Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

‘My uncle had a marriage planned for me to a man that was stricter than he. I couldn’t fathom a worse fate and I couldn’t imagine how I would manage living such a life. It wasn’t the life I wanted. I felt I was in prison. There was a fair in town, and Reggie Portman was there, a charming and handsome travelling merchant. He offered me a way out. I was desperate and I took it, four days before the official betrothal.’

‘And taught you everything you know?’ Brandon supplied wryly. ‘A good role model.’

Nora grimaced in censure. ‘Everything has its place. I use my skills for good, not evil.’

‘That’s debatable.’

‘Not today it isn’t. Do you want to hear my story or not?’ Nora scolded, back on familiar ground, the hardest part of the telling over.

Brandon acquiesced graciously. ‘My apologies, please continue.’

‘Travelling with Reggie was exciting at first. But as Reggie and I moved from place to place, I saw the same stories being played out in different towns. The poor got poorer and the rich got richer, not caring who they stepped on to make a guinea. I promised myself I’d do something about it, just as my mother and I had tried to do for the workers at my father’s factory and as I had tried to do at my uncle’s, especially for children and widows; people who had limited ways of improving their station in life.’

Nora made a face. ‘Reggie didn’t share my attitude, although I thought he cared enough for me to help anyway, out of affection. But what he loved was making money at any cost. He sold fine fabrics, jewellery, expensive trinkets. He lavished gifts on me and my head was turned. I assumed he would want to use his largesse to help others. But I was wrong.

‘Once we married, I discovered he was singularly interested in making a pound wherever he could. His finer goods were acquired through illegal means and the items he sold at discount were so flawed that they were of little use.’

‘You married him for his philanthropy and he let you down,’ Brandon summarised.

‘He was boyishly handsome. He could make me laugh when he made the effort, which was seldom after we courted. His charming was an act. He just wanted someone to trail around the countryside, cooking and cleaning for him.

‘The worst part was once I got over the realisation that he was a borderline criminal with his business dealings, I couldn’t leave him. The law doesn’t allow for a woman to cast off a husband and, even if I had been able to, I had no way to support myself.’ Nora paused, letting Brandon assimilate the pieces of her history.

‘Then you ran away and became The Cat?’ Brandon guessed.

Nora shook her head. ‘Not at first. I started small. In the beginning, I left baskets of goods I pilfered from Reggie’s stock. He was a terrible book-keeper and kept a shoddy inventory. It was easy to take a length of cloth here and few tins of food there.’

‘He never caught on?’

‘Not for a while. He was quite angry when he discovered what I had been doing.’ Nora cringed at the memory.

‘He hit you?’

‘He beat me up quite thoroughly. I started carrying the knife in the sleeve sheath after that. One night he came back to our camp site drunk. It was worse than usual. I pulled the knife and, when he lunged for me, I stabbed him in the shoulder. Between the wound and the alcohol, he passed out. I knew I couldn’t be there when he woke up.

‘I took what was left of his stock, and had the good fortune to meet up with Hattie and Alfred at a fair. They were smalltime con artists, but they were getting on in years for such living. They liked the idea of settling in a house, even if it was just for a year or so at a time. After that, I started being The Cat in earnest. When it became clear that I had to have a means of income, I expanded The Cat’s range of activities.’

‘Incredible,’ Brandon breathed when she had finished.

Nora gave a bittersweet smile at the sight of his admiration. ‘That is why I can’t possibly marry you. I have to be The Cat for the sake of helping others and because I must live in hiding. Reggie is out there somewhere. As long as I keep moving and forgo my true identity, he can’t find me. You cannot risk being connected to me.’

‘Do you really expect me to let you walk away after knowing that?’ Brandon said softly.

‘Yes.’ Nora stamped her foot in frustration. ‘There’s nothing for you here but the harbouring of a fugitive.’ Especially since you don’t love me.

Not an iota of affection. She had noticed that he admired her. She fired his blood like no other, but that was all lust and physical attraction. It was the novelty of her. Those things would fade and Brandon would be left wondering why he’d risked so much for so little. And, of course, she’d be left hurt because in the final analysis she liked him a great deal. A great deal.

‘It should be for me to decide,’ Brandon said. ‘You are my responsibility. I will not have you martyr yourself out of some misguided notion that I am the one who needs saving.’

