Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Still think you can tame The Cat?’ She took one erect nubbin in her mouth and laved it with her tongue.

  Brandon moaned. If this was failure, he’d like to fail more often.

  The Cat sat back on her haunches, smiling broadly. She swung off the bed and studied his long legs for a thoughtful moment. Then she began to tug. Off came his boots. Off came his trousers. His member stood at rigid attention for them both to see.

  The Cat stepped away from the bed and walked backwards towards the door, her face still wreathed in her grin. ‘Consider yourself caught.’ She used his own words.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Brandon strained again to sit upright.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Going home?’ The implications slowly dawned on him. ‘Wait. You can’t leave me like this!’

  ‘Yes, I can.’ She fired her parting volley, ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust a smiling cat?’

  Chapter Nine

  In the end, the bonds hadn’t been tied so tightly as to prevent escape without calling for assistance. He silently thanked the vixen for that small consideration. It would have been far too embarrassing to call for his valet. How would he ever have explained this to Harper?

  Brandon hoisted his form up and loosened one of the knots with his teeth. His hand slipped through the growing loop and he was quickly free. He recognised the favour for what it was—this private game of point and counterpoint was just between them. It had taken on a life of its own. It had somehow become separate from the fight over the mill.

  Tonight, she’d meant to win their game, but not to make him look the fool. He’d wager the crown jewels she’d known he could get out of the bonds with little effort. Well, he was glad to give her the small victory. It was only fair after he’d cornered Miss Habersham on the balcony. They were even. For now.

  Still, the loose knots had effectively prevented him from chasing after her. She was gone until the next time—and there would be a next time. There was unfinished business between them.

  In the heat of their play, he had not confronted her with his thoughts about her identity or about his plan to see her stop the robberies. The Cat definitely addled his wits.

  It was time to call for reinforcements. In the morning, he would send a note to his close friend, Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge. Between the two of them, they’d crack The Cat’s secrets.

  Discovering her identity was for her own good. In spite of her games tonight, he recognised that he liked her too much to see her hang and she liked him.

  No matter how much she protested to the contrary with her sharp tongue and daring innuendos, she was not impervious to his kiss or his touch. His experience with women told him she had enjoyed the naked passion of the evening as much as he. She had been pliant and willing in his arms. He had felt the moment she gave herself up to her own longings and their burgeoning mutual desire.

  He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, and, in spite of her tricks, he wanted her, wanted her beyond reason and against all good sense. Brandon recognised trouble when he saw it and he was in it up to his neck. Jack had better come quickly.

  Dear lord! She’d tied the Earl of Stockport to his bed and left him there naked, or nearly so. The ramifications of her actions burned Nora’s cheeks all the way back to the Grange. He’d be furious and all because she’d let her temper get the better of her.

  Tonight, The Cat had gone too far. But she’d felt it necessary in order to throw Stockport off the scent that Eleanor and The Cat were one and the same. She hoped to convince him that such disparate personalities could not reside in the same person.

  Stockport’s insinuations to Eleanor at the card party had left her distinctly uneasy. He wouldn’t behave in such a shocking manner if he hadn’t been sure he knew Eleanor Habersham was a fiction. Coupled with the impudent gift of satin for undergarments, she could no longer dismiss Stockport’s knowledge of The Cat. What he had once guessed at, he now felt he knew with almost absolute certainty.

  Nora let herself into the kitchen, thankful for the dark interior. It meant Hattie hadn’t waited up. She was in no mood for a lecture tonight, not when there was so much to sort through. Her new knowledge about Stockport was like a flame—both illuminating and dangerous at the same time. A person was better off without some things. Knowing the enemy on a human level was one of them. The quickest way to get burned was to fall in love with one’s mark.

  That bore thinking about, but not until she was in the sanctuary of her own room. Nora took the stairs quickly, avoiding the squeaky floorboard on the fifth tread. Slipping inside her own private domain, she let the thought loose. If she was to be a good thief, she had to be objective. She couldn’t protect herself if she lost perspective. Was she in love with Stockport?

