Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

by Bronwyn Scott

  Nora hazarded a glance at Stockport. He was not so easily gulled. She offered a simpering smile to reinforce her vacuous image. Damn him, he had caught her looking at him. Her little performance hadn’t fooled him in the least. If anything, he was more alert. He studied her hard for a moment and then moved his gaze beyond her shoulder.

  Nora followed his eyes as they lit on four strategic points around the ballroom and the four men in those locations. She took their measure instantly. Ha! Stockport thought to hedge his bets and call for reinforcements. She had to admire the man for his confidence that all would go as planned. But he was dealing with The Cat.

  It wasn’t too late to melt back into the crowd and disappear. Although Stockport might have his suspicions aroused, she could still stage a quick getaway by faking a visit to the ladies’ retiring room. But Nora didn’t seriously consider the option for long. Five against one might be unfair, but it wasn’t insurmountable.

  With acuity, she calculated what needed to be done. First, she would confirm her presence to Stockport and then she needed to create a distraction to get them out from under the watchful eyes of Stockport’s hired men.

  Nora went into action, flapping her fan again. ‘I am hot and need a glass of punch.’ Smiling sweetly, she dispatched Frederick to the crowded refreshment room.

  She turned back to Stockport, all traces of the sugar-sweet innocent gone, replaced by the self-assured poise of a temptress confident in her abilities. ‘I believe you’re looking for me, or rather you’re looking for this.’ Nora produced a small felt pouch from the beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. She didn’t need to open it. They both knew what it contained. She had his attention—now for the distraction. She held out her hand. ‘Dance with me, Stockport.’

  Stockport cast a meaningful glance at Frederick’s retreating back. ‘Have you no compunction about dancing with people you rob?’ he asked archly.

  ‘If I didn’t dance with people I rob, I wouldn’t get to dance at all. There’d be no one left.’

  Stockport tightened his jaw at her cheeky banter, causing a tic to jump in his perturbation.

  Nora grimaced. ‘I thought the remark was witty.’

  ‘I am not here to trade clever repartee. I am here to conduct a business transaction.’

  ‘Standing amidst all these people?’ Nora queried, enjoying baiting him. ‘Not here where everyone can see.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, where couples took their places for the set of waltzes that preceded the midnight supper, and reissued her invitation to dance.

  Stockport led her to the floor without further conversation and swung her into the dance, skilfully manoeuvring them about the floor.

  He waltzed impeccably, which didn’t surprise Nora. The man was all about flawlessness, from his perfectly combed hair to the toes of his spotless boots. However, he also waltzed with a passion that astonished her. His precision was not an empty effort.

  A surreptitious ferocity lurked beneath his well-polished surface, practically undetectable except to another kindred soul who shared the same love for dance. Nora sensed it in the turns he took a shade too quickly at the top of the ballroom and in the press of his hand against her back as he signalled his instructions.

  Nora looked into the sharp blue eyes that peered out from behind his dark demi-mask. They were daring her, but what the dare was, she could not immediately place.

  Stockport leaned close to her ear, his voice low and melodious. ‘Can’t you do better than this? I would have thought The Cat was capable of more,’ he taunted.

  Now she understood. He was daring her to match his passion. She smiled back. If she took his challenge, she would have the distraction she needed. ‘I was just making sure you were up for it,’ she countered. She leaned close to his ear, taking in his clean scent of soap and spices. ‘You want to fly, I can feel it.’

  Stockport laughed, drawing a few stares. ‘This is dancing, not sex.’

  ‘Is there a difference? That’s why the waltz is so scandalous, isn’t it?’ Nora sparred wickedly.

  Stockport inclined his head, eyes glinted mischievously. ‘Then by all means, shall we?’ Without waiting for reply, his hand on her back made a small adjustment and drew her up close to him until she could feel the flex and give of his muscled thighs against the fabric of her gown.

  ‘You do talk scandalously,’ Nora flirted for good measure, enjoying entirely too much the feel of his body as he whirled them through the turn at the bottom of the ballroom.

