Brandon placed the basket in front of her and Nora distributed the gifts. There were oranges for the children along with a wooden toy for each of them. For Mary there was a small leather pouch that jingled with coins. Her eyes glistened with tears.
Too soon it was time to leave, but Nora had one more stop to make. Bravely, she hugged the children and made promises to Mary to send more food, wondering all the while how she’d manage it.
Chapter Seven
Stockport watched The Cat make her farewells, the children clinging to her and to him. Anna had him about the legs. He’d had a surprisingly good time with the children. He’d been moved by their delight over the simple fare and gifts. But those had been smaller revelations compared to what he’d learned about The Cat.
His sharp-tongued thief was the very soul of compassion, reaching out with all she had at her disposal. He felt something of a cad to have so verbally doubted her motives. Guilt gnawed at him. He couldn’t help but compare the extravagant and wasteful largesse of the Squire’s ball to the simple surroundings he found himself in today.
The Cat, a common thief, had provided for these people. What had he provided? He had far more at his command and what had he done?
The Cat intrigued him more than ever. He wanted to know who she was. The secret of her identity was creating a feverish mystery he was desperate to solve. But he was no closer to that answer than he’d been last night. She hadn’t trusted him enough to remove her mask all day, although the veiling had come off briefly at Mary Malone’s. As well she might, his conscience reminded him sharply. What would you do if you knew who she was?
It was a valid question, one for which Brandon did not have a ready answer. He should place her under arrest. That had been his plan less than twenty-four hours ago at the Christmas ball. Had his plan succeeded last night, these people would have been denied the happiness she brought today. He thought of the Malone boys delighting in the simple wood toys and Mary Malone’s gratitude for the hot meal. In one fell stroke, he would have taken all that away from them.
It was a sober reckoning to grapple with. When had the villain become the hero? Somewhere between playing swords with the boys and watching The Cat stir Christmas soup over a fire, his priorities had begun to shift. He was no longer as interested in exposing The Cat as he was in protecting her.
Brandon turned to the remarkable woman beside him when Mary Malone’s door finally closed behind them. ‘You’ve given them something special today; something to take into the morning.’ To his disappointment, her veils were back in place.
‘We’ve given them a moment. That is as far as our meagre influence can reach.’ The self-deprecation in her voice stunned Brandon. She believed her efforts were minimal at best.
He offered reassurance. ‘Yet you went and offered that moment anyway. It is more than most people would have done.’
She said nothing and Brandon let the conversation die. Outside, enough rays of daylight were left to see them out of the tenements and back to the wide avenues of affluent Manchester, but the trip home would be conducted in the dark. Not that Brandon was worried. On Christmas night the short road between Manchester and Stockport-on-the-Medlock would be devoid of highwaymen.
They didn’t speak until they reached the wagon and paid the boys who had gathered in shifts to watch the horse. Brandon spoke first in a low, tight voice. ‘Why did you bring me today?’
‘You want to build a mill in bucolic little Stockport-on-the-Medlock. Are you prepared for all this as well?’ The Cat made a sweeping gesture to indicate the slums they drove through. ‘You see how fleeting my efforts are. Mary has her older children and they can barely scrape together enough to pay the rent and buy food.’
Brandon felt duly chastised. He knew children worked in factories. Many mill owners had no scruples when it came to labour. He’d read the reports that came across his desk. Children could be paid less. Before today, he’d never come to face to face with the reality behind the papers. He had seen much of the world, but not that world.
‘The mill in Stockport-on-the-Medlock won’t employ children,’ Brandon blurted out.
The Cat cocked her head in his direction. ‘We’ll see how long those noble principles last when your investors learn of the profit they could pocket if they were to use child labour. Adults must be paid ten times more than a child’s salary.’
He expected the news to please her. He’d intended his statement to be an olive branch of sorts to The Cat, something that bridged the differences between them. He’d wanted to prove they weren’t as dissimilar as she thought.
