Pickpocket Countess

Chapter Two

Brandon took his seat at the table in Stockport Hall’s cheery informal dining room. He breathed deeply. There was nothing quite as comforting as the smell of scrambled eggs and breakfast ham mixed with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He was pleased to see The Times beside his plate, pressed and ready, relieved at last to have his mind on something besides the impassioned episode of the prior evening.

He’d spent the dark hours with his groin in a perpetual state of anticipation, alternately reliving the encounter with The Cat and cursing himself for a fool. He’d let the perfect opportunity pass him by. Not only had he ruined a chance to capture the thief, he’d ruined any chance of identifying the woman in the future. It would have been easy enough to remove her mask either by surprise or force when she’d been in his arms. He had done neither.

He reached for the paper and folded it to the financial section. He had barely engrossed himself in the investment news when his butler, Cedrickson, demanded his attention. ‘My lord, Squire Bradley inquires if you’re at home.’

Brandon looked up from the pages, fighting the urge to scowl in obvious contempt. ‘Where else would I be this time of day but at home? What kind of man calls at nine-thirty in the morning?’ In town no one dared a call before one o’clock and only the intrepid dared call before eleven. But this was the country and he would do well to remember that the rules were different here, less intense. He would not sway the village in favour of the mill by being snobbish.

‘He seems quite agitated, my lord, if I may say so.’

‘Did he state his business?’

‘He did. It’s about The Cat.’

Brandon set the paper down. ‘Then you’d best show him in. Have an extra place set.’

The Squire did look quite overset, Brandon conceded. His florid face was pale and his usual bluff nature subdued. He had the good manners to apologise for such an early call as he waved away the offer of breakfast. ‘This is fine fare, to be sure, although I don’t have the stomach for it this morning. We had a difficult night over at the house. It seems that while we were scheming at your place, The Cat struck at Wildflowers. It’s the third time. My poor wife was in fits.’ At this, the Squire stopped to mop his forehead with a large handkerchief produced from a jacket pocket.

‘I can imagine,’ Brandon offered as sincerely as he could manage. Indeed, he could picture just what an uproar the Squire’s wife had produced. The woman was exactly the kind of flibbertigibbet he avoided whenever possible. ‘What was taken? Are you certain it was The Cat? The items haven’t simply been mislaid?’

The Squire waved an arm. ‘A set of silver candlesticks and the petty cash for household expenses are missing. Only my wife has the key to the silver cabinet. The lock had been picked and the usual calling card was left behind.’

That grabbed Brandon’s attention. ‘I hadn’t heard this before. What calling card?’

The squire reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘These abominable things.’ He handed Brandon a card.

Brandon studied it. It was cream coloured and Brandon suppressed a smile. The irony of someone who called themselves ‘The Cat’ using cream paper was not lost on him. He doubted the squire would see the humour in it. Nor would the squire appreciate the mocking wit in the thief’s use of a calling card when ‘visiting’ the homes of gentlemen.

Except for the cream colouring, the card was otherwise nondescript. Bold, black ink on one side proclaimed ‘The Cat of Manchester’ and nothing more.

‘Everyone receives one of these? Witherspoon and the other investors didn’t mention it last night,’ Brandon said, handing the card back. The Cat obviously hadn’t had time to leave one behind when he’d caught up to her last night.

‘Well…’ the squire cleared his throat ‘…it’s embarrassing to admit. We’ve all got one. Some of us have more. We have three of them now,’ the squire grumbled. ‘I am at a complete loss over what to do. We seem to be a regular mark. I can’t imagine why we’ve been singled out.’ The man sighed heavily in exasperation.

Because you’re an easy target, Brandon mused uncharitably. Out loud he remarked, ‘Do you still have that same night watchman? I say change the watchman and the nightly routine and The Cat won’t be so eager to come around.’

‘Or, we catch that criminal and put an end to the need for night watchmen altogether,’ Squire Bradley said with an uncustomary vehemence. ‘The only house that hasn’t been hit is yours.’ The squire seemed to sense he had crossed an invisible line. This might be the country, but respect was still respect. He gave a cough to cover his embarrassment. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord.’

