by Kay Hooper
Jenny and Spencer watched as the earl held the ring, staring thoughtfully into the fire. After a moment, he replaced the ring in its hiding place. Only then did he open the leather pouch and study its contents. Satisfied that his property had been returned to him, he dropped the pouch into his pocket, picked up the cane and, twirling it jauntily, left the room.
Jenny found herself suddenly in the duke’s arms, and realized that she was trembling. “He put the ring back in the cane. Oh, Nick—I was so afraid he’d hide it somewhere else,” she murmured against his broad chest.
Spencer chuckled softly. “Well, he didn’t. So we can begin step two of our plan tomorrow.” He began to lead her toward the mews, where their horses waited.
Jenny shivered slightly. “You mean the War Office—and Bow Street?”
The duke stopped and gazed down at her. “Jenny, don’t be frightened. You know I wouldn’t ask you to reveal the Cat’s identity if I thought you would be harmed in any way.”
She smiled up at him. “I know that, Nick. It just seems strange, after the secrecy of the past year, to think about going up to someone and announcing flatly that I’m the Cat.”
Spencer grinned at her. “By the time we’ve rung down the curtain on Monday night, you’ll not only be forgiven for being the Cat—you’ll be called a heroine.”
Jenny looked dubious. “If you say so.”
“Allow me to know my peers. Believe me, love, society will be enchanted by your story, and totally in sympathy with your strange career.”
“What are you going to tell them?” She frowned.
He grinned again. “Your story. The plain and simple truth.” He led her through the back gate and into the mews.
Jenny prepared to mount her horse, smiling faintly. “All right. But I’ll be prepared to run like the devil if it doesn’t work.”
The duke watched her swing onto her horse before following suit. “If it doesn’t work, love,” he said with a tender smile, “we shall find ourselves a new world, you and I.”
“Nick.” She glared at him in mock anger. “Don’t say things like that. At least not until we’re married—then I can do something about it.”
His shout of laughter followed her as she spurred her horse toward home.
Chapter Twenty-two
Jenny crept silently down the stairs early the next morning, hoping to reach the front door before any of the servants saw her. It would be difficult to explain why she was up and about so early, and to not explain would only give rise to the sort of gossip that could ruin her reputation. What possible reason could she have for leaving the house dressed in her shabbiest morning dress and wearing a hat with a heavy veil? It was just the sort of thing to make the servants wonder.
She was halfway to the door when Somers suddenly popped out of the sitting room. The butler’s surprise was momentary; he immediately assumed his normal lack of expression. “Shall I send for the carriage, Miss Jenny?”
“Er—no thank you, Somers.” Jenny hesitated. “I have an important errand this morning which I would rather not disclose to Lady Beddington. I trust that I can count on you not to betray me?”
Somers bowed. “I believe I have already expressed my belief in your ability to take care of yourself, Miss Jenny.” He permitted himself a smile. “I shall not betray you.”
Jenny smiled back. “Thank you. And if you ever find yourself needing a job, Somers, I do hope that you will come to me.”
The butler opened the front door for her before replying. With a slight bow, and a decided twinkle in his eye, he murmured, “To you—and the duke, Miss Jenny?”
Jenny paused just inside the threshold and gave the man a rueful look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Somers?”
“If I may take the liberty of saying so, miss, a blind man would have difficulty in missing what has been obvious for some time.”
Jenny chuckled softly and passed from the house, hearing the door close behind her. She made her way swiftly down the street toward the corner, where a hackney cab waited. Fashionable society was sleeping peacefully behind closed doors; the streets were silent except for the sounds of servants stirring and merchants moving busily toward their shops.
When Jenny reached the cab, the door was flung open and Spencer descended to the pavement. He smiled, swept his greatcoat aside in a graceful bow, and murmured, “Your carriage, milady.”
She laughed, and accepted his assistance to enter the cab. Spencer climbed in after her, and the cab moved off down the street.
The duke reached for her hand. “You aren’t nervous, are you, Jenny?”