  ‘I do more than talk.’

  ‘We’re attracting attention. Can you afford the gossip?’

  ‘I’m the Earl. I’ll simply say it is how we do it in London.’ His eyes left hers for a moment to stare down a passing couple with wide eyes. To emphasise his point, he increased his speed and turned her sharply, leaving her gloriously breathless.

  Their bodies blended perfectly. Nora met him step for step, giving herself over to the exhilaration of the moment and the man. It had been ages since she’d danced like that and even then it had only been in a small country-town assembly hall. But never had she danced with such a master.

  Stockport unleashed was a sight to behold.

  It struck her there might be a third reason he’d earned his dubious moniker. The Cock of the North was an energetic Scottish reel. She could only imagine how invigorating it would be to dance it with him.

  When the dance ended, she was smiling ridiculously. She could feel the grin across her face. She was suddenly aware that Stockport was smiling too—a real smile, not like the political ones he’d bandied about at the tea. This one altered his face entirely.

  For an instant the adversarial nature of their relationship was suspended. He was smiling at her as if he enjoyed her company, as if the two of them shared some secret knowledge the rest of the world did not. Without warning, the smile was gone and he remembered where he was, who he was and who she was. The spell was broken. Others milled about them, making their way to the supper room and the unmasking.

  He gripped her gloved wrist and Nora tensed. She did not want him to ask her to go into supper with him. Surely he knew how impossible the request was? Everyone would unmask. She could not afford that with Stockport, although she could probably fool the rest of the village.

  She intuitively knew Stockport would know immediately that The Cat and Eleanor Habersham were one and the same. His gaze had been too piercing the day of the tea, as if he could see in one short visit what the villagers had not ascertained in the four months she’d lived among them in her spinsterly guise. Of course, she had to give the villagers their due; enemies and friends of The Cat alike were all looking for a man. Only Stockport knew he was looking for a woman. That made him doubly dangerous.

  ‘I am not going into supper with you,’ she said with a supercilious air that brooked no contradiction. The amicable atmosphere of the dance floor was gone.

  ‘I am not asking you to. I prefer not to eat with common thieves,’ Stockport replied with equal coldness. Was it possible she’d imagined the man he’d been on the dance floor?

  ‘Then you will starve tonight, since this room is full of them,’ Nora retorted angrily, her temper rising. How dare the hypocrite refuse to acknowledge that there were other ways to steal? She only stole objects and material goods, all of which could be replaced. Others in this very room stole livelihoods. His textile mill would put him in the same category as the rest. The thought disturbed her. She didn’t want him to be like the others. The realisation that she wanted him to be different was more disturbing.

  Furious with herself for letting her thoughts run in such a direction, Nora abruptly shoved them to the back of her mind. She would do best to remember that dealing with Stockport was nothing more than a game, one she played well and had played often enough in the past without entertaining such notions in her head.

  She gestured toward a set of doors leading out to the verandah and he acquiesced. The cold night air provided an antidote for the heat of the
ballroom. The contrast provoked a shiver.

  ‘Would you like my jacket?’ Stockport offered, shrugging out of it in a perfunctory manner that suggested his offer was more reactionary from years of training than a heartfelt gesture.

  ‘I’m a thief, remember?’ Nora snapped, irrationally disappointed that the magic on the dance floor had been replaced by an iciness that matched the weather.

  ‘And I am a gentleman,’ Stockport rejoined, draping the jacket about her shoulders in spite of her resistance. He reached up to untie his mask and tuck it into a pocket. ‘That’s better. I can’t stand these dratted things.’

  Stockport moved closer, turning his head to see her better. Nora met his unnerving stare, locking her eyes to his blue-eyed scrutiny. She felt the heat building between them as it had on the dance floor, but she didn’t dare back down.

  Stockport whispered with husky cynicism, ‘How much of your purported proceeds for the poor went to the purchase of this gown? Do you think they’d feel this was worth it while their bellies go hungry?’

