Those rooms were as elegant as his reported personality. Table tops and dressers held myriad expensive accoutrements of a well-groomed gentleman, from expensive ebony-inlaid combs and brushes to silver-handled shaving gear. She should have stolen them. Those items would have brought enough money to keep a family in food until summer. But her eye had been drawn to the velvet casket and she couldn’t resist looking inside.
The ring was a bounty. She’d taken it and then realised it was such a small item the Earl might not notice it was gone for weeks. But the ring was all she needed and The Cat prided herself on not taking more than was necessary—one of the many lessons she wanted to teach these gluttonous industrial barons.
Still, if the ring wasn’t noticed missing immediately, its theft wouldn’t help her cause. She wanted more from Stockport than his valuables. She wanted him to know she’d been there and when. She’d begun to disarrange the room, intuitively knowing that such an act would get his attention more completely than taking other conspicuous items.
As with all her robberies, the larger implication of her work was twofold. First, she wanted to be an annoyance significant enough to make them re-think the building of the factory. Second, she wanted to prick the social consciousness into action regarding the sorry status of a factory worker’s life. Unsafe working conditions had cost her parents their lives. She’d be damned if it would hurt others.
Her plan had gone well enough until she’d bumped into a chair sitting in a dark corner. It hadn’t made much noise, but it made enough to catch his attention since his chambers were over the library. She’d relished the confrontation that had followed.
She had gloried in his reaction. He’d roused to her. Unfortunately, that was all she had to show for the night’s work. Something beneath his terse command to release the ring had touched her and she’d traded the ring for an ardent bout of kissing. Arousing the Earl of Stockport might be a satisfying touch of one-upmanship, but it wouldn’t feed families.
Determined to rectify that aspect of the evening, Nora became practical. She needed pickings and the night was still new. She’d cut cross country to Squire Bradley’s house and help herself to another piece of silver from the butler’s pantry. The Squire’s night watchman was pathetic. In a half-hour he’d be asleep or drunk or both.
Two hours and a successful stop at the Squire’s later, Nora let herself into an unremarkable grange house and crept silently upstairs to her bedchamber. A light shone beneath the door. Nora smiled. Hattie, one of her two co-conspirators who masqueraded as workers in her modest household, had waited up. Nora pushed opened the door.
‘A successful evening, I take it?’ Hattie asked, reaching for the bag of goods Nora carried in her right hand. ‘Shall I hide this in the usual place?’
‘Yes and yes.’ Nora pulled off her mask and plopped unceremoniously into a chair.
‘Did everything go the way Alfred and I laid it out? Was the tree branch a good entrance into the house?’ Hattie moved efficiently around the room, laying out Nora’s night things.
‘The plans were accurate, as always.’ Nora paused before adding, ‘I met the Earl.’ She hadn’t wanted to tell Hattie that part, but the household needed to be prepared. News of the break-in at Stockport Hall would circulate the village tomorrow and Nora wasn’t sure how the Earl would present the story. It wouldn’t do for Hattie or Alfred to discover her encounter second-hand. There was no question Hattie wouldn’t hear of it. She heard everything.
Hattie turned from the dresser. ‘Did you, now? No wonder you were so late. Got into a bit of a scrape?’
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’ Nora passed off the incident with a wave of her hand, when in truth she’d been in over her head. ‘I had to go to Squire Bradley’s or I would have been empty-handed. That was why I was late.’
Hattie clucked her disapproval. ‘That was dangerous, Nora. We’ve hit the Squire’s home too many times. One of these days he’ll be on to us and there will be trouble.’
Nora tightened her jaw at Hattie’s censure. ‘We must have funds for the Christmas baskets. We’re running out of time and so many people are in need this year.’
‘Still, you’re no good to the people if you’re caught.’
‘I won’t get caught,’ Nora said in a conversation-ending tone. She softened. ‘Off to bed with you, Hattie. It’s been a long night.’ Hattie had been with her through too much for her to be cross with the redoubtable lady for long.