His temper rose. ‘Nothing is ever enough with you, is it?’
‘That’s because there is never enough of anything!’ she snapped in quick reply. ‘There isn’t enough money for Christmas baskets for everyone who needs them. There isn’t enough money to send a doctor to Mary Malone. There isn’t enough compassion in the world to help those who really need it. There are five-hundred-and-sixty cotton mills in the Lancashire area. One factory not employing children isn’t enough to change anything.’
‘It’s a start,’ Brandon barked, rising to the fight.
She huffed, ‘And in the meanwhile?’
‘It’s the best I can do.’ Brandon muttered something inaudible and turned on to the wide streets of the affluent neighbourhoods. The Cat had elected to return that way, knowing the streets would be empty and everyone still at home.
He changed the topic, hoping for better. Didn’t the woman understand he was only one man? ‘You said last night that you intended to take my measure today. Did I measure up?’
The Cat was silent, seeming to weigh her answer. ‘I will say that, for the most part, you did not disappoint.’
‘Where was I lacking?’ His chagrin was petty, but he thought he’d done very well considering the circumstances.
‘You did very well for one day. What will you do for the next three hundred and sixty-four?’ she answered coolly.
The last vestiges of Brandon’s restraint vanished in the face of her charge. ‘We can’t all be like you and burglarise homes for our livelihoods.’
They were cruel words and he regretted them instantly. He spoke them in anger but it wasn’t anger, directed at The Cat alone. Her words shamed him. It was difficult to admit to one’s hypocrisy. The Cat risked her very life for those less fortunate. Certainly, he advocated worker’s legislation in Parliament, but compared to The Cat, he did painfully little in his daily life to act as a true champion of the cause. That was about to change.
Brandon yanked on the reins and pulled the wagon over to the side of the deserted street. The sounds of music and singing filtered out of the houses in fits and starts.
‘Wait here.’ Brandon leaped down from the wagon, the flaps of his greatcoat flying behind him. He strode up to the largest house on the street and knocked.
Fifteen minutes later, Brandon returned and settled on the wagon bench, clucking to the horse. When he spoke, his tone was gruff. ‘Are you happy now? That man owns a number of shops in town. I have asked him to send ready-made clothes and shoes along with foodstuffs to your families. They will be set until spring.’
The Cat said nothing.
Brandon let silence grow between them as he mulled over his recent action. When he’d leapt down from the wagon and arranged for supplies, he’d only thought he was acting of his own volition. It was clear to him now that it was the reaction The Cat had been angling for with the request that he visit Manchester, the very outcome she had been seeking when she changed the nature of redeeming his ring. He had never met a more manipulating minx.
Brandon chuckled softly into the darkness, his breath hanging in the frosty air. ‘That’s why you wanted me along today,’ he said, referring to the purchased supplies. ‘It’s quite a gamble you took, wagering a guaranteed three hundred pounds against my merit.’
The poor of Manchester were blessed with a resolute benefactor whether they knew it or not. What a comfort it mu
st be to be cared for with such dedication. For a moment, Brandon gave in to the fantasy building in his mind—one where the resourceful Cat turned her devotion on him.
Brandon cast a cautious sidelong glance at the woman who sat next to him, staring straight ahead into the gloom, her posture rigid, her features hidden by the dark and her veils. What was she celebrating—her triumph or was she simply satisfied in knowing she’d helped the ones she cared about?
‘Why do you do it? Sooner or later, it will end badly. You can’t walk this road for ever,’ he asked softly when it was clear she wasn’t going to remark on his action.
‘As long as it’s later rather than sooner, I won’t mind. I’ll have my satisfaction.’
‘Or you could stop now before it’s too late.’
She gave a wry laugh at the suggestion. ‘It’s already too late, Stockport. The Cat can’t ever stop. Did you really think I could? Stopping would serve no purpose. Even if I didn’t rob another house, my past would still condemn me.’