  ‘How dare you impugn my honour. I got this dress from a brothel, a prostitute’s cast off that she was willing to donate. I scrounged up the trimmings too. I think it turned out quite nicely.’

  ‘You’re a regular Cinderella,’ he said, unconvinced.

  She changed the subject with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Enough talk. You didn’t bring me outside to discuss fashion. We have business to attend to.’

  ‘I want my ring. You indicated you’d be prepared to deliver it to me tonight.’

  ‘In exchange for three hundred pounds.’ Nora tapped a gloved finger against her chin, playing the coquette who had her beau dangling. ‘But that was two weeks ago. I’ve decided the conditions for the ring’s return have changed.’

  That got a reaction out of him. ‘This is extortion! We had an agreement. You cannot simply alter the rules and expect to get away with it.’

  ‘Why not? You did. The four men stationed around the ballroom are yours, are they not? I presume they are awaiting a signal that you planned to give when you handed over the money.’

  ‘I may still summon them,’ he said darkly.

  ‘To do what? Watch you court Adelaide Cooper on the balcony? The Squire’s son will vouch for my identity and I will drop the ring over the railing before your men can arrive. There will be neither an exchange of money nor any incriminating evidence for them to seize. That assumes, of course, that they have located you since your departure from the ballroom. For all you know, they may have gone into supper, concluding that you wished some privacy in which to woo your pretty dance partner.’

  Nora watched his stoic features fight for mastery against the emotions roiling within him at her deductions. Was he disappointed this meeting had come down to nothing more than extortion? Had he hoped for a nobler conclusion? He didn’t believe she actually used the funds for the poor. In his study, he’d accused her of having a Robin Hood complex. And tonight he’d implied she used the money for her own needs. Well, that much at least she could disprove.

  She outlined her offer, thinking quickly. ‘These are my conditions—meet me where Stockport and Hyde Roads meet tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You will come alone and on horseback. No fancy carriages or outriders shall be with you. You shall accompany me into Manchester and make the rounds with me, after which you will return to the crossroads and go your own way. You will make no attempt to follow me or discover my identity. The following day, I will have the ring delivered to you.’

  Stockport looked at her, scepticism narrowing his gaze. ‘What guarantees do I have that you’ll do as you say? Who’s to say you won’t lure me into an alley where you’ve prearranged to have some thugs kill me or beat me senseless? These conditions sound suspicious to me. Perhaps the ring isn’t worth such a risk.’

  Nora feigned nonchalance. She hadn’t expected Stockport to give up without a fight. ‘It is of no difference to me. I can sell the ring back to you for the price of a visit to Manchester or I can sell it for cash to someone else. Either way, I get something I want.’

  ‘What do you get from the visit that is as profitable to you as cash?’ Stockport queried suspiciously.

  He was wavering, Nora noted with satisfaction. She stepped away from the railing, inching back towards the doors leading to the now-empty ballroom. ‘My lord Earl, I get to take your measure—a look into your soul, and you get a look into mine if you’re willing to peek. Now, I bid you goodnight. I’ll expect you in the morning.’ She felt the smooth brass of the door handle beneath her hand and turned it a fraction. She raised her other hand to her lips, blowing Stockport a kiss as she vanished into the ballroom.

  Damn, that woman had a way of disappearing and this time she’d disappeared with his good coat in tow. He had others, but that one was his favorite. The coat! Deuce take it, the three hundred pounds were still in the breast pocket. That made three things he’d lost to The Cat tonight: his coat, his money and his ring. Arguably, by agreeing to her counter-offer, he’d lost a fourth—his sanity.

  The evening had taken an unbelievable twist. He’d gone from the security of retrieving his ring to the insecurity of a dubious trip to Manchester with The Cat. By nature, he didn’t like cat-and-mouse games, especially when he was the mouse, and he was definitely the mouse here. The Cat had him dangling.

  To be honest, not all of him minded. Not because she’d been alluring in that gown she’d worn or because she flirted audaciously, but because she challenged him with her wit, her insights and sense of daring. He had no doubt that tomorrow would be full of such tests as well and not all of them would be hers. His would not be the only measure taken.