Brandon glossed over the breach of social politeness and his opportunity to confess the events of the prior evening. ‘As I said, patrols and quality watchmen will go far as a deterrent to crime.’ He found it interesting to learn The Cat had hit another house after leaving. His valet had not found anything else missing from his rooms, only an irritating lack of order.

The rooms had been thoroughly disturbed, but nothing more. There were other valuable items to steal such as gold cufflinks, diamond cravat pins and pocket watches. His clothes alone would bring considerable funds for a thief intent on converting stolen goods to cash.

Jewellery and fine garments in their original states wouldn’t do much for the people The Cat professed to helping. But if the stolen items could be sold and changed to pounds, her mission would be successful without giving the authorities anything to track. Brandon made a mental note; it would be useful to work out where or to whom The Cat sold her goods. No one was truly invisible.

‘Well, I am done with such guarded measures. The sooner that menace is caught, the safer we’ll all be.’ The Squire huffed. ‘That’s the other reason why I’m here. I want you to help me start looking for him. We’ve been passive too long. Now that you’ve arrived, we can take direct action.’

Brandon drank from his coffee cup and set it down before answering. ‘I mentioned last night that I am as eager as anyone else to see the matter settled. However, I am not sure where to start. We don’t know what this person looks like. Did your watchman catch a glimpse of the intruder?’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. They both didn’t know what the thief looked like, only he knew.

‘We know he must be from around here, because he has knowledge of upper-class homes,’ the Squire countered, showing more intelligence than Brandon had previously given him credit for.

‘Is there anyone new in the neighbourhood since these robberies began?’

The Squire thought for a moment. ‘That’s the one drawback with progress. Since we’ve been planning for that textile factory, there have been lots of new men in the area—workers, supervisors, architects, engineers, investors, the whole gamut.’

‘If it’s too difficult to think of new people, think of a motive,’ Brandon suggested, shifting in his chair. The sooner the Squire was placated or given the illusion of action, the sooner he’d leave and Brandon could get on with his day, something he desperately needed to do. Talking about The Cat was creating an interesting side effect in his nether regions. ‘Who would have reason to rob certain wealthy homes while leaving other potential homes untouched? Perhaps someone is not happy about the factory and believes it will cost people their jobs?’ Brandon shamelessly hypothesised, borrowing liberally from The Cat’s argument the prior night. He hoped to plant the idea firmly in the Squire’s head.

‘That’s ridiculous. There isn’t anyone who believes that kind of nonsense!’ the Squire blustered, nonplussed by the very idea. ‘Why, that sort of thinking is not English!’

Bradley’s intelligence quotient fell back a notch. Brandon schooled his features to hide his disbelief. Surely the man didn’t believe the issues that had sparked Peterloo twelve years ago had actually been resolved? If anything, the intervening years had created a stronger, better-organised working class.

The coming of widespread industrialisation had changed everything, including the need for different representation in Parliament—the very issue he’d been debating when the message had arrived in London regarding the burglaries. No wonder Bradley was having trouble coming up with motives. The poor man couldn’t fathom the political realities of the day.

Brandon returned to his previous suggestion. ‘Perhaps names would be the best place to start after all.’

The Squire leaned forward, frustration evident in his tone. ‘My lord, I don’t think you understand. Your suggestions are theoretically sound. However, there haven’t been any newcomers who’ve taken up long-term residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock recently except for the investors from London.’

Brandon raised his eyebrows. ‘None beyond that? I find it unlikely since all the expansion in Manchester has put the outskirts of the city a mere five miles from the town. I would have expected other hangers-on to be arriving in order to capitalise on the new economies that will be opening up.’

Bradley fidgeted. Aha, Brandon thought. There was someone. ‘We mustn’t discount anyone, Squire,’ he encouraged.

‘Well, it’s just that the newcomers seem highly unlikely suspects.’ Bradley drew a deep breath. ‘The vicar’s new since you’ve been here, but he’s a man you’ve personally appointed so there’s no point in looking that direction. The new industrialists in town have nothing to gain from committing robberies against themselves. In fact, their homes have been hit the hardest.’