What could he say to that? It was Brandon’s turn to embrace the silence. Perhaps silence was best. Darkness had a way of encouraging the exchange of confidences, but, this day aside, they were still adversaries. Tomorrow, he’d still be building the mill and she’d still be robbing his investors in an attempt to undermine his efforts.
At the crossroads, he handed her the reins and jumped down to untie his horse. ‘You’ll be able to see well enough in the dark?’ he inquired politely.
‘Yes. The ring will be sent to you tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ He could feel them revert back to their former roles. The Christmas truce they had implicitly negotiated was already evaporating.
‘Stockport,’ she called. ‘Why did you do it?’
Brandon pulled his horse alongside the wagon. ‘I did it for you. You won’t have to rob any houses for a while.’
‘Then you can’t catch me,’ her voice teased.
‘Exactly. Happy Christmas.’ He kicked the big bay into a gallop and set off, leaving The Cat to contemplate what kind of Christmas wish he had granted her.
When the intersection disappeared behind him, Brandon slowed his bay to a cautious lope. It wouldn’t do to have his stallion step in a rabbit hole because he’d acted foolishly. He’d hoped the cold wind generated by his brief gallop would have had a sobering effect. He desperately needed it.
There was no escaping it, he had allowed himself to be caught up in the emotions The Cat had evoked in him. As a result, he’d acted rashly. What if someone discovered he’d knowingly spent the day with The Cat and had done nothing to fulfil his legal obligations? Those ramifications would exile him from polite society for ever, if not see him tried for a miscarriage of justice.
To top off the list of questionable decisions he’d made, he had just granted The Cat immunity. Immunity! What had he been thinking back there at the crossroads? He didn’t have to search long for his answer. The Cat might have uncouth methods, but, from what he had seen today, her heart was pure gold. She had not lied to him about why she stole.
No matter what he’d experienced today, there was no future in pursuing The Cat beyond his capacity as the local magistrate. He detested the dichotomy it put him in. He detested the idea that his success relied on her demise. Unless…
An inspiration began to form. Brandon’s pulse raced as the possibility took shape. Perhaps there was a compromise between their situations if he could convince her to give up the mad game. She’d have her freedom. He’d have his mill. But for his plan to succeed, he had to figure out who she was. He could not protect her otherwise.
While he learned much that day about The Cat, he had no further clue as to her identity. The only link was through the whiny spinster Eleanor Habersham. The correlation between the arrival of a handsome spinster, who hid her form in ugly gowns, and the appearance of The Cat four months prior could not be ignored. The only way to confirm that would be to question Eleanor directly.
Eleanor might have routed him from her house, but she could not rout him from someone else’s home. The thought brought a smile to Brandon’s lips as he pulled into the stable yard. He didn’t know where The Cat would be tomorrow night, but he knew with a fair amount of certainty where Eleanor Habersham would be—Mrs Dalloway’s card party. The matron had mentioned it at the masquerade. He had not thought to attend, but circumstances had changed. Instead of wanting to avoid the boring card party, he was starting to look forward to it.
Mrs Dalloway’s card party was complicating her plans immensely, Nora groused, jabbing at a ripped hem with her needle as she sat in front of the Grange’s fireplace, turning over the dilemma in her head. Eleanor was expected at the party, but The Cat needed to return Stockport’s amethyst ring that evening or he’d think she’d welshed on their agreement.
Technically, Stockport was expendable. There wasn’t much Stockport could do if she didn’t return the ring, but it bothered her that Stockport might think the worst of her, especially after what they’d shared yesterday.
Nora pricked her finger and muttered a curse before sucking on the wounded digit. Her stitches were as unbalanced as her thoughts. Stockport was getting to be a hazardous distraction.
There was nothing for it. The Cat would have to return the ring herself. She would go after the card party. Nora’s heart sped up at the prospect of encountering Stockport. Already, she was anticipating the inevitable sharp-edged conversation. Perhaps they would sip brandy together as they had done before.
