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He strode to the low table holding a decanter of his best brandy. He poured a glass, making a mental note to have his valet fill it in the morning. He did not remember drinking so much of it, but apparently he had. The decanter looked to have poured a glass or two.
Brandon headed to bed, tumbler in hand, eager to put the evening behind him. He raised his glass to his lips and halted at the threshold of his bedroom in disbelief.
‘Hello, Stockport. I’d offer you a drink, but I see you already have one.’ Rich tones purred from the bed where The Cat reclined in semi-darkness against the pillows, clad in her customary dark garb.
Ridiculous elation buoyed Brandon. She had come! He tamped down his relief, determined to play it coolly while heat flared within him. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’
‘Occupational hazard.’ The Cat uncurled her long limbs and rose from the bed.
Brandon took a swallow of brandy, trying to ignore the effect The Cat’s sinuous walk was having on him as she crossed the room to stand before him. There was something different yet disconcertingly familiar about her attire, but his jangled mind was too busy focusing on her presence in his bedroom to place it. ‘What are you doing here?’
She held up the small pouch for him to take. ‘That should be obvious. I am returning your ring and something else that belongs to you. You should keep your money in a safer place.’ She patted the breast pocket of her jacket. Only then did Brandon recognise that the coat she wore was his.
His heart leapt in victory. All the chastisements his logical mind had whipped him with as he climbed the stairs faded. She had kept her word to return the ring and she had returned his jacket from the Christmas ball with his money still tucked inside.
Stunned, he stood there, dumb in amazement. The Cat was purring about an affront to her dignity. ‘Should I be flattered that you’re surprised to see me or should I be insulted? Did you think I wouldn’t keep my word?’
‘If I am surprised, it is over finding you in my bedroom. I am not used to women making free with my private chambers. It’s usually the other way around.’
His urbane scolding did nothing to daunt her. She stood mere inches from him, her low voice making him hard as she spun fantasies with her words. ‘I wanted to arrange something special for our last meeting.’
‘Last? Are you leaving?’ He hadn’t thought buying supplies for her needy would drive her out of town. He found he didn’t want her to go. Maybe there was time to cancel the orders.
She gave one of her throaty laughs and he discarded his irrational thought. ‘Of course not! I still have investors who need my particular attentions. But since you fail to play by my rules and announce Stockport Hall has been burglarised, I must spend my time elsewhere on more likely subjects.’ She ran a finger lightly down his cheek along his jaw line where late-night stubble was starting to grow. ‘I need the publicity.’
Her continuation of the robberies did not bode well for his plan to dissuade her from her criminal activities. ‘I thought I’d provided enough supplies for your families to last until spring.’ Brandon was thoroughly confused. He’d believed he’d kept her out of harm’s way with his purchases. Apparently, she was addicted to danger.
‘You did. But that doesn’t change the fact that plans for the mill are still going forward.’
‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ he said with a flippancy he didn’t feel.
‘None, and I am very wicked.’ She stood so close to him now that the tips of her breasts pressed against his shirt. He wanted to forget the game they played over his mill. He wanted to throw her down on his bed and play an entirely different game, one that didn’t involve clothes or masks or secrets or politics; well, maybe sexual politics, he amended.
Brandon did not believe it was possible for him to get any harder and survive intact. He fully expected it to explode shortly. In a hoarse voice, he tried to turn the conversation down a neutral venue. ‘It’s foolishness to continue at this rate. You must slow down. Do you want to be caught?’
Her eyes glinted with mischief. ‘It depends on who is doing the catching.’ A nail lightly raked his chest where his shirt opened in a vee, causing him to shiver in aroused delight.
She continued, ‘I have no intentions of being caught by silly Squire Bradley and those nabob investors who have ponied up their pounds for the privilege of associating with you, my lord. I certainly shall not surrender to the pompous St John or that young braggart, Witherspoon.’
She smiled coyly at Brandon, making him feel that the cat had already licked the cream. ‘Tell me, my lord, haven’t you ever wanted to be caught? It can be invigorating with the right person.’
‘Yes,’ Brandon managed. They were no longer talking about catching The Cat. One moment they’d been talking about traps of one type and in the next were talking about traps of entirely another sort. An inappropriate sort. The sort that made him want to throw back the very proper damask cover on his bed and take her on the red satin sheets that hid beneath.
He groaned his lust as The Cat ran her nails down his chest. Her deft hands found their way inside his shirt to the hard planes beneath the fabric. Brandon sucked in his breath. Never in his intimate relationships had he been so stimulated and he had yet to remove his clothes.
‘You see,’ she whispered sensually, ‘it is nice to be caught.’
His groin swelled painfully. He wanted her to catch him. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to head in the reverse direction. He wanted to catch her in the manner she’d intimated.
His mind ran riot with all nature of exotic visions. He imagined a primal coupling among his scarlet sheets that would leave them both sweat-drenched and slaked. He imagined her sleeping and rumpled in the middle of his big bed, her dark hair fanned out against the crimson clad pillows. He imagined for a moment that The Cat and all her passion belonged to him alone. If he took her, it could not be otherwise. He was a man used to power and the responsibilities that went with it.