  Chapter Six

  Morning arrived stark and cold. Standing on the wood planks of the bedroom floor in her nightshift, Nora drew back the curtains to view the dreary day spreading before her.

  Christmas morning ought to look different. It ought to look special. It didn’t. It looked like every other morning in the long English winter. Bare trees raised dark silhouettes to the grey sky. Everywhere she looked, the earth was devoid of colour beneath the frost. The heart of winter carried with it a sense of desperation.

  The empty landscape made it difficult to believe spring would come again. Nora could well understand why chieftains of old had contrived great Christmastide festivities for their people. Conceivably, they’d been as anxious as she to drive the cold winter away and create a splash of colour in otherwise colourless lives, if only for a moment.

  Even the austerity of her bedroom mirrored the colourless winter. The room was ascetic and clean, fitted only with the most rudimentary of furnishings: an iron bedstead, washstand and wardrobe. By necessity, her lifestyle required an existence as bland and colourless as the landscape outside. The Cat’s successes depended on remaining aloof. She had to be able to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t do that if she formed attachments.

  Her personal road through life was a lonely one. By choice, she spent her life gathering what hope there was in the world and giving it to others. She saved no hope for herself.

  That was the purpose of her trip into Manchester today; to give hope to others, a break from the tedium of their lives as they struggled to survive in a world gone grey. And because she couldn’t bear the thought of donning the façade of Eleanor Habersham and frittering away the day sitting in front of the Squire’s fire with knitting needles, watching young people play silly parlour games.

  Nora rummaged through the wardrobe, nimble fingers finding the catch that revealed the hidden chamber in back. She drew out a heavy cloak she kept for just such occasions. The Cat was well received in the slums, but she still needed to be agile and alert in case of trouble. She could not afford to be numb or sluggish from the cold.

  And it would be cold. That was a guarantee. She’d told Stockport not to bring his coach. It would attract too much attention and make people suspicious. The ride to Manchester would be a frozen one carried out on
the moderately sheltered bench of her closed wagon, loaded with baskets and gifts for those who had nothing.

  She dressed quickly and went down to the warm kitchen for a sweet roll and hot tea. She let Hattie fuss over her and wished them Happy Christmas. They’d have their own celebration tonight when she returned. Alfred, Hattie’s husband and, superficially, Eleanor’s man-of-all-work, had already gone out to hitch up the wagon and load its cargo. They both walked Nora out to the yard.

  Alfred volunteered to come with her and Hattie urged her to stay home altogether after feeling the bite of the wind. But Nora would not, could not, be swayed from her mission. She seated herself on the bench of her plain wagon with its wooden sideboards and clucked to the horse.

  Nearing the crossroads where Hyde and Stockport Roads met on the way into Manchester, Nora paused before the last corner to tie on her mask and to lower a heavy veil over her face. Checking her veils and mask one last time, Nora turned the corner, surprised to see Stockport already waiting there. He sat atop his big bay, garbed in mufflers that covered him up to his blue eyes and a greatcoat, his gloved hands resting negligently on the reins at the horse’s neck. He appeared to be at ease, feeling none of the nervousness that roiled around in Nora’s own stomach.

  The nerves were due to the dangerous nature of this adventure. To ask her nemesis to accompany her on such a trip was more than bold. There would be little to stop him from taking advantage of their situation and forcing her to reveal her identity. All that stood between her and exposure was his gentleman’s creed. Her protection depended on it and in her intuition about his nature.

  ‘Good morning and Happy Christmas,’ Stockport called out, surprisingly cheery after the late evening. ‘I thought you said no carriages.’ He gestured to the closed wagon.

  ‘I needed a way to carry my supplies and keep them protected from the weather.’

  ‘Well, then, at least let me drive. I doubt you can see well at all through that veiling.’ Stockport dismounted and tied his horse behind the wagon, oblivious to her protests. Within minutes, he’d secured the horse and climbed up beside her on the wagon seat.