Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

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?’

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.

‘So it’s a race and you believe you have the inside track because you think The Cat is Eleanor Habersham the spinster.’ Jack began sorting through the pieces of the puzzle aloud. ‘You believe this because of a slip in a conversation you had with Eleanor at a card party?’

Brandon stood up and began to pace. ‘For other reasons too. The spinster is a disguise, I’m sure of it. Well, I was sure of it until I blundered a few nights ago at the card party. I wrote you about it in my note.’

Jack nodded at the reminder. ‘Your account was deuced hilarious. When do I get to meet this paragon?’

‘Tonight, at the New Year’s party, but, Jack, don’t alert her to our suspicions. If she bolts, we’re back to nothing.’

The New Year’s celebration was in full swing around her as Nora sat unobtrusively with a few ladies of Eleanor’s acquaintance. The display of wealth tonight was more than lavish. It was garish, almost as garish as Eleanor’s dress with its large red rose print against a cream background. The material might have done well for curtains, but definitely not for a dress. As Nora intended, the large pattern distracted the viewer from further scrutiny.

The women with her tittered and fanned themselves, exclaiming over the gowns and jewels of the investors’ wives. One of them raised her voice over the others and gestured to the doorway of the ballroom. ‘Oh, my, the Earl of Stockport has come after all and he’s brought a friend. I heard talk that his friend’s a Viscount. They had lunch at the Cart and Bull this afternoon.’

Nora diverted her attention from the conversation. Stockport’s eyes swept the room, giving her the distinct feeling of being hunted. He was looking for her. For once the guise of Eleanor Habersham offered no protection. He had reason to mistrust Eleanor as much as The Cat after their exchange at the card party.

Damn him for looking so handsome. She took in his dark evening attire. His toilet was flawless, not a hair out of place, or a hair visible on his clean-shaven jaw.

Her cheeks burned at the memory of him a few nights ago, looking less than perfect, but no less delectable in his state of undress, stubble staining his jaw. It would be something of a trial for Eleanor Habersham to remain aloof, but nothing else would do. The last meeting between them demanded no less. Eleanor should still be upset over his treatment of her on the verandah. Of course, there was always the possibility that Stockport would not bother to seek out a lowly spinster.

But this wasn’t London and the distinctions of class were more easily blurred. Within minutes of greeting his hostess, Stockport began the long walk to the cluster of chairs where she sat. It would take some time. Everyone was interested in making Stockport’s acquaintance. It wasn’t often an Earl mixed with such a bourgeois grouping of people. The opportunity was not to be missed.

If she was so inclined, Nora could remove herself from her group, but Stockport would find her wherever she went. There was no sense in delaying it. She reasoned it was far better to confront him with a group of others around instead of risking an encounter where he could get her alone and press his suspicions.

‘Ladies, may I present to you the Earl of Stockport and the Viscount Wainsbridge.’ The hostess made the introductions. The dreaded moment was upon her. Nora met it head on. She was putting too many constructions on the encounter. Stockport would attribute any awkward behaviour on her part to their encounter at the card party.

The interaction proceeded quite harmlessly until Nora realised it wasn’t Stockport who posed the threat. It was his dandified friend, Viscount Wainsbridge. There was an aura of oddness about the gentleman. His gaze was too penetrating when he looked at her. The hardness in his eyes belied his easy manners. His clothes were overly foppish for a man of his broad-shouldered physique.

Well, it took one to know one. Nora recognized the look of a disguise when she saw it. This man might not be masquerading as someone else like she was, but he was masquerading as something else. She didn’t have to think long to come up with motivations for such a show. Her own motivations served well enough. People confided the most amazing bits of information to those whom they believed had no brain and Viscount Wainsbridge was giving a very good impression that he had left his at home.

A man Nora recognised as one of the mill investors approached Stockport and drew him aside. Nora’s senses went on full alert. Her suspicions were justified when Stockport returned to the group and took his leave.

‘I regret I shall have to leave you. The investors and I are having a short meeting in the library. It seems there is a new plan to catch The Cat.’ Stockport looked straight at her, causing her to readjust her earlier thinking. What did Stockport know? Had he looked at her on purpose? Nora wished she could be The Cat tonight. The Cat would deal swiftly with Viscount Wainsbridge and ferret her way into the meeting to overhear the plan.

Stockport’s next words caught her by surprise. ‘I trust Wainsbridge will be safe in your company, Miss Habersham. If it is not too importunate, I was hoping you might honour him with a dance?’

It wasn’t really a question. In an instant, Viscount Wainsbridge was next to her, soliciting for the next dance just starting up on the floor. In front of the group, Nora had no choice but to accept. Nora smiled gamely at Stockport. Apparently, he wanted to play cat and mouse. She would remind him just who was the cat and who was the mouse. If Stockport thought he had her cornered, he would be disappointed. He had no idea just how poorly Eleanor Habersham danced.

Chapter Ten

Brandon eyed the five other gentlemen assembled in Flack’s walnut-panelled library over the rim of his brandy snifter with a certain amount of trepidation. Three weeks ago he would have thought this meeting to discuss further action against The Cat nothing more than due process.

That was before he met The Cat. Now, he was hard pressed to take an interest in any plan that might condemn her. Regardless, there still remained the issue of the mill. She had to be brought to heel before the mill failed, but he could not abide the image of her behind bars or, worse, hanging from a gibbet like a common thief. There was nothing common about her.

Tonight, Brandon found himself in the awkward position of trying to protect The Cat without tipping his hand, all the while trying to cope with the comments Jack had made earlier. How had he got in to such a deep game with her? He swallowed his brandy as Cecil Witherspoon, the mill’s leading investor, cleared his throat and called the meeting to order.