She stepped back and arched an eyebrow that both insinuated a dare and mocked his ardour. With languorous movements, she stepped away from him and took a chair, crossing her long, booted legs. ‘It’s clear from the look on your face, and dare I say “other parts”, that you think you are man enough to tame The Cat.’
Brandon’s blood was already hot. Her insouciant manner pushed him the rest of the way until he fairly boiled. It was time for this impudent wench to learn a lesson about what happened when she played with fire. ‘You need taming badly.’ He advanced towards her, hands on hips.
‘You think you’re that man?’ The Cat queried from her relaxed position in the chair, unmoved by his proximity.
He leaned over her chair, his hands braced on each of the arms. He inhaled. The scent of outdoor air with the tinge of winter on it still hovered about her. She hadn’t been there long ahead of him. ‘Damn right I am.’
‘Many men have tried and most have failed.’
‘I am not most men.’ He was impressed. She hadn’t flinched once.
‘No, you’re an Earl. There’s, what, roughly fifty of you?’ She rose from the chair, her movements forcing him to step back and aside.
She still wore his jacket. She made a great show of taking it off and laying it aside with all the care of a man preparing to engage in fisticuffs. ‘Well, my lord, are you going to come tame The Cat or stand there all night trying to figure out who the other forty-nine are?’
He saw her game and it was over. He would not suffer defeat twice in the same evening, nor would he be cowed into retreating by her brazen tongue.
‘I call your bluff. Consider yourself caught.’ He gripped her forearms and covered her lush mouth with his in a kiss that conveyed the power of his desire—a desire that both transcended the base need to be the sole possessor of such a wild creature and encompassed the primal need to protect what was his.
Indeed, whether she knew it or not, she was his—his equal in wit, in sensual gambits, in passion for a cause. In all the ways that mattered, she was his. His tongue probed the warmth of her mouth and she responded wholeheartedly, giving herself over to a complete embrace and, for once, letting him lead. Her body pressed against his. Her hands twined about his neck to pull him close. Her hips fitted against his jutting erection. At such contact, Brandon knew an elation as old as Adam.
Confident in himself and in her response, he moved his hand to rest in the provocative space between her breast and ribs. She sighed encouragement into his mouth and he cupped her full breast through the cloth of her shirt. Then he was falling backwards onto the bed, taking the weight of The Cat with him. In a flash he found himself pinned, The Cat looming above him, straddling him at midsection.
She changed her grip so that she imprisoned both of his wrists with her right hand. The charming smile on her lips persuaded Brandon to lay still and see where her shenanigans led. If she required the illusion of control, he could accommodate her whim.
With her free hand she pulled his cravat free and wound it around his wrists, her actions compelling her to stretch over his head so that her breasts were mere inches from his mouth. With a flick of his tongue, he could lick the nipples through the linen of her dark shirt. His sense of fair play startled him back to consciousness. He had not mistaken her motions. She was tying him up with his own clothing.
‘What are you doing?’ he inquired, a douse of sobriety cooling some of his ardour. He tried to make sense of the amusement playing across her masked features when she leaned back from her efforts.
The Cat leaned forward to sprinkle tantalising kisses against his jaw. ‘Have none of your other lovers ever invigorated you like this?’ Her hand drifted to his member and grasped it firmly, stroking him through the fabric, her thumb teasing its sensitive head.
‘I didn’t think so.’ The Cat laughed—a deep throaty sound men would pay handsomely to hear in the night. She tugged his shirttails from his waistband and popped the buttons of his shirt open to reveal his bare chest. Brandon knew his nipples were erect with need.
‘Still think you can tame The Cat?’ She took one erect nubbin in her mouth and laved it with her tongue.
Brandon moaned. If this was failure, he’d like to fail more often.
The Cat sat back on her haunches, smiling broadly. She swung off the bed and studied his long legs for a thoughtful moment. Then she began to tug. Off came his boots. Off came his trousers. His member stood at rigid attention for them both to see.
The Cat stepped away from the bed and walked backwards towards the door, her face still wreathed in her grin. ‘Consider yourself caught.’ She used his own words.
‘Where are you going?’ Brandon strained again to sit upright.
‘I’m going home.’
‘Going home?’ The implications slowly dawned on him. ‘Wait. You can’t leave me like this!’
‘Yes, I can.’ She fired her parting volley, ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust a smiling cat?’
Chapter Nine
In the end, the bonds hadn’t been tied so tightly as to prevent escape without calling for assistance. He silently thanked the vixen for that small consideration. It would have been far too embarrassing to call for his valet. How would he ever have explained this to Harper?
Brandon hoisted his form up and loosened one of the knots with his teeth. His hand slipped through the growing loop and he was quickly free. He recognised the favour for what it was—this private game of point and counterpoint was just between them. It had taken on a life of its own. It had somehow become separate from the fight over the mill.
Tonight, she’d meant to win their game, but not to make him look the fool. He’d wager the crown jewels she’d known he could get out of the bonds with little effort. Well, he was glad to give her the small victory. It was only fair after he’d cornered Miss Habersham on the balcony. They were even. For now.
