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

Only now, ensconced in the safety of the trees, could she give her thoughts full rein over what had transpired. She’d kissed the Earl of Stockport, known in the less-judicious circles of the demi-monde where The Cat had done her research as the Cock of the North.

Nora concurred that the nickname was justly earned on all fronts. He had demonstrated all the well-dressed arrogance of a rooster preening his fine feathers before the hens. He was a fine male specimen and he knew it. No man spent time cultivating an immaculate appearance without being sure of the results, and no one was surer of himself than the Earl of Stockport.

Nora laughed out loud in the darkness. The look on his face when she’d declared him ‘not bad’ had been the highlight of the evening. Then he’d given her the perfect opening with his quip about checking his teeth. He’d thought she’d back down when he raised the stakes. Men like him didn’t expect to be challenged. But she hadn’t survived this long without being caught by doing the expected. She knew how to do the unexpected and his opening had been too much to resist.

She should have resisted. He wasn’t called the Cock of the North simply for his excellent sartorial habits. She’d thought to use the kiss as a means of disarming him, stunning him until she could get away unscathed. She was out of her depth with such a master. She had waited too long, indulged herself too much, letting herself be seduced by the clean smell of him, sandalwood and spices mixed with the starch of his fresh-washed shirt. By the time she realised the tables were turning on her, it was almost too late.

At the last moment, she’d felt the slight shift of his mouth as he took over the kiss, felt the erotic pressure of his thumbs against her hip bones. She’d taken the only defensive line left to her and recoiled, grabbing the opportunity to speak first, knowing that whoever did so would control the outcome of the interaction. Then she’d run.

The evening’s visit had proved dangerous in ways she and her two comrades had not expected, but by tomorrow afternoon, the danger would be worth it when news circulated that The Cat had hit Stockport Hall while the Earl was within planning The Cat’s capture.

She and her two comrades had been watching the house for a week after learning that the local neighbours had sent an urgent summons to the Earl, dragging him out of the Michaelmas Session of Parliament early so they could hold a meeting to nab the thief. Breaking into the Earl’s house while they discussed The Cat would be a bold coup—breaking into the man’s private rooms would be even more so.

Those rooms were as elegant as his reported personality. Table tops and dressers held myriad expensive accoutrements of a well-groomed gentleman, from expensive ebony-inlaid combs and brushes to silver-handled shaving gear. She should have stolen them. Those items would have brought enough money to keep a family in food until summer. But her eye had been drawn to the velvet casket and she couldn’t resist looking inside.

The ring was a bounty. She’d taken it and then realised it was such a small item the Earl might not notice it was gone for weeks. But the ring was all she needed and The Cat prided herself on not taking more than was necessary—one of the many lessons she wanted to teach these gluttonous industrial barons.

Still, if the ring wasn’t noticed missing immediately, its theft wouldn’t help her cause. She wanted more from Stockport than his valuables. She wanted him to know she’d been there and when. She’d begun to disarrange the room, intuitively knowing that such an act would get his attention more completely than taking other conspicuous items.

As with all her robberies, the larger implication of her work was twofold. First, she wanted to be an annoyance significant enough to make them re-think the building of the factory. Second, she wanted to prick the social consciousness into action regarding the sorry status of a factory worker’s life. Unsafe working conditions had cost her parents their lives. She’d be damned if it would hurt others.

Her plan had gone well enough until she’d bumped into a chair sitting in a dark corner. It hadn’t made much noise, but it made enough to catch his attention since his chambers were over the library. She’d relished the confrontation that had followed.

She had gloried in his reaction. He’d roused to her. Unfortunately, that was all she had to show for the night’s work. Something beneath his terse command to release the ring had touched her and she’d traded the ring for an ardent bout of kissing. Arousing the Earl of Stockport might be a satisfying touch of one-upmanship, but it wouldn’t feed families.

Determined to rectify that aspect of the evening, Nora became practical. She needed pickings and the night was still new. She’d cut cross country to Squire Bradley’s house and help herself to another piece of silver from the butler’s pantry. The Squire’s night watchman was pathetic. In a half-hour he’d be asleep or drunk or both.