‘Out with it, man,’ Brandon urged, sensing the Squire was holding back. ‘Is there no one else?’

‘The only other newcomer isn’t a man at all, but a spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham.’ Bradley shook his head as he said the name. ‘It’s hardly right to even bring the sweet lady’s name up in such a conversation. She’s quite a silly thing, although the ladies adore her. My wife is going for tea at her place this afternoon. Apparently, Miss Habersham serves the most delectable cakes. I have to take my wife’s word for it. The vicar and I both tried to call on her when she first arrived to be neighbourly, but she’ll have nothing to do with men. Men intimidate the poor dear, I suppose.’

‘Is that so? The woman sounds quite vulnerable to me,’ Brandon suggested, hoping to lead the Squire to a particular conclusion.

‘S’ truth, she’s a shy lady on her own. I dare say she knows little about the ways of the world,’ the Squire agreed, appearing to mull the thought over for a moment before reaching a decision.

Brandon pushed his point. ‘It may be that Miss Habersham has nothing to do with the goings-on around the village, but there might be someone in her household who does. Perhaps someone in her employ has pulled the wool over her eyes and is committing these crimes behind her back.’ That scenario seemed most likely since the woman he’d encountered last night definitely didn’t look like a spinster or, for that matter, act like one.

The Squire seemed genuinely horrified at the possibility. ‘Oh the poor dear! I hadn’t thought of that. How awful for her to be in the midst of such danger and be completely unaware of her jeopardy. We must do something.’

Brandon had the Squire where he wanted him. Without an entrée, he could not insinuate himself into a ladies’ tea hosted by a painfully shy woman and not appear heavy handed. He needed the Squire to go with him and provide a casual introduction. ‘What’s our next step?’

‘Perhaps we should attend the tea today as well. We can use my wife’s invitation to Miss Habersham’s little circle. It’s all for the dear lady’s own good.’

‘A capital idea!’ Brandon agreed. ‘I think it is time the lady in question got over her fear of gentlemen callers and high time the Earl of Stockport met his newest neighbour.’

Nothing Squire Bradley imparted about Stockport-on-the-Medlock’s resident spinster adequately prepared Brandon for afternoon tea at Miss Habersham’s. To start, the poor dear had the misfortune of living at the Old Grange, a nice enough middle-class manse in its day, once having played home to a comfortable gentleman farmer, but which now had fallen into apathetic neglect. The Old Grange was not faring well if the bleak gardens and straggly front lawn were indications. December made it worse, Brandon thought, dismounting from his bay stallion.

At the door, Brandon gave the dour manservant his card and mentally eliminated him as a possible suspect simply because of his gender. The Cat was definitely not male. The manservant gave him a distrusting glance that said men were a rare commodity in Miss Habersham’s milieu and reluctantly led the way down a short narrow hall to the front parlor.

Feminine voices reached Brandon before he stepped into the room. It was a good thing too, otherwise he’d have thought he’d stepped into a chamber of mannequins. Upon his appearance, all conversation halted and teacups stopped halfway to lips as they took in his masculine presence with extreme shock. Brandon could imagine the gossip that would circulate town tomorrow—the Earl of Stockport calling on the local spinster in the midst of her weekly ladies’ tea.

Brandon squared his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his actions. He’d correctly kept his hat and gloves with him to indicate this would be the briefest of duty calls. No etiquette expert could fault him for calling on Miss Habersham first since it was the higher-ranking person’s duty to initiate a call on lower-ranking persons. After all, he didn’t have the time to wait for her to come to him. The faster this business of The Cat was concluded, the sooner he could return to London.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ Brandon bowed to the room in general. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, but Squire Bradley will be along shortly and he assured me this was the best place to make the acquaintance of every important woman in town.’ He flashed a practised smile sure to dazzle, while inwardly he was quite peeved Squire Bradley was not already there helping to pave his way.