  Nora had little to work with from her disastrous, short-lived marriage. From her recollections of conversations with other women, people in love had pulses that raced when the object of their affection was near. They spent hours thinking about their adored one.

  If that was the criteria, she was safe. Certainly, she experienced adrenalin rushes at the thought of seeing him again, but that was due to the prospect of matching wits with a commendable foe. No rules of engagement said a thief couldn’t respect the target. She definitely did not spend hours idolising him. All of her thoughts focused on how to best him. That was not love-like in the least bit.

  Nora breathed a little easier after her examination. She was not falling for Brandon. Stockport, she corrected hastily. Thinking of him by his first name was an unaffordable luxury. This venture didn’t need any more personalisation to confuse the issue. Besides, developing soft feelings for Stockport was tantamount to treason.

  Industry had seen to the ruin of her family and tossed her into a life of chaos. She could not compromise her cause by forgetting Stockport was at the heart of the project to build the textile mill.

  Her only sin was that she’d dallied too long with Stockport. He’d been a means to an end, but he had not reciprocated by ranting about The Cat all over town. She’d meant it when she’d told him she would not visit him again. There were other, more compliant, subjects and she had to hurry. Ground had been broken and the foundations laid. She had to keep the investors wary, worrying about when The Cat would strike next.

  Nora fingered a small pile of post that lay on the vanity, sifting through it until she found a particular envelope. She opened it and smiled. Perfect. Inside was an invitation. Out of a sense of polite obligation and an acknowledgement of the social limitations a village like Stockport-on-the-Medlock presented, Eleanor Habersham was invited to a New Year’s Eve fête hosted by Mr Flack, one of the industrialists hoping to expand their fortunes with the new textile mill. The party would provide the ideal staging ground for planning her next move. Eleanor would be able to learn much in unguarded moments.

  No one thought a spinster had a brain in her head. She might even manage to eke out a little excitement. Stockport was certain to attend. It would be an opportunity to ferret out what Stockport truly knew about Eleanor Habersham and The Cat.

  ‘This sleepy place is what you traded for the fireworks of Parliament?’ Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge, waved his ornate walking stick in disbelief at the village spread before him. ‘I raced from London for this? I left mere hours after getting the message and made excellent time because your letter indicated the situation was dire. This isn’t “dire”, my dear friend, it’s “boring”.’

  Brandon stepped down from the carriage and stood beside his friend. He tried to see the little town through Jack’s jaded eyes. To a man used to the intrigues of London, Stockport-on-the-Medlock no doubt appeared harmless without a hostile bone in its civic body.

  It was an outer image only. In the five days since Jack’s hasty summons, Brandon knew differently. The white-steepled church, well-kept shop fronts and neatly cobbled streets were superficial signs of prosperity—a prosperity purchased at the expense of others. Beneath
the bucolic façade, there was another story, too—a story about farmers struggling to hold on to land that no longer produced the profits it once had, and agricultural workers who once hired out their labour and were now forced to leave their families to seek work in Manchester because their traditional jobs were gone.

  The town was at war with itself, divided between those who wanted the new textile mill and those who did not. The Cat led the latter faction and, by merit of his rank and association with textile mill, he led the other.

  ‘If Stockport-on-the-Medlock was in truth what it seemed on the outside, I would not have called for you, old friend.’ Brandon clapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll walk the streets as long as we can stand the cold and then we’ll dine at the Cart and Bull. There’s no place finer in town for learning the news.’

  A few hours later, Jack Hanley sopped up the last of his hearty rabbit stew with a thick chunk of bread and leaned back in his chair, ready to make his pronouncement. ‘I am beginning to see what you mean.’

  They had spent an hour touring the shops and another hour over a pint of ale in the public room of the inn before retiring to a private parlour for luncheon. Brandon waited impatiently for Jack’s verdict.