‘Should Eleanor Habersham expect visitors tomorrow?’ Hattie asked from the door.
‘Wednesday tea as usual with the ladies.’
‘And the Earl? When should we expect him?’
‘Not for a while. I would be very surprised to see him tomorrow. He has no reason to come looking for Miss Habersham,’ Nora said confidently.
‘Good night, then.’ Hattie shut the door quietly behind her.
Nora undressed quickly, careful to conceal her black garb in the false back of her wardrobe behind the mounds of ridiculous gowns belonging to the persona she showed to the town, the eccentric spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham. Miss Habersham was a silly, giddy lady with a penchant for gossip. By four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, Nora expected Miss Habersham’s tiny parlour would be overrun by local ladies exchanging the latest tittle-tattle about the night’s escapades.
Nora forced herself to doze. It wouldn’t do for Miss Habersham to appear with dark circles when everyone in town knew the spinster had no call for such sleeplessness in her mundane life. But sleep was hard to come by. Usually after such sprees, Nora’s mind was occupied by the results of the evening and the valuables stashed with her disguise, myriad questions running through her head: how would it be dispersed, how much more would be needed to help those in the most desperate straits? There was never enough to go around. Her raids had become bolder and more daring in attempts to narrow the gap.
Tonight, the disturbing memory of Stockport’s hot mouth and the firm fit of his body against hers consumed her thoughts. She had played the wanton in hopes of distracting him to ensure her escape. She’d not expected his active participation or her own enjoyment in the act. There was something erotically compelling about a virile man’s compliance.
She had made her point tonight. There would be no reason to go back to his estate. It wasn’t an easy target. His patrols were harder to elude than she’d admitted. The safest course would be to put tonight’s episode behind her. Yet, the thought of doing so left her feeling strangely empty. She knew she’d go back, for the sake of the challenge if nothing else.
Chapter Two
Brandon took his seat at the table in Stockport Hall’s cheery informal dining room. He breathed deeply. There was nothing quite as comforting as the smell of scrambled eggs and breakfast ham mixed with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He was pleased to see The Times beside his plate, pressed and ready, relieved at last to have his mind on something besides the impassioned episode of the prior evening.
He’d spent the dark hours with his groin in a perpetual state of anticipation, alternately reliving the encounter with The Cat and cursing himself for a fool. He’d let the perfect opportunity pass him by. Not only had he ruined a chance to capture the thief, he’d ruined any chance of identifying the woman in the future. It would have been easy enough to remove her mask either by surprise or force when she’d been in his arms. He had done neither.
He reached for the paper and folded it to the financial section. He had barely engrossed himself in the investment news when his butler, Cedrickson, demanded his attention. ‘My lord, Squire Bradley inquires if you’re at home.’
Brandon looked up from the pages, fighting the urge to scowl in obvious contempt. ‘Where else would I be this time of day but at home? What kind of man calls at nine-thirty in the morning?’ In town no one dared a call before one o’clock and only the intrepid dared call before eleven. But this was the country and he would do well to remember that the rules were different here, less intense. He
would not sway the village in favour of the mill by being snobbish.
‘He seems quite agitated, my lord, if I may say so.’
‘Did he state his business?’
‘He did. It’s about The Cat.’
Brandon set the paper down. ‘Then you’d best show him in. Have an extra place set.’
The Squire did look quite overset, Brandon conceded. His florid face was pale and his usual bluff nature subdued. He had the good manners to apologise for such an early call as he waved away the offer of breakfast. ‘This is fine fare, to be sure, although I don’t have the stomach for it this morning. We had a difficult night over at the house. It seems that while we were scheming at your place, The Cat struck at Wildflowers. It’s the third time. My poor wife was in fits.’ At this, the Squire stopped to mop his forehead with a large handkerchief produced from a jacket pocket.
