Cat and Mouse

by Genella deGrey

  Max decided to have a nightcap in his study before heading to bed. A cap to top off the half-dozen or so other caps he’d had throughout the night. The mouth of the brandy decanter clinked cheerfully on the lip of his crystal snifter, sounding like a greeting between old friends. He lifted the beverage in a salute to no one in particular and precipitously dispensed half the glass down his throat.

  The two finalists on his sister’s ‘Find a Wife for Max’ list, had attended this evening’s soirée. Weary, he lowered himself into the closest chair, feeling like a small nocturnal canine who’d narrowly escaped his captors in a summertime fox hunt.

  One of the young ladies, a Miss Winifred Boonsbury, came from a very old family, but it was whispered that she was icy-cold to the touch, and, Max imagined, those doing the whispering were merely being diplomatic. With him, she neither practised nor likely held in high regard any sort of conversational skills. The sour look cemented permanently on her face attested to the fact. And the woman’s mother was so hard of hearing that the most discreet verbal exchange floated happily across any room as if she’d taken up a trumpet. If he married this girl, he’d be doomed to a silent—save the mother-in-law—wintry sort of life, which was ideal for a Christmas landscape, but Max wanted more. He wanted adventure. He wanted chemistry, heat. And, specifically, he wanted someone who’d be experimental—in bed and out.

  His other choice, a Miss Charity Wilson, was a beauty. Sadly, she’d made the rounds—flat on her back—with nearly every randy buck of the ton, who in turn shared the not-so-engaging experience with anyone who would listen. Apparently, she demanded expensive baubles for her position in society. This was not what he envisioned for his future, either. He didn’t wish to spend his millions paying for the privilege of bedding Mrs Maxwell Courtland.

  With a flip of his wrist, the rest of the brandy blazed a trail down this throat just as smoothly as the first half. The other listed females ‘ripe for the picking’, as his sister put it, he’d disregarded—their conditions were even worse than that of Boonsbury and Wilson. He shook his head and untied his cravat, flinging the silken tie in disgust to land where it would.

  Taking up the decanter once again, he then splashed more liquid aid into his glass, the happy sound at odds with his unpleasant thoughts. He sank deeper into the chair in the darkened room and tossed back a healthy swig. Exhaling the heat from his throat, a sound startled him. It had come from behind the drapes.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, rising from the chair. He set his drink down on the fireplace mantle and took up the iron and brass poker from its stand. Softly he stepped over to the window, raised the poker high above his head, grabbed hold of the thick fabric and tossed the curtain aside.

  He could barely make out the figure of the little mouse of a girl who stood there. Upon closer inspection, he could discern the surprised, wide-eyed look and form of an ‘O’ her luscious lips held. His cock seemed to react in adolescent glee before his mind registered any further information.

  Knowing he’d probably frightened her, he flung the poker to the ground. “I do apologise. I thought everyone had departed.”

  “I—I—”

  Max motioned with his hand. “Come out. I won’t harm you.” He stepped out of her path so that she could pass when the sound of something large and metal hit the floor in the vicinity of her feet.

  Chapter Two

  “What was that?” the man asked. Amused suspicion rang in his voice. Had his face not been cast in shadow, Katrina would have been able to read which conflicting emotion prevailed. How could she tell him that the silver tray from the stunning tea service in the upstairs sitting room had just fallen from between her knees?

  Katrina stepped over the tray, intending to make a dash for the door, when a hand encircled her upper arm like an iron band. A metal tinkling, albeit muffled, sounded from beneath her skirts. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth to stop herself from cursing—a habit she’d picked up from the rabble with whom she shared lodgings.

  “Just a moment.” He manoeuvred her off her intended path and paused. “What do we have here?”

  Shite! It seemed he had indeed noticed the tray on the floor.

  “Hm. A thief, eh? Any other curious intrigues beneath your skirts?”

  “Nothing else—I mean, this is all some sort of mistake. Unhand—”

  “I think not. This situation calls for further investigation.”