“Why would I be nervous? Just because I am going to present myself at both the War Office and Bow Street as the Cat—who is known as a notorious thief. That’s no reason to be nervous, is it?” She smiled rather weakly.
“No reason at all. You’ll be forgiven immediately, once your story is known. Trust me.”
“Of course I trust you. But are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Spencer chuckled. “Very sure. I found out who to talk to at the War Office—Lord Carrington. If he approves, you will have nothing to fear from the War Office. I must say, he was very intrigued when I spoke with him yesterday. He didn’t even object to having to be at the Office at such an ungodly hour.”
“I sincerely hope he has had his breakfast. I have never yet known a man who was the least bit reasonable when his stomach was empty.”
The duke grinned. “You are the delight of my life. I never know what you’re going to say next.”
Carrington was a tall man of about the duke’s age. His features were alarmingly satanic; his dark brows sloped upward toward his temples, and the almond-shaped eyes were a brilliant green. His face was darkly tanned; he bore the manner and appearance of a man who had traveled much in foreign lands.
Those strange brows shot up when Jenny lifted her veil. “But—it’s Miss Courtenay, is it not?”
“Yes, my lord.” Jenny glanced at Spencer and received a reassuring smile. Very steadily, her eyes met Carrington’s puzzled ones. “I am also the Cat.”
The green eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly. After a moment of silence, a smiled appeared and his eyes began to twinkle. “Won’t London be in an uproar!”
His amusement did much to dispel Jenny’s uneasiness. “May I tell you my story, sir?”
“By all means, Miss Courtenay, by all means.”
She told him the whole story, beginning with her father’s murder and ending with the discovery that Stoven was the man she had been searching for. Spencer then stepped in to reveal his idea of how to force a confession from Stoven.
There was a long silence in the room. Carrington frowned thoughtfully. “I do not believe the War Office will choose to press charges against the Cat, Miss Courtenay.” He smiled suddenly. “In fact, we will publicly applaud the capture of a traitor—and the woman who brought him to justice.”
Jenny’s relief was too great for words. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured.
Carrington said seriously, “I cannot speak for Bow Street, of course, or the Regent. Either one could make trouble for you.”
Spencer smiled wryly. “Brummell promised to use his influence with the Regent.”
“Indeed? Then I shouldn’t worry if I were you, Miss Courtenay. With Brummell in your corner, I would say that you have nothing to fear.” He stood up and extended his hand to Jenny. “I would like to shake the hand of a very remarkable young woman.”
Jenny rose and gave him her hand. “Thank you very much, my lord. You have been most kind.”
“Nonsense, Miss Courtenay. My friends will tell you that I am never kind. We will be grateful if you can force a confession from Stoven. One less traitor will help England a great deal.”
He then shook hands with Spencer and escorted them both to the door. “Good luck with Bow Street,” he said at the door. “And with your grand finale!”
Brummell was waiting for them on the pav
ement, a faint frown on his face. He was absently twirling an ivory-headed cane, and held a sheaf of papers in his other hand. His frown cleared as soon as he saw them. “Tell me the worst. Will the War Office prosecute?”
Spencer appeared faintly surprised to see the Beau up and about so early in the morning, but he answered easily, “No. Carrington said that the Office will back Jenny—especially if we manage to force a confession from Stoven.”
“Splendid!” He bowed gracefully to Jenny. “Would you mind very much, Miss Courtenay, if I accompanied you to Bow Street? I have a fancy to meet these Runners of yours.”
“They aren’t my Runners, Mr. Brummell. And of course I don’t mind.” She eyed the papers he carried uneasily. They bore the royal seal.
Brummell made no mention of the papers until he was sitting across from them, and the cab was moving toward Bow Street. With a slight flourish, he handed the packet to Jenny. “A Royal Pardon,” he said lazily, “for one Jennifer Courtenay—alias the Cat.”