  If anyone knew how to see beyond the face of things, it was Jack. He made an art form out of being a man who dressed elaborately and acted the dandy in order to make people forget the shrewdness of his clever mind, a talent that King William frequently put to good use for the crown. It was that talent Brandon called upon now to help him unravel the mystery of The Cat.

  ‘How many people support The Cat?’ Jack asked.

  Brandon shrugged. ‘It is hard to say. I do not believe anyone openly champions The Cat, but the support is there, especially from the lower classes.’

  ‘An army of one?’ Jack raised a cynical blond eyebrow. ‘I cannot believe one person could so easily tie a town up in knots. The Cat must have assistance.’

  ‘In Manchester, The Cat has a network.’ Brandon grimaced, remembering the day he’d spent shopping with Miss Habersham. ‘But here, the support is less obvious, although I am sure there are plenty who quietly support The Cat. In town, the issue of the textile mill has been met with strong minority resistance.’

  ‘I can see why.’ Jack reached for the decanter of red wine and refilled his glass. ‘The countryside is perfect for grazing. The river has made the area ideal for sheep. It is hard to convince people to give up on a known way of life that has been successful for generations.’

  ‘They don’t understand they’re not being asked to trade one for the other. I want them to see that the old and new ways can co-exist. We need sheep wool for the factories. It is an incredible benefit to the cost of production if the mill doesn’t have to import the raw wool from long distances.’ Brandon warmed to his subject.

  Jack steepled his hands against the tidal wave of Brandon’s vigorous assessment. ‘Your ardour for the subject is sincerely touching, but, philanthropy aside, one cannot forget the reason you’re doing this. You need the mill.’

  Jack’s cynicism did not sit well with Brandon. ‘Of course I need the mill. I need a secure source of income to ensure the family coffers survive into the future. You needn’t make it sound as if I am hoodwinking the village into something that only benefits me. The mill is a good idea for their future too,’ Brandon argued. ‘Agriculture will not be able to sustain the estate alone in years to come. I am thinking of the Earls who will come after me.’

  Brandon leaned over the table and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. ‘I am very sure the project will turn a profit. Why else would I so obviously sully my “noble” hands in trade? Once the factory is a success, the ton will overlook my eccentricity.’

  Jack gave a bark of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. You can do no wrong, with your elegant manners, good looks and glib tongue. Gawd, man, you’re like a woman’s Midas.’

  Brandon refused to be provoked. ‘As I said, I have responsibilities that take all my attention these days and I need your help.’

  Jack poured another glass of wine. ‘Speaking of responsibilities, you missed the best part of the session when you high-tailed it up here. The House of Commons and the House of Lords are at each other’s throats over reform of the boroughs. If the reform bill is to pass the House of Lords, an Earl is going to have to cross party lines and it will have to happen this spring while the momentum is still there.’ Jack raised an elegant eyebrow in query. ‘What will you do?’

  Brandon wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation. The Prime Minister was hoping he would be the one to set a trend and vote for more liberal policies concerning the middle and lower classes. The Cat thought just the opposite, that he was a highbrow peer unwilling to use his power for the benefit of the masses.

  ‘Enough about my politics, Jack. Tell me what you have discovered about The Cat.’ Jack had access to all sorts of information that might shed some light on The Cat.

  ‘That’s a very abrupt conversational parry,’ Jack noted. ‘You are losing your touch.’

  ‘Enough, Jack. Now, tell me what you know.’

  Jack leaned in close despite the privacy of their dining room. ‘The Cat of Manchester is not exclusive to this area. I think there is reason to believe that the moniker comes from the fact that The Cat is merely from this area. There are reports of similar burglaries taking place in Birmingham, Leeds and Bradford. As you know, those are cities whose situation is much like Manchester’s. They are highly industrialised and face the same social issues.’

  ‘Could it be that there are several people who call themselves by that name?’

  Jack shook his head at the conjecture. ‘The timing of the burglaries does not suggest that there is a group of people acting in tandem. The timing would support that there is only one person and that the one person moves around from place to place. The only constant is the reference to the name. Wherever this thief goes, the name is the same as well as the cause.’