  She tried futilely to pull free from his grip. “No… Release me this instant… Bastard!”

  A strangled breath that sounded as if it could have been a humorous noise caught in his throat. “Such language, madam,” he scolded.

  Regardless of her struggles, he muscled her over to a settee, sat and positioned her over his knees as if she were a naughty child in need of a spanking. Bloody hell, he could have at least allowed her to face her punisher head on!

  “Let me go, you cur!” She kicked her feet, but they never struck their target. This was not good. Katrina needed to escape the nightmare she’d stepped into before she ended up in Newgate.

  “Stop wiggling, this instant.”

  At once, his hand came down on her backside. Hard. She squeaked in protest—or had she moaned?—and froze. Regardless, the sting, which refused to fade beneath the fabric of her skirts, sent liquid fire straight to her womb. She must have broken into a sweat, for the cotton of her drawers at the juncture of her thighs seemed damper than it had before. Too embarrassed to admit even to herself that the pain and pleasure of the still-smarting tap was affecting her in such a heated way, not to mention the fact that her vulnerability in this position could induce all sorts of immoral ideas, she shouted at him, “There, you’ve done your worst—now let me go!”

  His laugh could’ve definitely been categorised as wicked. “That, madam, wasn’t anywhere near my worst.” With that, he yanked the back of her skirt up and over her bottom.

  Indignant beyond words and trapped between his solid chest and rock-hard thighs, Katrina tried again to get away with more kicking and thrashing about, but the way in which he held her could not be broken. The silverware she’d fixed to her petticoat now tinkled aloud with each movement. At once she stilled. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice her take. It was quite dark, after all. She drew in a breath. A warm, spicy scent invaded her senses, but only for a moment.

  “What do we have here?”

  Good God.

  “Either you were in the midst of setting the table for supper and your skirts ingested a few essential items or in your spare time you are a wind chime.”

  “Release me, damn you!”

  “Not until I’ve retrieved my family’s silver.”

  Katrina heard each shellfish fork, butter knife and teaspoon as they were ripped from their restraints, and after enduring the inquest of her lower region in a manner only a husband had the right to do, she stiffened when he spoke. “There, that should do it.” She felt him lean over and away from her to set her near-pilfered prizes upon an end table next to the settee. At that fortuitous moment, Katrina jumped from his lap. She slammed the heel of her boot down hard and with purpose on top of his foot, then ran for the door. Behind her the man roared out a name—likely that of someone in his household. The frantic, frustrated echo followed her all the way down the two-tiered set of stairs to the foyer. She pulled the heavy door open—damned if she was going to close it—and fled through the front gate, her frantic steps too loud upon the pavement for comfort.

  Thank heavens she’d previously shoved the diamond earbobs so far down the front of her corset they wouldn’t have become dislodged if he’d turned her upside down and shook her. Katrina dashed across the empty street from the shadows and into Hyde Park. Keeping close to bits of shrubbery and accommodating trees, she ran alongside Rotten Row as fast as her feet would fly. She daren’t head straight for the Den in case someone had followed her from the location of the somewhat successful crime.

  Soon Katrina came to the Rotten Row curve. A
fter glancing around to ensure safe flight, she hurried across the lane and kept to the trees, still heading west.

  Finally she found herself next to Kensington Palace. How on earth she would make it back to the Den at Mews Street without raising suspicions at this time of morning—in a ball gown, no less—she had no idea. With no coin at her disposal, no connections to speak of and utterly hopeless—unless one counted the diamond earbobs hidden deep inside her corset—the uncertainty of doom lurked behind her like a shadow.

  Pity the silver hadn’t remained.

  The vivid memory of that man’s stinging reprimand came rushing back. It seemed impossible to her that the particular brand of rough handling of her posterior could induce such feelings. Katrina gritted her teeth against the sensual buzzing between her legs and crouched down in a corner at a cross-section of Kensington’s outer wall. Pushing the recollection to the back of her mind, a feeling of desolation she was powerless to evade overtook her and she wept the bitter tears of despair.

