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

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.

‘She didn’t feel fictitious when she was stepping on my toes,’ Jack groused. ‘I thought you told me she was a divine dancer. Your standards have changed drastically.’ Jack flexed his foot. ‘Damn, the lengths I go to for a friend. I may have done myself a permanent injury.’

Brandon gave a short laugh at his friend’s exaggeration. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.’

‘No one else danced with her twice. The whole town will be waiting for me to call on her and declare my intentions.’

‘If it’s any consolation, your efforts were not without results.’

‘I don’t understand what was gained from the sacrifice of my toes.’

‘Confirmation. Eleanor dances deplorably. The Cat dances very well. Everything The Cat does, Eleanor does the opposite. It’s a case of the lady doth protest too much.’

‘What you’re saying is that there’s no chance Eleanor Habersham is going to sneak into my bedchamber and tie me up,’ Jack said glumly, but a spark of humour flared in his eyes.

‘Essentially, but in less crass terms.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘As certain as I am going to be in the amount of time I have left. The investors are hungry for blood.’

‘And if not? What happens if The Cat goes unchecked?’

‘Then I am sunk before I’ve even begun. My largest investor, Cecil Witherspoon, leads the charge for The Cat’s arrest.’ Brandon sighed. ‘Not only do I need those last three investors, I need current investors to stay. Even though the earldom’s coffers are solid, I cannot lay my hands on a hundred thousand pounds in currency at a moment’s notice. It would mean liquidating a few of the estates not under the protection of the entailment,’ Brandon explained.

‘Is there a chance of them deserting?’

‘It will be inevitable if The Cat hits their houses again. Livingston is ready to walk and Flack may be right behind him. They didn’t bargain on a risky venture. None of us did.’

Brandon closed his eyes. The meeting had brought everything to a head. He could not offer guarantees of safety for the investors. Nor could he offer guarantees of new investors coming forward. The current investors, particularly those with more invested, were anxious to stay on schedule and start framing the mill within the month.

‘The Cat should be pleased,’ Jack observed, idly twirling his walking stick between his hands. ‘You have to choose between her and the mill. It is interesting to me that there’s any choice at all. What do you think it says to you, that you’re even considering this woman’s safety above the financial well being of Stockport-on-the-Medlock?’ Jack paused, the look on his face indicating he was debating the wisdom of his next words.

‘What is it, Jack? Apparently you have something more you wish to say?’ Brandon said grumpily.

‘Hell, here it is, but remember we’re friends.’ Jack pointed the walking stick at him for emphasis. ‘You don’t think The Cat has real feelings for you, do you? She wants you to desire her, even fall in love with her. She is counting on it for her success. She knows that anything more between the two of you is not part of the game.’

‘Stuff it, Jack,’ Brandon growled. He wanted to say more. He wanted to say that whatever she had done in the past with other men or other ruses was different than what lay between he and she. What they felt for each other, the consuming heat of their passions, was real.

For the first time, Brandon realised how inane that explanation sounded. Was Jack right? Jack was an astute assessor of character. He would be a foolish man indeed if he rejected the very wisdom he had asked Jack to bring.

Across from him, Jack groaned. ‘Egads, you did think she had feelings for you. Your face says it all.’

The coach turned down the drive to Stockport Hall. Jack raised a curtain and peered out into the early grey morning. He let the curtain drop and sighed heavily. ‘Enough about your love life. I am going to bed for the remainder of the day. When I awake, I am going to take a long soak to alleviate my poor feet. Happy New Year, my friend.’

Happy New Year, his foot. Brandon cursed as he watched his friend sail through the doors into the warmth of the house without a care in the world. He knew it was something of an act. Jack had plenty of cares. He just didn’t let on about them. All the same, Jack didn’t have a seductive villain to subdue, a mill to build, a fortune to protect and a bloodthirsty Cecil Witherspoon to keep in check before someone got hurt or, worse, killed. Brandon could not remember a new year that had gotten off to a more ominous start.

He hadn’t a clue what his next move was. The only piece of luck he had was that The Cat hadn’t struck since Christmas Day. However, it was simply a matter of time before that bit of luck ran out. She’d assured him that night that she wouldn’t stop her raids.

Perhaps, like him, she was watching and waiting to plot her next move. The one certainty he had was that she would strike again and, if the investors were correct in their guesses tonight, he knew where and he knew when. He could prevent it if he could verify that Eleanor Habersham was The Cat.

To his way of thinking, there was only one way to find out quickly. He would have to take a leaf from The Cat’s own book and pay her a nocturnal visit of his own. If he was wrong and Eleanor was really no one more than Eleanor there would be hell to pay. But these were desperate times.

When to strike next? Nora paced the small parlour of the Grange, scanning the list of investors she held in her hand. The Cat was close to success. All the news she’d gathered at the New Year’s ball confirmed it; two investors were still needed and the others were getting nervous enough to consider pulling out. If she could keep up the steady pressure, the textile mill would become a moot development.

Once her work in Stockport-on-the-Medlock was done, she could move on, just like she’d done in Leeds, Bradford and Birmingham. The Cat of Manchester never stayed in any one place too long. It was her key to ensure The Cat lived all nine of her lives.

Eleanor Habersham could cease to exist. A new character could be created and the game could begin anew somewhere else where her efforts were needed; and there was always somewhere else. With approximately five hundred and sixty factories in the Lancashire region, employing one hundred and ten thousand workers, she had an amazing amount of job security—as long as she didn’t get caught.