‘I can imagine,’ Brandon offered as sincerely as he could manage. Indeed, he could picture just what an uproar the Squire’s wife had produced. The woman was exactly the kind of flibbertigibbet he avoided whenever possible. ‘What was taken? Are you certain it was The Cat? The items haven’t simply been mislaid?’
The Squire waved an arm. ‘A set of silver candlesticks and the petty cash for household expenses are missing. Only my wife has the key to the silver cabinet. The lock had been picked and the usual calling card was left behind.’
That grabbed Brandon’s attention. ‘I hadn’t heard this before. What calling card?’
The squire reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘These abominable things.’ He handed Brandon a card.
Brandon studied it. It was cream coloured and Brandon suppressed a smile. The irony of someone who called themselves ‘The Cat’ using cream paper was not lost on him. He doubted the squire would see the humour in it. Nor would the squire appreciate the mocking wit in the thief’s use of a calling card when ‘visiting’ the homes of gentlemen.
Except for the cream colouring, the card was otherwise nondescript. Bold, black ink on one side proclaimed ‘The Cat of Manchester’ and nothing more.
‘Everyone receives one of these? Witherspoon and the other investors didn’t mention it last night,’ Brandon said, handing the card back. The Cat obviously hadn’t had time to leave one behind when he’d caught up to her last night.
‘Well…’ the squire cleared his throat ‘…it’s embarrassing to admit. We’ve all got one. Some of us have more. We have three of them now,’ the squire grumbled. ‘I am at a complete loss over what to do. We seem to be a regular mark. I can’t imagine why we’ve been singled out.’ The man sighed heavily in exasperation.
Because you’re an easy target, Brandon mused uncharitably. Out loud he remarked, ‘Do you still have that same night watchman? I say change the watchman and the nightly routine and The Cat won’t be so eager to come around.’
‘Or, we catch that criminal and put an end to the need for night watchmen altogether,’ Squire Bradley said with an uncustomary vehemence. ‘The only house that hasn’t been hit is yours.’ The squire seemed to sense he had crossed an invisible line. This might be the country, but respect was still respect. He gave a cough to cover his embarrassment. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord.’
Brandon glossed over the breach of social politeness and his opportunity to confess the events of the prior evening. ‘As I said, patrols and quality watchmen will go far as a deterrent to crime.’ He found it interesting to learn The Cat had hit another house after leaving. His valet had not found anything else missing from his rooms, only an irritating lack of order.
The rooms had been thoroughly disturbed, but nothing more. There were other valuable items to steal such as gold cufflinks, diamond cravat pins and pocket watches. His clothes alone would bring considerable funds for a thief intent on converting stolen goods to cash.
Jewellery and fine garments in their original states wouldn’t do much for the people The Cat professed to helping. But if the stolen items could be sold and changed to pounds, her mission would be successful without giving the authorities anything to track. Brandon made a mental note; it would be useful to work out where or to whom The Cat sold her goods. No one was truly invisible.
‘Well, I am done with such guarded measures. The sooner that menace is caught, the safer we’ll all be.’ The Squire huffed. ‘That’s the other reason why I’m here. I want you to help me start looking for him. We’ve been passive too long. Now that you’ve arrived, we can take direct action.’
Brandon drank from his coffee cup and set it down before answering. ‘I mentioned last night that I am as eager as anyone else to see the matter settled. However, I am not sure where to start. We don’t know what this person looks like. Did your watchman catch a glimpse of the intruder?’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. They both didn’t know what the thief looked like, only he knew.
‘We know he must be from around here, because he has knowledge of upper-class homes,’ the Squire countered, showing more intelligence than Brandon had previously given him credit for.
‘Is there anyone new in the neighbourhood since these robberies began?’
The Squire thought for a moment. ‘That’s the one drawback with progress. Since we’ve been planning for that textile factory, there have been lots of new men in the area—workers, supervisors, architects, engineers, investors, the whole gamut.’