  All men were bastards. Her father, the king of the bastards, Mr Brenner, heir apparent, and the pond scum who’d accosted her tonight. The only male in the world who could be depended upon was Jimmy—and even that young man was prone to flirtations bordering on dangerous.

  After a while she dried her cheeks with the tattered under-hem of her skirt and took a deep breath. The chilled air around her stirred as if wishing to escape the dawn. To this she could relate. Anger coupled with helplessness now replaced her fear and tied her stomach in knots. She needed to formulate a plan—a plan to get her out of this dreadful situation of theft, despondency and dissoluteness. But alas, the solution wouldn’t be immediate. It could take weeks if not months—perhaps even years, God forbid. One thing that could be counted as a positive, she’d escaped tonight’s botch-up and hadn’t landed in Newgate.

  Feeling much more at ease regarding the events of the past hour or so owing to a good cry, which always seemed to help when hopelessness overwhelmed her, she stood and dusted off her skirt. Reassuring herself that she hadn’t been pursued, she headed south. Once she reached the Thames she’d follow the river east to the Den.

  Not a quarter mile from Kensington Palace, the familiar clip-clop of a horse’s hooves echoed off the surrounding buildings. With any luck, the rider would mind their own business, continue on and ignore her presence.

  “Good morning!” a cheerful male voice hailed her from behind.

  She felt her shoulders stiffen and her mind raced with phoney scenarios to the question the man would inevitably ask. Katrina smiled before turning to him as if her life had been happy and carefree since birth. “Good morning to you, too.”

  He slowed his horse to match her pace. “You seem to me, at first glance, a fish out of water.”

  Story of my life. Katrina laughed gaily as if his statement struck her as humorous and she looked up at him. “No, no. I’m just walking.” His mischievous smile and green eyes were more striking than should have been legal. She peeled her gaze from his and continued on her path in silent dismissal of which she hoped he’d take the hint.

  “What a fancy walking gown you have on. Has fashion finally dictated that an early morning walk must be made in formal attire?”

  Wonderful. He’s both thick and nosey. And handsome, damn him. She glanced up at him again and took note of the fact that his choice of apparel from the waist up consisted of an unkempt shirt open at the neck. She forced herself to ignore the smooth patch of skin between the starched, likely expensive cotton. “Interesting observation from someone who seems to have forgotten his waistcoat and his cravat.”

  She watched from the corner of her eye as he raised his hand to the ‘V’ at his chest and up to his neckline. “I… I left in a hurry. The air at dawn is so good for one’s constitution, you know.”

  “Mmm.” Katrina kept walking. This was neither the time nor the place for polite pleasantries—however ridiculous—with a man, no matter how agreeable the countenance.

  “Where are you off to? Can I be of assistance?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “What is your destination?”

  Obviously he intended upon making this difficult. “The docks.”

  “The docks, you say?” he repeated incredulously.

  “Mmm.”

  “Which docks?”

  “The ones on the Thames, of course. Where else?”

  “Where else, indeed.”

  Mercifully, a few moments of silence fell upon them and Katrina hoped he’d given up trying to engage her in conversation. Her feet hurt as did her head from walking and running hither and yon. Lack of sleep didn’t bring her disposition to be anywhere near congenial, either.

  “Once you reach the docks, what do you plan on doing there?”

  “I—um, I’m going abroad.”

  “Abroad? At the beginning of the season? Think of all the parties you’ll miss.”

  His words stung. Her new life would no longer allow her to move about with happy abandon in society, and if truth be told, she did love the season and all the balls, teas and different social gatherings. She’d been forced to forgo the last two seasons because of her father’s failing health. “I s-suppose I’ll just have to get along.”

  “From what I understand, all London ladies love to get dressed up for such pursuits.”

