Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘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 i
t 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.

  Then Stockport had shown up, looking devastatingly handsome in his immaculate clothes. She’d felt his excellent physique the prior night but the perfection of his face had escaped her notice in the dark. In the afternoon light, she could better appreciate the strong jaw set off by a razor-straight nose, classical cheekbones and deep blue eyes. His good looks commanded attention and she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every woman in the room had their eyes riveted on him. They hung on each word the black-haired, blue-eyed devil uttered.

  His presence would have been a piece of luck if he’d told everyone about the burglary. Yet when given the chance to admit Stockport Hall had been robbed, he had ignored the opening and perpetuated the belief that his home was untouched. That made him a liar.

  His omission hadn’t helped her cause either. The whole point of going there last night had been to make a statement, but if he didn’t tell anyone the point was moot. He was supposed to react like everyone else and shout his frustration all over town. That was the problem. He wasn’t like everyone else. She’d discovered that last night, although her brain had failed to comprehend the impact it would have on her escapades.

  Nora plopped into the chair in front of the vanity and began brushing out her hair. Last night, she’d thought the kiss was a stroke of bold brilliance, despite its risks. Now she saw it as a mistake. No wonder he hadn’t told anyone of her visit. What was he to say that wouldn’t make him look like a fool? ‘The Cat put her tongue in my mouth, ripped open my shirt and cupped me through my trousers until I thought I’d burst?’ A lesser man might have enjoyed circulating that juicy tit-bit over ale in the taverns but there was nothing lesser about Brandon Wycroft.

  It was clear enough from the way he’d smiled and doted on the ladies today that he thought highly of himself. He was a prideful man who was completely aware of his effect on people. His self-conceit would not allow him to admit a thief, and a woman at that, had provoked such a base reaction from him.

  The kiss had been her first mistake. Her second mistake had been leaving the ring. Nora was certain that, if she’d taken the ring, he would not have hesitated to mention her presence in his home. He would have gone to great lengths to put word out about the ring in case anyone saw it. That ring meant something to him and he would not be parted from it easily.

  Nora tapped her fingers on the vanity, an idea surfacing in her mind. Stockport might go so far as to declare a reward for the ring if it were missing. Even if he didn’t, she could blackmail a ransom of sorts out of him. That settled it. She would go back tonight for the ring and to set the record straight. By tomorrow morning news of The Cat at Stockport Hall would be common knowledge in the village.

  Stockport Hall was dark except for the lone light burning in the library window as Nora approached from the south shortly before midnight. She was not surprised. Her information was highly reliable. Stockport lived alone when he came to the country and kept late hours in the library, which had a convenient entrance from the garden on the south side of the estate. She wouldn’t use the entrance to go into the house. She had a stop to make first. She would climb up the tree to Stockport’s bedchamber and retrieve the ring first, but later she’d need an exit after their little tête-à-tête.

  Nora scaled the tree easily, her arms and legs recalling the toeholds she’d found the previous night. The tree wasn’t the hard part, although it was tall and climbing it was no easy task. The hard part was getting from the tree to the window.

  Nora climbed the tall oak a level higher than necessary so that she looked down on the window. Lying on her belly, she inched out along a wide, sturdy branch that effortlessly took her weight, a much more reliable branch than the one below it onto which she’d exited the night before. She took the coil of black rope from her belt and securely looped it about the branch in an intricate knot. She gave it a tug and was satisfied it would hold. She double-checked her watch—ten minutes before Stockport’s highly trained patrols would pass this way, plenty of time to reach the sill and pop inside.

  Taking a deep breath, Nora levered herself onto the rope. Her arms took the initial weight as her legs found their grip. Then she began the process of lowering herself down the rope length until she was level with the window. She ha
lted and took three more deep breaths. Now it was time for the fun.

  Swinging back and forth, she gained enough momentum to launch herself over to the window ledge. The ledge was only six inches wide, hardly wide enough for a strong foothold, so Nora steadied herself with one hand on the rope, using the other hand to grope for the broken window latch while her feet balanced against the sill.

  Victory! In his pride, Stockport had failed to have the lock fixed immediately. No doubt he’d guessed The Cat wouldn’t strike again so soon or by the same method. The window slid up and Nora scrambled inside. She gave the black rope a yank and reeled it in behind her. It took only a moment to see that the room had been righted and the casket holding the ring was in the same place.

  Nora lifted the lid and found the ring couched among the purple velvet cloth. She reached for it and suffered a momentary lapse of conscience. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the people the ring could help. Little Timmy Black, youngest of seven children, would have hot porridge until spring. Widow Malone, bereft of a husband because of a careless maintenance error in a Manchester cotton mill, would have clothes to warm her three children. There were others too numerous to mention. She grabbed the ring and shut the lid of the box before she could change her mind. Stockport would get the ring back, she reminded herself. It wasn’t as if she was stealing it permanently. She was only temporarily borrowing it for the greater good of humanity.

  Feeling better, Nora slipped the ring into a small pouch around her waist and tucked it securely inside the band of her trousers. She squared her shoulders, allowing a small smile to creep across her lips as she contemplated her next task: a visit with Stockport. She was looking forward to giving him a piece of her mind.