‘If it’s too difficult to think of new people, think of a motive,’ Brandon suggested, shifting in his chair. The sooner the Squire was placated or given the illusion of action, the sooner he’d leave and Brandon could get on with his day, something he desperately needed to do. Talking about The Cat was creating an interesting side effect in his nether regions. ‘Who would have reason to rob certain wealthy homes while leaving other potential homes untouched? Perhaps someone is not happy about the factory and believes it will cost people their jobs?’ Brandon shamelessly hypothesised, borrowing liberally from The Cat’s argument the prior night. He hoped to plant the idea firmly in the Squire’s head.
‘That’s ridiculous. There isn’t anyone who believes that kind of nonsense!’ the Squire blustered, nonplussed by the very idea. ‘Why, that sort of thinking is not English!’
Bradley’s intelligence quotient fell back a notch. Brandon schooled his features to hide his disbelief. Surely the man didn’t believe the issues that had sparked Peterloo twelve years ago had actually been resolved? If anything, the intervening years had created a stronger, better-organised working class.
The coming of widespread industrialisation had changed everything, including the need for different representation in Parliament—the very issue he’d been debating when the message had arrived in London regarding the burglaries. No wonder Bradley was having trouble coming up with motives. The poor man couldn’t fathom the political realities of the day.
Brandon returned to his previous suggestion. ‘Perhaps names would be the best place to start after all.’
The Squire leaned forward, frustration evident in his tone. ‘My lord, I don’t think you understand. Your suggestions are theoretically sound. However, there haven’t been any newcomers who’ve taken up long-term residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock recently except for the investors from London.’
Brandon raised his eyebrows. ‘None beyond that? I find it unlikely since all the expansion in Manchester has put the outskirts of the city a mere five miles from the town. I would have expected other hangers-on to be arriving in order to capitalise on the new economies that will be opening up.’
Bradley fidgeted. Aha, Brandon thought. There was someone. ‘We mustn’t discount anyone, Squire,’ he encouraged.
‘Well, it’s just that the newcomers seem highly unlikely suspects.’ Bradley drew a deep breath. ‘The vicar’s new since you’ve been here, but he’s a man you’ve personally appointed so there’s no point in looking that direction. The new industrialists in town have nothing to gain from committing robberies against themselves. In fact, their homes have been hit the hardest.’
/> ‘Out with it, man,’ Brandon urged, sensing the Squire was holding back. ‘Is there no one else?’
‘The only other newcomer isn’t a man at all, but a spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham.’ Bradley shook his head as he said the name. ‘It’s hardly right to even bring the sweet lady’s name up in such a conversation. She’s quite a silly thing, although the ladies adore her. My wife is going for tea at her place this afternoon. Apparently, Miss Habersham serves the most delectable cakes. I have to take my wife’s word for it. The vicar and I both tried to call on her when she first arrived to be neighbourly, but she’ll have nothing to do with men. Men intimidate the poor dear, I suppose.’
‘Is that so? The woman sounds quite vulnerable to me,’ Brandon suggested, hoping to lead the Squire to a particular conclusion.
‘S’ truth, she’s a shy lady on her own. I dare say she knows little about the ways of the world,’ the Squire agreed, appearing to mull the thought over for a moment before reaching a decision.
Brandon pushed his point. ‘It may be that Miss Habersham has nothing to do with the goings-on around the village, but there might be someone in her household who does. Perhaps someone in her employ has pulled the wool over her eyes and is committing these crimes behind her back.’ That scenario seemed most likely since the woman he’d encountered last night definitely didn’t look like a spinster or, for that matter, act like one.
The Squire seemed genuinely horrified at the possibility. ‘Oh the poor dear! I hadn’t thought of that. How awful for her to be in the midst of such danger and be completely unaware of her jeopardy. We must do something.’
Brandon had the Squire where he wanted him. Without an entrée, he could not insinuate himself into a ladies’ tea hosted by a painfully shy woman and not appear heavy handed. He needed the Squire to go with him and provide a casual introduction. ‘What’s our next step?’
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