  Brandon drummed his hands on the table, taking in Jack’s findings. ‘How long has The Cat been operating?’

  ‘Reports indicate three years. But that only indicates how long the name has been showing up. This person may have been active for years under different aliases.’

  ‘Are there any leftover Luddites still practising?’ Brandon knew the chance was slim. The Luddite movement, an organisation started by craftsmen who opposed the replacement of manual labor with textile machinery, had been wiped out years ago, but one never knew.

  A sickening feeling formed in his gut. It was one thing to rationalise The Cat as being a misguided local with a Robin Hood complex. It was entirely another to know he had fraternised with a hardened criminal. The Luddites had used violent means to demolish machinery. Such behaviour had led to their downfall. How far would The Cat go to make her point? Would robbing lead to other crimes? Would she go as far as to destroy the mill if her earlier ploys failed to bring about the desired results? The truth was, Brandon didn’t honestly know.

  Jack shook his head. ‘I checked the records from the 1813 Luddite trials in York. It is not likely that The Cat was among the group and is still rebelling nearly twenty years later. For starters, it would make The Cat awfully old for carrying on the shenanigans you’ve written to me about.’

  ‘What about Eleanor Habersham?’ Brandon asked the question he dreaded most. Once the connection was firm, he had no more excuses, but at least he could feel less guilty about his behaviour at Mrs Dalloway’s.

  ‘I have found nothing, which also means nothing. Your spinster is either what she claims to be and there are simply no records on her because she’s of no criminal threat to England or she’s a persona The Cat has conjured up. I can’t see why the burglar would do that. It makes no sense to create a spinster unless The Cat is a woman.’ Understanding dawned on Jack’s face. ‘You think The Cat is a woman, don’t you?’

  Brandon nodded. ‘I know The Cat is a woman.’

  ‘How do you know?’r />
  Brandon put a finger to his lips. ‘Wait until we get home.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ Jack poured himself a brandy and resumed his seat, where he’d sat riveted at Brandon’s encounters with The Cat. ‘I find it peculiar that you haven’t told anyone. Care to explain?’

  ‘At first I was embarrassed. I’d let The Cat get away.’

  ‘And later?’ Jack prompted.

  ‘Let it suffice to say that, later, catching The Cat held little novelty for me.’ Brandon took a swallow of brandy.

  ‘That must be how she gets away with it.’ Jack smiled triumphantly, gloating a bit at his friend’s discomfort. ‘Men don’t want to turn her in. If she’s caught, she simply cajoles them into compliance just as she’s done with you.’

  ‘She is not a trollop!’ Brandon protested, although he had nothing to base that claim on and plenty of evidence to the contrary. Jack’s comment had done its work.

  ‘I’ve yet to meet virgins who tie men to beds. Good lord, Brandon, do you think you’re the only man she’s tried this on?’ Jack pressed, then softened his tone. ‘You’re making no sense. You say you want me to help you catch The Cat. Now you’re telling me the opposite. Which is it? Do you want to catch her or not?’

  Brandon said nothing. Jack’s eyes glinted with knowledge. ‘Ah, so that’s how it is. You want to catch her for yourself. Why? Jealousy? Can’t stand the thought of another man under The Cat’s thrall?’

  ‘I am not under her spell,’ Brandon argued, incensed by the implication that a thief could buy his loyalty with her charms. The claim to jealousy rankled. Was Jack right?

  ‘Then how do you explain this urge to protect her?’ Jack shook his head. ‘You should know already you can’t tame a wild thing. You can’t tame The Cat, Brandon.’

  Brandon looked down into the remains of his glass, suddenly inundated with vivid memories of his last meeting with The Cat. ‘I suppose you’re right, Jack. Still, she’d be better off in a cage of my making than a cage of society’s making. If the investors catch her, it’s off to prison for certain. If what you believe is true and she’s guilty of robberies elsewhere, no judge can overlook three years of indiscretions.’ He recalled her comment Christmas Day that there was no sense in stopping the robberies because of her past.