There was that word again: responsibility. She was coming to hate it. She would hate it if it wasn’t so important to her too. She understood the power of responsibility all too well.

‘Be glad I have the good sense not to take advantage of you. My rejection is a gift,’ Nora fired back, relieved to feel her temper rising. Good. She wouldn’t dwell on all that she was turning down. She cared for him too much to tie him to her when he did not reciprocate her depth of feeling. When he worked that out, he’d be thankful for her decision.

‘You will see reason and you’ll know I was right to decline. I cannot abide the idea that you would marry me to fulfil your sense of duty. You cannot wish to be shackled to a woman you don’t know for the rest of your days.’

‘You’re wrong. I know you, Nora. I know you’re The Cat. I know you have a criminal past, all for a good cause. I know and I still admire you. When I saw Witherspoon point that gun at you, I knew I couldn’t lose you.’

Of course not. You can’t stand to lose, you insufferably stubborn man. Nora stared at him, letting silence permeate the room. She took a moment and let the import of his words sink in. It would be easy to interpret them to mean what she wanted them to mean—a replacement for ‘I love you’.

Any other woman might be taken in by those powerful words. But in the past month she’d come to know Brandon Wycroft. He was a man who hated to lose and hated to share. She knew what he really meant: he wasn’t going to let a chap like Witherspoon call the shots. This was his game with The Cat and his game alone. She understood, but it still hurt.

Brandon chuckled in the quiet. ‘Besides, Nora, you can’t leave just yet. I need to produce a betrothed for a reasonable bit of time or else it will look suspicious.’

‘How long?’ Nora said warily. Letting him determine how the betrothal gambit evolved put her in a tenuous position.

‘Two weeks ought to be sufficient.’

‘Two weeks and then you let me walk away?’

‘Yes, unless you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

Brandon smiled knowingly with all the confidence of an urbane rake prowling the London drawing rooms. ‘We’ll see.’

What had she got herself into? Nora wondered two days later, standing in what had become her suite of chambers, surrounded by boxes of hats, shoes, gloves and undergarments of the finest linens. Her wardrobe began arriving the afternoon following the dressmakers’ initial visit, providing a signal of sorts to those in the village who felt obliged to consort with the Earl and his intended.

The purported tragedy befalling her luggage and maid held would-be callers at bay for a day, long enough for Brandon and she to sort out what lay between them. For the ruse to succeed, they had to have a united front. Playing his role to the hilt, Brandon had dashed off a letter to his closest sister, inviting her to chaperon.

Now that her new clothing had arrived, the callers were not far behind. Indeed, Nora had been informed mere minutes ago that Witherspoon, along with his wife and sister, were downstairs in the front drawing room, hoping to be received. She supposed she could ask Brandon to tell them she was indisposed, but that would be the coward’s way out. Brandon expected more of her. He had performed his role as dutiful husband-to-be quite well.

She must respond in kind. Any believable candidate for an Earl’s wife would be an accomplished hostess. Acting like a shy country miss or wilting wallflower would not reflect well on Brandon.

Nora rang for the maid and pulled a morning gown of emerald-printed challis with Medici sleeves from the pile of gowns covering the bed. ‘Quickly, Ellie, we must not keep Witherspoon and his guests waiting overlong,’ Nora said in her best imitation of the lady of the house, which was what the servants expected of her. In their minds, she was to be the Countess.

Fortunately, she’d spent enough time robbing the rich to know something of their lifestyle and behaviours. She was not without her own resources when it came to avoiding major mistakes and Brandon had been diligently present behind the scenes, making sure she did not face insurmountable tasks alone.

Nora let Ellie drop the dress over her head and straighten it before sitting down at her vanity to arrange her hair in a hasty but tasteful coiffure. Ellie was a genius with hair, gathering Nora’s heavy curls into a low knot at the base of her neck that at once gave the admirer an impression of maturity and innocence when studying Nora’s face.

As Nora fastened on a pair of earrings, a knock sounded at the door. Brandon peered in and smiled. ‘Are you ready to go down? When I heard Witherspoon was here, I thought we could receive him together,’ he offered politely.

Nora graciously accepted. Witherspoon was their first visitor—the first of many. Nora knew Brandon wanted to offer guidance and cues so that she could manage well on her own for later visits. No one would expect the Earl to actually be present for the social calls. That was a woman’s domain.