Brandon cast his gaze about the room for a woman likely to fit Miss Habersham’s qualifications. The woman who rose to meet him was a walking juxtaposition, putting his politician’s senses on high alert. She might dress like a spinster in that ill-fitting brown serge but no spinster in the history of the world had a body like that.

Of course, he probably wasn’t supposed to notice such a fine figure thanks to the camouflage of the hideous gown and the severe hairstyle, which was most likely designed to call attention to the heavy glasses perched on Miss Habersham’s nose—a delightfully pert creation if one got past the spectacles.

The glasses not only obscured her nose, they also obscured her eyes; that made Brandon uneasy. In his line of work, he preferred to see a person’s eyes. Eyes were the only true indicators of trustworthiness. Something was not right.

‘My lord, you honour us with this unexpected visit. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Eleanor Habersham.’

The lady in question spoke with a grating nasality to her voice. Brandon fought the urge to cringe—no doubt most did. Such a nagging tone would be a sure deterrent against holding protracted conversations with the lady.

‘The honour is all mine.’ Using his considerable drawing-room charm, Brandon smiled over her hand as if she were a diamond of the first water. He expected her to titter and play into the fantasy that he found her attractive. After a smile or two, with his eyes firmly fixed on the woman he was addressing, women usually did. This one did not.

‘What brings you to the Grange?’

Was that a touch of steel he heard beneath the nasal-pitched voice of this insecure spinster who could hardly meet his eyes?

‘I’ve come to greet my new neighbours,’ Brandon offered congenially, overlooking the defensive nature of the question. He winked at the assembled ladies and directed his comment to the group at large, ‘Also, I am here to gather information about The Cat. Everyone knows you ladies are the eyes and ears of the village.’

At that, the room began to buzz with voices eager to tell their tales. Alice Bradley’s voice rose above the din and she waved a lace handkerchief to silence them. ‘La! I don’t know what the world is coming to when decent country folk can’t sleep peacefully in their own homes. This is the third time we’ve been robbed. So many of us have suffered!’ She waved her handkerchief again to indicate other ladies in the room. Those who nodded in distress were apparently wives of the men Brandon had met with last night.

Alice turned back to her hostess. ‘Miss Habersham, that gives you and his lordship something in common. The two of you are the only ones whose homes haven’t been visited by The Cat.’ She eyed Brandon speculatively. ‘It is strange your home hasn’t been targeted since it has been unoccupied these last weeks. Pardon my bluntness, but you’ve got far more to plunder than the rest of us.’

‘Ma’am, I am sorry to hear of your loss last night. I passed the morning with your husband, trying to deduce who might be behind these attacks. Miss Habersham and I must count ourselves fortunate thus far. However, I would rather catch this thief than see how long my luck holds,’ Brandon offered neutrally. At the moment he was far more interested in Miss Habersham’s reaction.

Behind her thick lenses, he noted that Miss Habersham’s eyes widened in surprise at the reference to The Cat and she’d actually dared to look up at the mention of their two homes being untouched. Granted, it was only the briefest of glances, but it had revealed to Brandon a pair of sharp ice-green eyes that suddenly seemed too lively to belong to the shy woman awkwardly standing beside him.

Brandon let the conversation swirl around him as the conversation moved on to discuss the Squire’s upcoming Christmas masque. It gave him a chance to study Miss Habersham in further detail.

During his tenure as Earl, Brandon had learned the difficult lesson that, more often than not, people wore disguises. He’d developed a knack for seeing beneath the exterior façade to the truths people hid within. He wondered what kind of disguise Miss Habersham wore and why she wore it.

He would bet good money the glasses were unnecessary. They were thick on purpose to distort the size and shape of her eyes, making them look unnaturally bug-eyed. They also offered an excuse to keep her gaze downcast. She probably couldn’t see straight ahead at all with them on. Her hair was another matter, worn in a dun-coloured brown mass scraped back into a tight, unbecoming bun that emphasised her face and the unattractive spectacles.

An ordinary man might have been daunted by the nature of Miss Habersham’s appearance, but Brandon saw the idiosyncrasies. Miss Habersham’s skin was smooth alabaster with not a mark to mar its perfection. For all her professed nervousness, her mittened hands were steady when she held her tea cup. Her submissive posture belied a striking height. If she stood up straight, Brandon wagered she’d stand over five and a half feet.