Two hours and a successful stop at the Squire’s later, Nora let herself into an unremarkable grange house and crept silently upstairs to her bedchamber. A light shone beneath the door. Nora smiled. Hattie, one of her two co-conspirators who masqueraded as workers in her modest household, had waited up. Nora pushed opened the door.

‘A successful evening, I take it?’ Hattie asked, reaching for the bag of goods Nora carried in her right hand. ‘Shall I hide this in the usual place?’

‘Yes and yes.’ Nora pulled off her mask and plopped unceremoniously into a chair.

‘Did everything go the way Alfred and I laid it out? Was the tree branch a good entrance into the house?’ Hattie moved efficiently around the room, laying out Nora’s night things.

‘The plans were accurate, as always.’ Nora paused before adding, ‘I met the Earl.’ She hadn’t wanted to tell Hattie that part, but the household needed to be prepared. News of the break-in at Stockport Hall would circulate the village tomorrow and Nora wasn’t sure how the Earl would present the story. It wouldn’t do for Hattie or Alfred to discover her encounter second-hand. There was no question Hattie wouldn’t hear of it. She heard everything.

Hattie turned from the dresser. ‘Did you, now? No wonder you were so late. Got into a bit of a scrape?’

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’ Nora passed off the incident with a wave of her hand, when in truth she’d been in over her head. ‘I had to go to Squire Bradley’s or I would have been empty-handed. That was why I was late.’

Hattie clucked her disapproval. ‘That was dangerous, Nora. We’ve hit the Squire’s home too many times. One of these days he’ll be on to us and there will be trouble.’

Nora tightened her jaw at Hattie’s censure. ‘We must have funds for the Christmas baskets. We’re running out of time and so many people are in need this year.’

‘Still, you’re no good to the people if you’re caught.’

‘I won’t get caught,’ Nora said in a conversation-ending tone. She softened. ‘Off to bed with you, Hattie. It’s been a long night.’ Hattie had been with her through too much for her to be cross with the redoubtable lady for long.

‘Should Eleanor Habersham expect visitors tomorrow?’ Hattie asked from the door.

‘Wednesday tea as usual with the ladies.’

‘And the Earl? When should we expect him?’

‘Not for a while. I would be very surprised to see him tomorrow. He has no reason to come looking for Miss Habersham,’ Nora said confidently.

‘Good night, then.’ Hattie shut the door quietly behind her.

Nora undressed quickly, careful to conceal her black garb in the false back of her wardrobe behind the mounds of ridiculous gowns belonging to the persona she showed to the town, the eccentric spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham. Miss Habersham was a silly, giddy lady with a penchant for gossip. By four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, Nora expected Miss Habersham’s tiny parlour would be overrun by local ladies exchanging the latest tittle-tattle about the night’s escapades.

Nora forced herself to doze. It wouldn’t do for Miss Habersham to appear with dark circles when everyone in town knew the spinster had no call for such sleeplessness in her mundane life. But sleep was hard to come by. Usually after such sprees, Nora’s mind was occupied by the results of the evening and the valuables stashed with her disguise, myriad questions running through her head: how would it be dispersed, how much more would be needed to help those in the most desperate straits? There was never enough to go around. Her raids had become bolder and more daring in attempts to narrow the gap.

Tonight, the disturbing memory of Stockport’s hot mouth and the firm fit of his body against hers consumed her thoughts. She had played the wanton in hopes of distracting him to ensure her escape. She’d not expected his active participation or her own enjoyment in the act. There was something erotically compelling about a virile man’s compliance.

She had made her point tonight. There would be no reason to go back to his estate. It wasn’t an easy target. His patrols were harder to elude than she’d admitted. The safest course would be to put tonight’s episode behind her. Yet, the thought of doing so left her feeling strangely empty. She knew she’d go back, for the sake of the challenge if nothing else.

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.