‘Gentlemen, I dislike having to interrupt the festivities with business, but the situation regarding The Cat cannot be allowed to continue. Since we are all together this evening, we can make the most of our time by discussing the issue.’

The men—Squire Bradley, Magnus St John, Stephen Livingston and Jonathan Flack—all nodded in accord. Brandon kept his nod minimal and slightly aloof. He heartily disliked Cecil Witherspoon.

By rights, the tall, slender, blond man should have garnered his respect. Witherspoon was an ambitious, self-made man in his late thirties with a shrewd eye towards investments, very much like himself. But Witherspoon’s pale blue eyes were icy windows into a glacier soul.

Brandon found that, throughout their brief business association, Witherspoon was ruthless and utterly lacking in compassion for his fellow humans. Witherspoon was cold blooded now as he laid out his plan for capturing The Cat.

‘St John and I have tracked The Cat’s circuit of break ins and we believe we have cracked the pattern. We feel confident that The Cat will stage a robbery of St John’s place next. We also have divined that the robberies take place on evenings the home’s residents are out at social functions.

‘This means The Cat will target St John’s home for a Wednesday night when he and his wife are regularly out playing cards at Squire Bradley’s.’ Witherspoon gestured pompously to St John, his crony in crime. ‘Magnus, take it from here.’

Magnus St John, dark, bearded and bluff of manner, coughed and began. ‘I propose we all meet at my home for a dinner, during which The Cat will show up and be mightily surprised by our presence.’

That was his brilliant plan? Brandon almost laughed out loud. Even more ridiculous was the blind acceptance of the other men in the room, who were nodding their heads sagely and chortling over the planned surprise.

‘My lord, is something amiss?’ Witherspoon gave him a cold stare. Apparently, he hadn’t disguised his amusement well enough.

‘Do you think The Cat will simply walk into a dining room blazing with lights or will you spend all night sitting in the dark waiting for the thief to show and then shout “surprise”?’ Brandon said. Surely that much was an obvious flaw?

‘We won’t light the chandelier. We’ll use candles. They wouldn’t be visible until it was too late,’ St John said staunchly and far too seriously for Brandon to mistake his answer for a humorous joke.

‘And the “trap” part?’ Brandon pressed.

Witherspoon suppressed a condescending sigh as if it was his lot in life to work with less intelligent persons. He tolerated the question only because it came from the Earl. It was no secret that Witherspoon had invested heavily because of Brandon’s involvement. Witherspoon was grasping for acceptance into high society. Brandon suspected he would pay any price to ingratiate himself to an Earl of good standing.

‘My lord, the trap is that The Cat is expecting no one to be home, but this time we’ll all be there, waiting to drag the insufferable bastard off to jail.’

Brandon left it at that. If they wanted to try their plan, they were welcome to it. Still, a trap was a trap and the element of surprise could not be underestimated. There was also the issue of numbers. One lone thief against five men was not the most favourable of situations.

Brandon gave him a thin smile. ‘I will be anxious to hear about your results.’

‘Oh, my lord, you must be present. You’ll dine with us that evening, of course,’ St John interjected. The man was no better than Witherspoon. St John would dine out for months among his Cit companions in London on the tale that he entertained an Earl.

‘Well, that’s settled then.’ Brandon inclined his head with a graciousness he did not feel. What was not settled was what he would do with his information. He could tell The Cat of the trap, assuming he could find her or that she would find him. His other choice was to say nothing and let events take their own natural courses.

Therein lay the rub. There were two possible ‘natural’ outcomes: first, The Cat made fools out of them all, or, second; The Cat was caught. That outcome did not sit well with him.

‘Quite right, that’s settled,’ said Livingston, brushing his hands against his thighs. ‘The plan has got to succeed. I didn’t count on this type of interference when I paid into this scheme. My wife can’t sleep at night for fear of The Cat. She’s already talking about returning to London.’

‘Here, here,’ concurred Flack, a weak-chinned man with little in the way of looks to recommend him, but possessed of a financial acumen that more than compensated. ‘It isn’t prudent for any of us to put up more cash for the venture. We need two new members and I say they will not come if The Cat is on the loose.’

Witherspoon smiled coldly. ‘It seems we are all in accord, gentlemen. I propose a toast.’

The gentlemen all lifted their glasses in toast to their venture. Brandon joined in reluctantly, not missing for a moment the murderous gleam in Witherspoon’s eyes. His toast was chilling. ‘To The Cat. May the trip to the gibbet be swift.’

The game The Cat played had just grown more dangerous. Brandon wondered if she knew. Did she understand the peril posed by a man like Witherspoon, who would stop at nothing? Brandon set his glass down and made his excuses, quickly leaving the room before he said something rash to Witherspoon.

He was suddenly desperate to see how Jack was faring with Miss Habersham. It was more imperative than ever that Miss Habersham admit to her connection with The Cat. The spinster was the only link he had. If he didn’t succeed in winning her trust, he had no guarantee of being able to warn The Cat in time.

Brandon stopped in the dimly lit corridor leading back to the party and drew a deep breath, taking time to contemplate his decision. He was going to tell The Cat. How quickly he reached that conclusion! Just like that, Brandon knew it was true. He was going to tell her just as soon as he could, Jack’s aspersions on her character aside.

‘It’s not fair,’ Jack moaned, sinking back against the squabs of Brandon’s well-sprung coach. ‘You get to match wits with a tempting seductress who ties you up and I’m left wooing the ugly spinster.’

Brandon set his fingers to his temples in an attempt to massage away a growing headache. ‘There is no spinster. Eleanor Habersham is a fiction,’ he said in a weary voice as if he’d explained it a dozen times already. It was nearly dawn of the first day of the year and his head hurt from too much champagne and too much knowledge. He fervently hoped it was not a sign of how the year would evolve.