Her figure didn’t speak spinster either. For all her prissy mannerisms, she was a woman in good shape. Her waist was trim, her legs long beneath the brown skirt, her torso lean and her bosom impressive despite the efforts of her undergarments to the contrary. No, there wasn’t a dry brittle bone beneath the ugly gown.

His fifteen minutes for a polite afternoon call were up and the Squire had not appeared—so much for masculine loyalty. Brandon turned to his hostess and took his leave. The other ladies near them discreetly drew back, allowing him a semi-private moment with her.

‘Could I persuade you to walk with me to the door?’ he asked, taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘I want to talk with you about your safety. Since it has been pointed out that your home has not yet been a target, I am worried that it soon will be. Do you have adequate protection? I can send men to stand watch.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Habersham said in a dismissive tone that frankly shocked him. He had not expected to be declined.

‘I must protest—’ Brandon began.

‘No, my lord, it is I who must protest. The Cat would not be interested in my home. Look around, you can see that I possess nothing that would appeal to a burglar of The Cat’s calibre. There is no silver to steal, no china of merit, nothing but a few knick-knacks and souvenirs. I am a woman of modest means.’

‘Burglars are not careful of station, Miss Habersham. They are common thieves,’ Brandon lectured. This woman was too naïve by half to think she’d go untouched. She might not be a woman of great wealth, but no doubt there was a trinket or two of some value waiting to be discovered within these walls. She was a woman who had the means to live on her own no matter how modestly. ‘It may be true that you have nothing of merit, but The Cat doesn’t know that. The thief may strike anyway.’

They reached the door and Brandon knew Miss Habersham was glad to be rid of him. Her farewell was curt and skilfully put the interaction back into her hands.

‘Thank you for the warning. I will let you know if I change my mind about your offer.’ No polite pleasantries followed, no gesture was offered to visit again, no opening to make sure she saw him again.

Brandon swung up on his horse, disgruntled with the outcome. He’d expected an entrée into Miss Habersham’s life. What was wrong with him? The better question was what was wrong with her? Miss Habersham didn’t add up. It wasn’t just his ego, it was a well-known fact in his London circles that no woman could resist his charm. It was galling to think that a spinster of Miss Habersham’s unfortunate disposition would succeed so thoroughly where other more sophisticated women had failed. That in itself was a red flag.

Eleanor’s rejection of him was quite telling. Sure of his charm, Brandon had expected the woman to drool with anticipation at the thought of an Earl’s attentions, no matter how inconsequential. Instead, she had refused his attentions and his offer of protection.

The afternoon visit had not gone as planned, but he had not come away empty-handed. The squire might quickly discard Miss Habersham as a potential suspect, but Brandon knew what the squire did not. The Cat was a woman. It seemed an odd coincidence that The Cat and a woman masquerading as a spinster would take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock simultaneously. If he’d learned anything this afternoon it was that Miss Habersham wasn’t a spinster. She was a mystery.

Chapter Three

Nora sagged against her bedroom door. Escape at last! She’d thought the ladies would never leave. Usually the Wednesday tea lasted for an hour and a half. Today, the ladies had stayed until half past six, dissecting every moment of the Earl’s visit.

She tugged at the pins holding her wig in place and freed her head with a sigh. Who would have imagined a wig could be so tiring to wear or so hot? Even in December she managed to sweat beneath it. Nora shook out her hair and let it fall freely. She walked to her vanity, placed the glasses in a small drawer and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

The tea had started off well enough. Alice Bradley had been eager to recount the doings at her place. Thanks to Alice’s tendency to gossip, The Cat’s legend grew with each robbery. The Cat needed that kind of exposure if she was going to succeed. If she were a big enough menace, the threat of The Cat’s presence would be enough to warn off the investors in the textile mill. In the meantime, if the investors continued to take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock, she’d gladly pilfer their wealth to feed the people they were putting out of work.