “Don’t get your hopes up, Meg. To Spencer, I’m just a strange woman in a black mask, a woman wanted by the Runners, a woman who robbed him.” Rather grimly, she went on. “I can’t let Spencer—or anyone else—find out who I am. If the Runners catch me, I’ll hang.”

  Meg went white. “No. Oh, Jenny, please don’t go out anymore.”

  Seeing the fear in Meg’s eyes, Jenny hastily spoke. “Now, why do you think they call me the Cat? I have nine lives. Don’t worry about me, Meg—they’ll never catch me.”

  A sob escaped Meg. “I never thought how—how dangerous it is! It seemed so romantic—like a fairy tale. But, now . . . Jenny, even if they don’t catch you, you could be shot. Please, please don’t go out anymore.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Meg, I can’t stop. Don’t you see that it’s the only way I can hope to find my father’s murderer?”

  “But, Jenny—”

  “Hush. I’ll be fine—really. Only you, John, and Annie know who the Cat really is. And that’s the way it will stay.” She led Meg to the door. “Now, you go to bed and get some sleep.”

  Meg paused in the open doorway and whispered, “Father—what if he beats you?”

  “I’ll just stay out of his way until he calms down. Good night, Meg.”

  “’Night, Jenny.” She silently made her way toward her own bedroom.

  Jenny closed the door and leaned against it wearily. After a moment she straightened and prepared for bed. She undressed and donned her nightgown, then sat before her dressing table. Unconsciously avoiding her mirrored image, she took down her hair and began to brush the long silken mass that hung below her waist.

  She hid her masculine clothes in the locked chest she had had since childhood. After blowing out the lamp, she crawled into bed. She lay sleepless until dawn, her ears echoing with the memory of a deep, resonant voice.

  Chapter Two

  Sir George Ross had never been noted as an even-tempered man. Although sympathetic voices maintained that he had suffered a severe disappointment in his youth, those who knew him well could say, with complete honesty, that Sir George was a hard-drinking, evil-tempered man who kept his wife in a state of cowered obedience and terrified his daughter. As for his stepdaughter, no one was quite sure what her feelings were toward her mother’s second husband.

  Miss Jenny was a lovely young woman of twenty, with cool manners and a quiet, well-bred voice. She bore no resemblance to her mother, either in looks or temperament; Lady Ross was a faded woman with a fluttery manner and nervous eyes.

  It was Miss Jenny, rather than her mother, who tended the sick and injured among Sir George’s tenants. It was she who interceded, on the tenants’ behalf, whenever Sir George’s harshness escaped the bounds of reas
on. It was she who kept the manor running on an even keel. Many of the numerous servants had been heard to say that they would not remain above a day in the employ of Sir George were it not for Miss Jenny.

  The local gentry had mixed emotions regarding Jennifer Courtenay. The gentlemen all said that she was an uncommon beauty and a bruising rider; their ladies agreed that she was lovely, and added that she did not give herself airs or put herself forward unbecomingly; and all the young bucks of the district had been, at one time or another, hopelessly in love with her.

  But no one had been able to penetrate the shell she had erected about herself since her father’s suicide eight years before. She was always calm, always polite. And yet, more than one person had become very uneasy after gazing into the strange wildness of her golden eyes. She was an enigma.

  Jenny had managed to avoid her stepfather for the better part of the day. She had no wish for a confrontation. She was still rather weary, and lacked both the strength and serenity to deal with one of Sir George’s famous—or infamous—rages.

  She was slipping quietly past Sir George’s study, her arms full of linen, when she suddenly found herself jerked into the room. The linen went flying in all directions, and it cost her a severe inner struggle to keep from swearing.

  She turned to see her stepfather leaning against the door, his clothes mussed and wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed from drink and lack of sleep.

  “Was there something you wanted, Sir George?” Her voice was cool and calm.

  “You’re damn right there’s something I want,” Sir George answered harshly. “I want to know why you refused Stoven.”

  Jenny clasped her hands before her and regarded him expressionlessly. “I have no wish to marry a man who is old enough to be my father. There are other reasons, of course, but that one will suffice.”

  Sir George stepped forward, swaying slightly. “You fool. He’s rich.”

  “I have no need of a wealthy husband.”

  “You need what I say you need! And I say that you will marry Stoven!”

  Jenny carefully gauged his mood and knew from the menace in his eyes that he would fly into a rage no matter what she said. “I will not marry Stoven. I will not, in fact, marry anyone while I remain beneath your guardianship.” She smiled coldly. “You will get nothing from me, Sir George. You will not benefit from marriage settlements, or anything else.”

  Sir George clenched his fists, his face going red with fury. “You’ll marry him!” he bellowed. “I’ll not stand for any more of this willful disobedience! You’ll do as I say!” He took another step forward. “When I get through with you, miss, you’ll be glad to marry Stoven.” Suddenly, his hand lashed out to strike her across the face.

  It was a heavy blow, with the entire weight of his arm behind it, and Jenny reeled. Her eyes watered from the pain, and she reached up a shaking hand to wipe a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. She raised her eyes just as Sir George drew back for another blow, and something in her gaze stayed his hand.

  Sir George stared into the deadly fury of her strange eyes and felt a chill run down his spine. He had never before seen such a look of hatred in her eyes.

  In a voice devoid of all human emotion, she said, “I won’t stand for any more of this from you. The next time you lay a hand on me, on Meg, or on my mother—I’ll kill you.”

  Sir George’s hand fell to his side and he let out a laugh that, even to his own ears, sounded strained. “You wouldn’t dare. You don’t have the stomach to kill a man.”