There were other reasons she was glad of Brandon’s presence by her side. The way Witherspoon had looked at her when she’d descended the stairs the night he and the others brought Brandon home from the dinner party made her nervous, as if he were trying to unravel a great mystery. And, of course, there was the fact that he’d been ready to shoot her the night of the St Johns’ dinner party—not that he knew The Cat and Brandon’s intended were one and the same. Still, there was something edgy about socialising with someone who wanted to see her dead.

‘I don’t suppose we can get out of this,’ Nora said as they descended the stairs.

‘Don’t say you’re nervous.’ Brandon winked. ‘I have a plan for avoiding other callers today.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s called a picnic,’ he said in a playful tone of high drama.

‘A picnic?’ Nora said excitedly, then sobered. ‘But it is the middle of winter, Brandon.’

‘Did I neglect to say a picnic in the summerhouse? We’ll be warm enough, no matter the rain outside. Now, let’s dispatch our guests with all due haste.’

‘Witherspoon, welcome, it is good to see you.’ Brandon shook hands with the tall, blond-haired man, sounding genuinely delighted to receive the visitors. Nora marvelled at Brandon’s talent for easy conversation.

Nora stepped forward and let Brandon make the introductions. She saw the ladies seated comfortably on the couch near the fire while Brandon and Witherspoon took the two wing-backed chairs opposite. She probably should ring for tea, but she didn’t want to encourage Witherspoon to stay. It would take fifteen minutes to get a tea tray together and another twenty to politely partake of it with company. It was difficult to play the gracious hostess when a picnic in the summerhouse with Brandon loomed on the horizon.

Witherspoon must have sensed the need to expedite his visit. He shifted in his seat to directly face Brandon. ‘I appreciate being received, my lord. We did not have an appointment.’

Nora watched his face. The man might sound self-effacing as he kowtowed to the Earl, but his eyes told a different story. She hoped Brandon could see the calculation in them.

‘I am always glad to meet if I am at home.’ Brandon inclined his head slightly.

‘I felt what I have to say cannot wait, considering the state of affairs in Stockport-on-the-Medlock. It has to do with The Cat.’

Brandon affected a look of cool interest. ‘Have you heard something?’

‘It is something I noticed during the incident at St John’s. I think we may have been looking in the wrong direction for The Cat. I think there is reason to believe The Cat is a woman.’

It took all of Nora’s self-control to avoid looking at Brandon. Any contact might arouse suspicions.

‘Why would you think that, Witherspoon? It’s a highly unlikely hypothesis,’ Brandon said in an even tone that conveyed only the tiniest bit of inquisitiveness. For all intents and purposes, he sounded like a bored man forced to listen to ludicrous tales.

Witherspoon swallowed hard. Nora was gratified to see that the Earl’s haughty demeanour had disconcerted him. Then, Witherspoon gathered his backbone. ‘When the intruder turned to watch you with the bag, the cloak fell away enough to reveal certain, ah, womanly parts.’ Witherspoon choked out the last.

Nora couldn’t resist the jibe. ‘You mean breasts?’ she asked with an air of innocence. The three guests blanched at the use of such a term in mixed company.

Brandon coughed discreetly. ‘I see. We will need more proof, but in the meanwhile it can’t hurt to expand our search to encompass both genders. I appreciate your thoughts, Witherspoon.’ Brandon rose and held out his hand. ‘I am sorry to rush our visit, but my betrothed and I have an appointment shortly.’

‘Thank you for your time, my lord,’ Witherspoon said, rising too. ‘And, of course, we want to extend our felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.’

Nora’s head was reeling by the time Brandon shut the door behind their guests. ‘He knows The Cat is a woman.’

They’d both lost their appetite for a picnic. The allure of the summerhouse faded in the wake of Witherspoon’s visit. In silent accord, they drifted into Brandon’s study and shut the heavy door behind them.

Nora settled on the sofa, the whole nasty scene with Witherspoon playing out again in her mind. His revelations spelled disaster for The Cat. ‘I think The Cat should rob him blind and force him out. I am sure I could “persuade” his wife to apply some more pressure. She’d decamp to London with a little more effort from The Cat.’