  “Sir, it’s not that I don’t enjoy it. I do. I just have other plans, that is all. I’ll probably attend assemblies elsewhere.”

  “Hmm.”

  He sounded as if he didn’t believe her. But what did she care? She was in no position to make friendships or attachments or anything that resembled what real people did.

  “Indulge me. You say you are going abroad, to seek parties elsewhere, but with no trunks?”

  Katrina wanted to scream at him to shove off, but thought better of it. “They’re in the carriage, of course.”

  She heard the squeak of the leather saddle as he looked about. “What carriage?”

  “Mine. It—it lost a wheel—back there a-ways.” She motioned with a wave of her hand behind her, praying it didn’t seem as ambiguous as it felt.

  “Why didn’t you wait with your luggage?”

  “I didn’t want to be late.” Sadly, she couldn’t figure out how to stop his relentless, annoying questions without insulting him…even though it seemed he was just begging her to attack his dignity.

  “Late for…?”

  “The journey, of course.”

  “So you would prefer to make your voyage without your belongings instead of wait for the next ship?”

  “Sir, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask me questions—”

  “I’m merely—”

  “Unless you’d like to tell me why you feel the need to ride about town at sunrise half dressed?”

  His silence told her he wasn’t disposed to discuss his affairs, sordid or not.

  She almost allowed herself to think that she’d shut him up when he spoke again. “Where did you say you are from?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “No, of course not. So where are you from?”

  For a moment, Katrina considered faking a coughing fit in order to either find a suitable answer or cause a diversion. Too tired to produce a physical showing, she opted to toss out the name of a town. “Cricklewood.”

  “Hmm,” he mumbled thoughtfully. “It’s a wonder you didn’t take the train.”

  As pleasant as it was to have a conversation with someone who’d recently bathed, their repartee wasn’t helping matters. At the next crossroads, she needed to turn east—without having to explain why. “Sir, shall we address your shirtsleeves once again or perhaps discuss your hobby of pressing a perfect stranger about their business?”

  His only reaction was a choking noise, which satisfied her more than she could convey. She glanced up for a final look at him, to perhaps memorise his features, and found him staring in such an intense manner that his eyes practically reached her soul.

/>   Tempted to fidget, she spoke instead. “I’m sure you have better things to do—and so do I. Good day then.”

  At the next corner she headed east without looking back.

  Sadly, the sound of the horse’s hooves didn’t fade. She stifled a sigh.

  Chapter Three

  Max had to admit, she was good. The little thief could change subjects at the drop of a hat. Pity for her he’d wagered on the suspicion—and won—that she’d head straight for Hyde Park after fleeing his Hamilton Place town house. All he’d had to do was wait on the opposite side and she’d appeared like a mouse emerging from the end of a maze.

  A pretty little thing, too, the way her short black hair curled around her ears and bounced against her peaches and cream cheeks as she walked. He could still recall the feel of her bottom from the swat he’d given her. Had they met under different circumstances, he’d enjoy showing her his secret playroom and presenting her posterior with a proper what for.

  Before his cock pressed any harder against his fly, he forced his thoughts in a different direction. What on God’s green earth had compelled her to take to thievery? Of course, one didn’t walk up to someone unknown to them and inquire about their moral judgement.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Why?” She narrowed her darkly-lashed, golden-brown eyes at him before turning back to the path.

  “So that I might call upon you one day.”

  “Sir, I’m quite sure you’ve noticed we’ve not been appropriately introduced.”

  “Propriety for propriety’s sake is one thing, but I confess, this morning has been far from normal, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Considering I’m speaking to a half-dressed man, I find I’m forced to concur.”

  The one thing he’d been remiss about as he’d hobbled downstairs with the utmost haste in order to wake his groom not sixty minutes ago was his state of undress. He hadn’t wanted her to get so far away she couldn’t be caught. Much to his annoyance, once he did catch up with her, he was more interested in interrogation than an arrest. Damn his curiosity, anyway.