  “Would you care to bet your life on that, Sir George?” She smiled coldly. “I am a much better shot than you are. And I mean what I say. I will kill you.”

  Sir George forced another laugh. “I’ll get you out of my hair one way or another. If I have to, I’ll have you arrested for threatening my life. What do you say about that, miss?”

  “I say, Sir George, that you would be the laughing stock of England if word got out that you were afraid of a mere girl—and your stepdaughter at that. No, you won’t have me arrested. Who would believe you?” Her voice was mocking. “But you and I know the truth. And we both know that I mean what I say.”

  She moved toward the door, scorn in her eyes. “Stay away from me—or you’ll be sorry.”

  Sir George found himself almost nervously moving out of her path. He watched her leave the room, his brow dark with anger. One of these days, he thought, I’m going to give that young lady exactly what she deserves. On that dark thought, he flung himself into a chair and splashed whiskey into his glass.

  Jenny slowly climbed the stairs, one hand against her bruised cheek. Her expressionless face concealed a rage as great as any she had ever experienced. Not even the memory of her father’s death had the power to arouse such fury in her.

  She halted by her mother’s door and, after a moment, knocked softly and went in. Her mother was reclining in a lounge chair by the window, bundled in shawls and blankets, and holding her smelling salts in one slender hand.

  Lady Ross looked up as her daughter entered. In a fretful voice, she said, “Jenny, you know how I hate to be disturbed. I need my rest.”

  “Mama,” said Jenny, ignoring the petulant voice, “I cannot remain in this house.”

  Lady Ross frowned. “What nonsense is this?”

  Jenny lowered her hand, revealing the bruised cheek. “If I stay, Mama,” she said quietly, “you’ll be widowed for the second time.”

  “Oh, Jenny,” her mother murmured, “what have you done?”

  “I? What have I done? Mama, how can you ask such a question? When did he ever need a reason to strike me?”

  “You must have done something to cause your father . . .”

  “That man is not my father. Mama, how can you continue to defend him? He treats you despicably.”

  “Jenny, he’s my husband. For heaven’s sake . . .”

  “He’s an animal. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Mama, I mean what I say. If he touches me again, I swear I’ll kill him.”

  Lady Ross sighed tiredly. “Stay away from him, Jenny. When this year is up, you will be your own mistress. Until then, just stay out of his way.”

  Jenny studied her mother thoughtfully. “You didn’t seem at all surprised when I threatened to kill him. Why, Mama?”

  “Because,” Lady Ross replied with a twisted smile, “you are exactly like your father was—strong enough to do whatever you feel you have to do.”

  “You never talk about Papa.”

  “I do not want to think about him. He killed himself, Jenny. Do you think I want to remember that night? I do not! All the good memories of our life, our years together, were wiped away by what happened that night.”

  “Mama, he didn’t kill himself. I was there—I saw him murdered.”

  Lady Ross shook her head wearily. “You were only a child, Jenny. You saw what you wanted to see.”

  “I didn’t want to see him murdered.”

  “You didn’t want to see him kill himself.”

  “Mama—” Jenny sighed in defeat. “Never mind. You refuse to believe me, no matter what I say.” Turning to go, she continued quietly, “But one day—one day you’ll believe me.” She left the room as Lady Ross watched with troubled eyes.

  Meg rode through the woods, giving her horse his head. She didn’t really feel like riding, but it was the only way she could escape from the manor. Sir George was still drinking and Meg was afraid to be near him. She was terrified that he would try to force her to marry Stoven—no matter what Jenny said.

  She thought of Jenny and sighed. Meg loved her stepsister; she couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her.

  Deep in her reflections, Meg failed to notice that she had left the woods and was now crossing a field near the road. She also failed to notice a hare in her path. The tiny creature, frightened by the huge horse, darted toward the woods. Meg’s gelding shied violently, and she was thrown to the ground.

  The next few moments were a confusing blur to Me
g. Finding herself suddenly on the ground was enough of a shock, but then, to look up and see a large chestnut bearing down on her with a blond-haired gentleman on its back was too much. She fainted.

  Moments later she came to, and gazed up at a strange face with concerned deep blue eyes. With a murmur of confusion, Meg sat up hurriedly. “Oh! What happened?”

  The gentleman sat back on his heels and continued to look concerned. “You were thrown from your horse. Are you all right?” His voice was deep.

  Meg smiled shyly, feeling oddly breathless.

  “Oh, yes. I’m fine—really. But why did my horse shy?”

  The gentleman smiled and nodded toward the woods. “I believe there is the culprit.”

  She gazed in the direction he indicated and saw a small brown rabbit looking at them inquisitively. “Well! I never thought that Prince would be so timid as to be frightened by a hare.”

  “Perhaps he was startled.” The gentleman rose to his feet and offered her a hand.

  As she allowed him to help her to rise, Meg thought what a handsome gentleman he was, and wondered why she had never seen him before.

  Retaining her hand, the gentleman bowed low over it. “Robert Collins—at your service, ma’am.”

  She blushed and smiled. “I’m Meg—Margaret Ross.”

  Robert gazed down at her with a bemused smile. “Are you certain that you are all right, Miss Meg?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve taken tumbles before, you know.” She made no move to withdraw her hand from his grasp. Starry-eyed, she smiled up at him and said, “Do you live around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I am visiting a friend. I live in London.”

  “London. Oh, how I envy you. I would like, of all things, to live in London.”

  “Why? It’s nothing special, you know.”

  “It is. All the things to do and places to go. The parties and balls—and the theater!”