Jenny carefully broke the seal and examined the documents, while Spencer smiled at Brummell. “Thank you, George,” he said quietly.
“Think nothing of it, my friend,” the Beau replied lightly. “I am only too happy to help.”
Jenny lifted shining eyes from the documents. Her voice husky, she said, “I don’t know how to repay you, Mr. Brummell. I don’t even know how to thank you.”
With unwonted gentleness, Brummell responded, “Please don’t try, Miss Courtenay. Spencer will tell you that I never do anything unless I wish to. Believe me—it was my pleasure.”
Jenny’s lovely smile swept across her face and Brummell, after studying it with the eye of a connoisseur, said very seriously to Spencer, “You will have to lock her up, Nick.”
Having no idea how her smile affected men, Jenny looked startled. Nick merely nodded. “I knew that the first time I saw her,” he said wryly.
Baffled, she stared from one to the other. “What are you talking about?” she asked blankly.
Spencer chuckled softly. “Your beautiful smile, love,” he said. “It’s dangerous.”
Jenny pinkened and fixed her eyes on the documents she held. The two men watched in amusement as she tried vainly to think of some response. Deciding to ignore his remark, she made a determined effort to change the subject. “How did you persuade the Prince to pardon me, sir?”
The keen gray eyes twinkled. “Very easily, I assure you, Miss Courtenay. The problem was to keep him silent until you could make a public disclosure. However,” he smiled modestly and said, “I was able to persuade him.”
Jenny laughed. “Carrington was right,” she remarked. “With you in my corner, I shouldn’t have worried.”
Brummell sobered. “I am afraid I have no influence at Bow Street. If they choose to prosecute, there is nothing I can do about it.”
Calmly, Spencer said, “I, however, do have some influence at Bow Street. Lord Bradford was a good friend of my father’s.”
Brummell looked startled. “Lord, is he still around?”
“Very much so. He’s been the guiding spirit behind Bow Street for years. He will meet us at the office, along with Simmons.” He grinned at Jenny. “And his talkative friend.”
“Oh, dear,” Jenny murmured. “Simmons will not like the way I’ve been slipping past him lately.”
“He may not like it,” Brummell said philosophically, “but there is little he can do about it. He must follow the orders of his superiors, after all.”
“What if his superiors don’t like it?”
Spencer reached for her hand and grasped it strongly. “You worry too much, Jenny. Bradford will not choose to prosecute—I’ll see to that.”
“Either way, it will soon be over,” Jenny responded. Her voice was quiet, absent almost. “I will no longer be forced to guard every word I say, to look at each man and think that he might be the one who killed my father. I will no longer tense when someone mentions the Cat, or see a hangman’s noose above my head when I look into a mirror. Either way, it will soon be over.” She shrugged.
The two men were silent for a long moment, realizing, perhaps for the first time, what Jenny had been going through for the past year, and even before—as a child, growing up in the shadow of her father’s murder, knowing that only she could expose a killer.
“I’m sorry, Jenny,” Spencer said quietly.
She looked at the sober faces of the two men, and smiled suddenly. “So am I. I had no intention of making you two gentlemen so melancholic. Believe me—I would not have missed a single day of the past year.” Her golden eyes began to twinkle. “I have met some very interesting people.”
Brummell, following her lead, laughed softly. “Present company included, I assume?”
“Present company—especially.”
The cab halted just then, and they realized that they had arrived at Bow Street. The two men climbed out, and offered assistance to Jenny. She replaced her veil, stepped carefully out of the cab, and stood on the pavement with a rather determined look on her lovely face.
Spencer and Brummell silently offered their arms, and Jenny felt pleasantly reassured as the three entered the building. Once inside, a sour-faced man in a red waistcoat curtly requested that they follow him, and led the way to one of the offices.
A grizzled-haired man with a dashing mustache rose from behind a massive desk as they were ushered into the room. He nodded cordially at Spencer, bestowed a faintly surprised glance on Brummell, and then turned his eyes to Jenny. When the sour-faced man had left the room, she lifted the veil, and felt uneasy upon perceiving that Bradford was not particularly surprised.