Brandon joined her, sternly denouncing her plan. ‘Absolutely not. As long as you’re here, you’re in retirement. Besides, I need Witherspoon’s money.’

‘You’re hard up?’ Nora gasped incredulously, thinking of the fortune that had been paid out for a wardrobe full of gowns for occasions she’d never attend. The ruse was getting dangerously expensive.

‘You shouldn’t have bought all those gowns. I am horrified when I think of the money wasted on them. Did you know I have six gowns specifically for afternoon tea? I’ll never wear them. It will take me some time, but I will pay you for the clothes,’ Nora said with resolve.

Brandon rolled his eyes at that. ‘By doing what? Robbing my neighbors? You most certainly will not. A wardrobe will not beggar me.’

Nora furrowed her brow, perplexed. ‘But you need Witherspoon’s money. You’re poor.’

Brandon gave a friendly chuckle. ‘Hardly. Poor is a bit over the top. My pockets aren’t to let. But it is getting more difficult each year to keep the estates functional. My estates generate enough to support repairs to the tenants’ cottages, to buy seed and farming implements for the fields, but there’s less and less profit for expansion and other expenses. I fear it will only be a few more years before the tenants will be forced to look elsewhere for their livelihoods. Aristocracy is an expensive career. The agricultural economy hasn’t helped.’

Nora saw the pieces fit together at once. ‘The mill is your plan for financial security.’

Brandon nodded. ‘It’s at the foundation of it, the first building block. I need the investors’ money to build for the future of Stockport-on-the-Medlock. I can’t build that future alone. My pockets aren’t that deep.’

Nora felt sick. Her plans would ruin more than his credibility. A few weeks past, such ironic justice would have suited her perfectly. Now, looking at the man across from her, she could barely stomach the thought of all she’d be responsible for. She had to cut ties here before she was too emotionally involved to see reason.

‘None the less, Brandon, I am not comfortable being a kept woman,’ Nora said slowly. ‘Even if you were the richest man in England, I would be reluctant to accept the wardrobe you’ve lavished on me these past few days.’

‘My intended needs the appropriate clothing. No one would believe I was to marry a woman of dubious fashion.’

‘I will pay for the gowns,’ Nora insisted.

Brandon took her hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance. ‘You talk too much. Maybe I’ll get my money’s worth out of the gowns. After your two weeks are up, you might decide to stay.’

Nora sighed. ‘I am not free to marry and I won’t be your mistress.’

‘If he were dead, you would have a choice,’ Brandon said softly.

Nora drew back. ‘What have you done, Brandon? You will not commit murder on my behalf.’

Brandon laughed. ‘Nothing that bad, Nora. Did you imagine I sent thugs to kill your errant husband?’ He sobered. ‘I did send my friend Jack, Viscount Wainsbridge, though. If Reggie Portman is still of this world, Jack will find him.’

Brandon slipped a hand behind her neck, sifting her hair through his fingers and drawing her close for a deep kiss. ‘Until then, we have two weeks to ourselves to wait and see and enjoy. Promise me, two weeks, Nora. The Cat can take a holiday,’ he whispered against her neck.

‘I promise,’ Nora replied softly. But it was already a broken promise. She still had the haul from St John’s to pawn for cash and get to Mary Malone. Brandon kissed her again and Nora felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn’t see the fingers she crossed behind her back.

Chapter Sixteen

Brandon took off his glasses and stretched back in his leather chair behind the desk. He had been poring over the latest dispatches from London. Even though Parliament was out until spring, dedicated politicos like Earl Russell were still hard at work, trying to lobby support for the Reform Act which would be the focus of the spring session.

Brandon used his break from paperwork to study the beautiful woman sitting demurely in the wing-backed chair near the fire, her neck bent slightly forward as she read a slim volume of poetry, a silver tray containing hot fudge and strawberries next to her elbow. Nora.

After nearly a week of her constant presence, he still couldn’t believe his good fortune. She had stayed. She had admitted she cared for him; so much that she would throw away the passion they shared together in order to protect him. It was the partnership he craved, the knowledge that he was not alone. He had found the one person who could bring him the solace his soul demanded, not just in the dark watches of the night but in all aspects of his daily life, from the mundane to the more extraordinary.

Never had his heart been so committed. He could not resist her. She could not resist him, yet she did for reasons he did not perceive or understand. For every obstacle she erected, he countered with a solution and still it wasn’t enough to win her capitulation.