She might allow herself to kiss him again. After all, once the ring was returned, The Cat would have little reason to seek him out. The Cat must turn her attention in the New Year to other investors who could be more easily influenced to abandon the factory project. Yes, tonight would be The Cat’s farewell to Brandon Wycroft and it would be for the best.
Chapter Eight
Nora, dressed in her frumpiest Eleanor Habersham finery, concluded the evening was not going as planned a few hours later, after finding herself partnered at whist with none other than Brandon Wycroft himself.
‘What did we bid?’ Nora asked for the thousandth time that night in Miss Habersham’s nasally voice, hoping that her irritating mannerisms were enough to distract Stockport from the fact that they were on the brink of winning their second rubber.
She was certain a man like Stockport would never believe a silly woman like Miss Habersham could be so canny at cards. However, Nora could not bring herself to cheat at cards simply to live up—or down, as the case might be—to Stockport’s notions. If there were two things Nora could not abide, they were cheats and liars. She would not make herself both just to reinforce Stockport’s beliefs about the card-playing abilities of a spinster. So she spent the evening across from her self-sworn nemesis, tittering behind her hand of cards at Stockport’s polite conversation while soundly routing their opponents with astute play.
‘We bid spades,’ Stockport said with commendable patience while Nora made a production of peering at her hand through her thick lenses.
Nora tossed a card on the table, intensely aware of Stockport’s cobalt gaze fixed on her. ‘What is it, my lord? Have I misplayed?’
‘Quite the contrary, Miss Habersham, I think you want to fool us into underestimating you.’ Stockport smiled another of his drawing-room smiles, polite, charming and yet somehow slightly mocking—of who or what, Nora could not divine.
‘There is nothing to underestimate,’ Nora offered smoothly, playing a trump.
‘I think there is. You’ve shown yourself to be an outstanding card player this evening,’ Stockport complimented. He turned the conversation towards the woman seated to his left. ‘Mrs Tidewell, is Miss Habersham always so capable at card parties?’
The woman blushed and thought for a moment. ‘I suppose she is. Miss Habersham is always winning, but she’s so humble we forget how handily she plays.’
‘I am fortunate in my partners,’ Nora responded, gathering the last trick. ‘There, my lord. We’ve mad
e our bid. You can speculate all you like about my card playing, but I say it is merely luck and good partners.’ Nora rose and stretched, grateful that the other two tables were finishing their hands and that the tea trolley had arrived.
Tables began to break up and guests milled around the tea service, Stockport among them. Nora was glad to be out from under his sharp eyes after enduring the evening under their scrutiny. Within the hour the party would reach its conclusion and she could get on with her business.
Nora took a seat on a nearby couch and tried to look unobtrusive. She failed completely. Within minutes, Stockport’s sharp eyes found her. Damn.
‘Miss Habersham, would you like some tea?’ She’d expected Stockport to join some of the male guests present but here he was, dancing attendance on the village spinster, a delicate tea cup in each hand and looking handsomely at ease with the difficult manoeuvre. How the London ladies must swoon over him, Nora mused, thanking her stars that she was made of sterner stuff.
‘Thank you.’ Nora took the tea he offered, trying to ignore the empty space on the couch next to her.
Stockport smiled gently. When she didn’t invite him to sit, he invited himself. ‘Miss Habersham, may I join you?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ Nora fluttered, covering up for her lack of manners. ‘Although I am surprised you are not seeking out the company of your friends.’
‘I already know them, Miss Habersham. I don’t know you. This is the perfect opportunity to get to know my newest neighbor. How long have you been at the Grange?’
Drat, the man could rise to every occasion. That spelled trouble. His benign question immediately aroused her suspicions. In her experience, there was nothing as perilous as seemingly harmless small talk, particularly coming from this man.
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