He gestured for them to be seated, sank down behind the desk, and then fixed steely blue eyes on Jenny’s face. Spencer and Brummell were silent; both had the feeling that Jenny would prefer to handle this confrontation alone.
They were quite right. Subtle threats and innuendos unnerved her, but she was perfectly capable of dealing with a direct threat. With a tiny smile, she remarked, “You are not surprised to see me.”
Bradford’s lined face was expressionless. “No.”
Jenny nodded. “Of course—you would not be. You did set two of your Runners to watch me.”
“I did. Reluctantly.”
“Why reluctantly?”
Bradford leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his ample stomach, and continued his unwavering stare. “I have little faith in Sir George Ross’s accusations.”
“And yet you took action in spite of your lack of faith?”
“I took action, Miss Courtenay, because I have a great deal of faith in my own intuition. However, neither your stepfather’s accusations, nor my intuition could be proven. We have found no trace of the Cat’s black stallion, and you have not been caught either leaving, or returning to Lady Beddington’s house on the nights that the Cat rode.”
“And that disappoints you?”
A very faint smile crossed his face. “I knew from the beginning that we were dealing with a very clever woman. I would like to know how you were able to slip past my men.”
Jenny’s eyes began to twinkle. “I don’t recall admitting, my lord, that I am the Cat.”
“You have not—yet.”
“And you have not a single shred of evidence against me?”
“Not a shred, Miss Courtenay.”
“Then why should I admit anything?”
The steely blue eyes warmed slightly. “Miss Courtenay, I doubt very seriously that you came to Bow Street at such an early hour of the morning simply to bandy words with me.”
“No, but if I had known how enjoyable it would be to bandy words with you, sir, I would have come sooner.”
Bradford smiled, and the tension in the room abated noticeably. “Would you mind telling me where you keep that stallion?”
Jenny hesitated. “In Kent. About an hour’s ride from Courtenay manor.”
He sighed. “I sent a man to Kent weeks ago. He couldn’t find a trace of
that horse.”
Apologetically, Jenny said, “He’s very well hidden.”
Bradford smiled wryly. “Is invisibility one of your many talents, Miss Courtenay? Simmons and his partner swear that you never got past them, and yet the Cat has been at large more times than I care to remember.”
Brummell, who had been an interested observer to this discussion, murmured irrepressibly, “Simmons and his dreadful cold.”
Jenny cast him a shaming look, and then returned her gaze to Bradford’s puzzled face. “Please don’t blame your men, my lord. Simmons, who was watching the front of the house, had a very bad cold. The poor man could hardly see, and he was sneezing dreadfully. I—er—slipped past him whenever I felt that his cold distracted him.”
“I see.” Bradford looked thoughtful. “I can understand how Simmons could miss seeing you, Miss Courtenay, but I find it hard to understand—much less forgive—the fact that he missed seeing something the size of your horse. Or did you walk all the way to Kent?”
“No, my lord. Lady Beddington’s stables have a rather well-concealed back entrance. Simmons and his partner never saw it; I myself found it quite by accident. I would slip past Simmons, then circle round to the back of the stables—which neither man could see—saddle my mare and leave the stables by the back entrance.”
“And when you returned?”
“I would slip into the stables from the back, unsaddle my mare, then circle to the front of the house and get past Simmons. By then, it was usually dawn—and I have discovered that a watchman is never at his best in the hours just before dawn. Simmons never saw me.”
Bradford was silent for a moment, obviously working out the time and distances involved. He looked up suddenly, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “That means, Miss Courtenay, that you were in the saddle from dusk until dawn.”
Jenny nodded. “More or less.”
“And yet you found the energy to continue your mad whirl of parties and balls? No one suspected that you were the Cat? I find that hard to believe, Miss Courtenay.”
Jenny flushed slightly. “Nick,” she murmured, “and Mr. Brummell have known for some time.”