Looking at her now with the firelight dancing on her features, her toes tucked beneath her soft rose-coloured skirts, her hair gathered into a loose chignon at her neck, he could hardly reconcile the image with the brazen Cat who had dangled her trousered legs over the same chair and swigged down his brandy like a dockhand a month ago. Anyone seeing her tonight would see a lady of gentle refinement. Of course, it was all an act, a trick wrought of fine clothes and a competent lady’s maid.

He liked the illusion. He liked it even more because he knew what lay beneath the soft wool and pearls. He had only to look in her sharp jade eyes and see the truth of her—the keen intelligence, the ardent passion for her cause. That passion made sense now in the wake of her tale. She’d been disappointed by important people in her life and by the world in general. But instead of letting those disappointments overwhelm her, she’d elected to change the world so that others would not be similarly disappointed.

Not so unlike him. He wished he could convince her of that.

She raised those eyes to meet his. ‘You’re staring, Brandon,’ she chided softly.

‘Better to look at you than these damnable papers,’ Brandon said with a weary tone. ‘I swear they tread over the same ground time and again, never gaining an inch. The act has passed the House of Commons three times, but the House of Lords will not admit the need to change.’

Nora rose and put down her book. She came around the desk to stand behind him, her capable hands massaging his shoulders. ‘Was there anything else of interest in the post today?’

Brandon knew what she was really asking. Had Jack come up with any news of Reggie Portman? ‘No.’

He reached up and covered her hand. ‘It is too soon for him to know anything conclusive. It doesn’t matter what he finds. If Portman is dead, you are free now. If Portman is alive, we will petition the courts for a divorce on grounds of abandonment. You will be free either way,’ he consoled her. ‘It’s been seven years—perhaps we can have him declared legally dead.’

‘Divorce, Brandon? You cannot consider it. A divorced woman may be your mistress, perhaps, but not your wife. You must not forget your station.’ Nora’s soft tone carried a warning edge to it. ‘Besides, he’d have to be the one to divorce me. The law doesn’t allow a woman to sue for divorce. You know that, Brandon.’

There it was again, that damnable tendency to block his solutions. Debating with Nora was as frustrating as his opponents in Parliament; more frustrating, perhaps, because the next minute she was all soft compliance, making him forget how hard-headed she could be.

‘Besides, I am free now, Brandon. There is no sense in going through the public display of a divorce if he’s alive. He hasn’t found me for years. Perhaps you’re right and he isn’t as bent on revenge as I imagined.’

Brandon drew her around to his lap. ‘I would never stop looking for you.’ He smiled at the blush rising on her cheek.

He had discovered in their short time together that The Cat might be a tough, saucy-tongued woman, but true flattery was the chink in Nora’s armor. A sincere compliment was her undoing. It thrilled him that in many ways he was the first to love her honestly and in the truest sense. It also touched a tender spot deep inside him that this woman, who risked herself so completely in order to give to others, had received so little affection in her life.

‘I know, let’s play a game, Nora. I’ve had enough of paperwork tonight. It’s called Truth or Consequence. You choose if you want to answer a question or if you want to take a challenge of my making.’

Nora smiled like a cat with cream. Any thought of ‘demure’ exited his head. ‘That sounds decidedly wicked, my lord,’ she said in the husky voice he loved.

‘It can be,’ Brandon conceded. He had played a few bawdy versions of the game before when he and Jack had been in their salad days. ‘You go first.’

Nora twisted a lock of hair that had come loose from her chignon. ‘What will it be, truth or consequence?’

‘Truth.’

‘Do you really have a sister? You cannot answer yes or no. You must elaborate,’ Nora said.

‘Not only do I have one sister, I have four.’ Brandon laughed outright at the incredulous look on her face. ‘How do you think I got to be such a ladies’ man? I learned a lot about the whims of women growing up in a household where my father and I were severely outnumbered and regularly outflanked by the fairer sex. There’s Margaret. She’s the oldest. Then, Elspeth, she’s the scholar in the family. I’m the third child, but, being male, I was instantly catapulted to the head of the line.’ That earned him a punch in the shoulder from Nora. ‘Then there’s Clara and Dulcinea. Dulcinea’s the wildest.’