Still, the loose knots had effectively prevented him from chasing after her. She was gone until the next time—and there would be a next time. There was unfinished business between them.
In the heat of their play, he had not confronted her with his thoughts about her identity or about his plan to see her stop the robberies. The Cat definitely addled his wits.
It was time to call for reinforcements. In the morning, he would send a note to his close friend, Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge. Between the two of them, they’d crack The Cat’s secrets.
Discovering her identity was for her own good. In spite of her games tonight, he recognised that he liked her too much to see her hang and she liked him.
No matter how much she protested to the contrary with her sharp tongue and daring innuendos, she was not impervious to his kiss or his touch. His experience with women told him she had enjoyed the naked passion of the evening as much as he. She had been pliant and willing in his arms. He had felt the moment she gave herself up to her own longings and their burgeoning mutual desire.
He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, and, in spite of her tricks, he wanted her, wanted her beyond reason and against all good sense. Brandon recognised trouble when he saw it and he was in it up to his neck. Jack had better come quickly.
Dear lord! She’d tied the Earl of Stockport to his bed and left him there naked, or nearly so. The ramifications of her actions burned Nora’s cheeks all the way back to the Grange. He’d be furious and all because she’d let her temper get the better of her.
Tonight, The Cat had gone too far. But she’d felt it necessary in order to throw Stockport off the scent that Eleanor and The Cat were one and the same. She hoped to convince him that such disparate personalities could not reside in the same person.
Stockport’s insinuations to Eleanor at the card party had left her distinctly uneasy. He wouldn’t behave in such a shocking manner if he hadn’t been sure he knew Eleanor Habersham was a fiction. Coupled with the impudent gift of satin for undergarments, she could no longer dismiss Stockport’s knowledge of The Cat. What he had once guessed at, he now felt he knew with almost absolute certainty.
Nora let herself into the kitchen, thankful for the dark interior. It meant Hattie hadn’t waited up. She was in no mood for a lecture tonight, not when there was so much to sort through. Her new knowledge about Stockport was like a flame—both illuminating and dangerous at the same time. A person was better off without some things. Knowing the enemy on a human level was one of them. The quickest way to get burned was to fall in love with one’s mark.
That bore thinking about, but not until she was in the sanctuary of her own room. Nora took the stairs quickly, avoiding the squeaky floorboard on the fifth tread. Slipping inside her own private domain, she let the thought loose. If she was to be a good thief, she had to be objective. She couldn’t protect herself if she lost perspective. Was she in love with Stockport?
Nora had little to work with from her disastrous, short-lived marriage. From her recollections of conversations with other women, people in love had pulses that raced when the object of their affection was near. They spent hours thinking about their adored one.
If that was the criteria, she was safe. Certainly, she experienced adrenalin rushes at the thought of seeing him again, but that was due to the prospect of matching wits with a commendable foe. No rules of engagement said a thief couldn’t respect the target. She definitely did not spend hours idolising him. All of her thoughts focused on how to best him. That was not love-like in the least bit.
Nora breathed a little easier after her examination. She was not falling for Brandon. Stockport, she corrected hastily. Thinking of him by his first name was an unaffordable luxury. This venture didn’t need any more personalisation to confuse the issue. Besides, developing soft feelings for Stockport was tantamount to treason.
Industry had seen to the ruin of her family and tossed her into a life of chaos. She could not compromise her cause by forgetting Stockport was at the heart of the project to build the textile mill.
Her only sin was that she’d dallied too long with Stockport. He’d been a means to an end, but he had not reciprocated by ranting about The Cat all over town. She’d meant it when she’d told him she would not visit him again. There were other, more compliant, subjects and she had to hurry. Ground had been broken and the foundations laid. She had to keep the investors wary, worrying about when The Cat would strike next.
Nora fingered a small pile of post that lay on the vanity, sifting through it until she found a particular envelope. She opened it and smiled. Perfect. Inside was an invitation. Out of a sense of polite obligation and an acknowledgement of the social limitations a village like Stockport-on-the-Medlock presented, Eleanor Habersham was invited to a New Year’s Eve fête hosted by Mr Flack, one of the industrialists hoping to expand their fortunes with the new textile mill. The party would provide the ideal staging ground for planning her next move. Eleanor would be able to learn much in unguarded moments.
No one thought a spinster had a brain in her head. She might even manage to eke out a little excitement. Stockport was certain to attend. It would be an opportunity to ferret out what Stockport truly knew about Eleanor Habersham and The Cat.
‘This sleepy place is what you traded for the fireworks of Parliament?’ Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge, waved his ornate walking stick in disbelief at the village spread before him. ‘I raced from London for this? I left mere hours after getting the message and made excellent time because your letter indicated the situation was dire. This isn’t “dire”, my dear friend, it’s “boring”.’
Brandon stepped down from the carriage and stood beside his friend. He tried to see the little town through Jack’s jaded eyes. To a man used to the intrigues of London, Stockport-on-the-Medlock no doubt appeared harmless without a hostile bone in its civic body.
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.’
