She fired his blood like no other. She was not interested in him for his title or his vote like the powdered women of the ton. She wanted him as a man and only as a man. The thought was stimulating and highly complimentary if he didn’t realise the reality behind it. She could not have him any other way. As a man and a woman, there were no barriers between them. Acknowledging him as an Earl and a mill owner erected plenty of obstacles.
Nora stirred beside him, reminding him that the night was passing and that he could not be caught at The Grange when the sun rose. He doubted his ability to resist another coupling if she awoke.
Brandon reluctantly rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He dressed in the dark, the lamp having gone out hours ago. He shrugged into the sleeves of his greatcoat and felt the imprint of the small notebook he carried in his inside pocket. Inspiration struck.
Kneeling by the sill, he took out the small lead pencil and notebook and wrote. He left the paper on the table next to her bed and said a silent farewell before exiting through the window.
He was gone. Nora knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt empty. A brush of her hand over cold sheets where he had lain confirmed it. Well, what had she expected? He could have not stayed. He couldn’t very well have walked downstairs and declared his presence to Hattie and Alfred or risk being seen leaving the Grange by anyone who happened to be taking a morning ride. It simply wasn’t practical.
Of course, ‘practical’ was merely a rationalisation to salve her wounded pride. He probably woke up and realised how foolhardy their passionate foray had been, just as she was doing now. And it was that—it was the most foolhardy thing she’d done since her brief marriage.
Nora rolled over on her back and moaned. What was it with her and handsome men? They were her Achilles’ heel. Her first husband had been handsome, conceited and lazy. She hadn’t discovered the last two traits until it was too late. Now it seemed she was on the brink of falling for another handsome face, this one entirely out of her league. A thief had no business giving her heart or her body to a peer of the realm. It would only serve to complicate things between them.
‘Hah!’ Nora snorted out loud to the empty room. ‘It was only sex.’ Perhaps saying it out loud would help her put everything into perspective. It wasn’t as if she was expecting him to offer for her after their night together—their incredible, exceptional night together.
It didn’t help. No matter how many times she said it, she could not convince herself it was only sex. She had wanted Brandon on a higher plane. She’d wanted him body and soul. And last night, he’d wanted her too, all politics aside.
Unless he’d been pretending. Doubt gnawed at her innards. Oh, please, no. Was it possible to fake the way he had looked at her? The way he’d seduced her with such reverence as if she were a goddess? Remembering made the doubt worse. Perhaps he thought to ensnare her, lure her close with protestations of love and undying devotion. She remembered his simple words: ‘You’re so beautiful.’
Nora cringed. Someone trying too hard would have made the mistake of using flowery language, comparing her lips to roses or some other body part to some other ridiculous commodity. Not Brandon Wycroft. He was a master at his craft.
Nora reprimanded herself. She’d willingly eaten from the proverbial tree of knowledge last night. She and Brandon had made love and now there was doubt, slinking like a serpent between them. Before last night, everything had been clearly defined; she wanted to see the mill fail and he wanted to see it succeed. It had all been so uncomplicated.
Nora’s eyes lit on the table beside her bed. A note. She reached for it. Nora, do not go to St. John’s on Wednesday night. It is a trap. B.
Nora crumpled the small sheet in her hand. The note was short, concise and, after last night, positively deadly. Was he telling the truth and wished to protect her from harm? Was it a lie? Maybe he hoped she would believe the note and forgo the raid. It might be nothing more than a ploy to get The Cat to stop the robberies. If the robberies stopped, the investors would stay. The mill would go forward. He would get what he wanted. He would win.
She hated herself. He had her right where he wanted her—between doubt and disaster.
‘She’s got you right where she wants you—panting like a stallion around a mare in season,’ Jack drawled, sprawled in a chair before the fire in Brandon’s library, a glass of brandy in one hand. His growing familiarity with that position was starting to irritate Brandon.
Brandon shot Jack a ferocious glare. ‘Don’t be crass. That’s not funny. I brought you here to help me, not to make jokes at my expense. So far, you’ve done nothing but drink my whisky and abuse my hospitality.’ Looking for insight into his problem, Brandon had confessed his night with Nora to Jack, daggers and all.
‘It’s not crass, it’s true.’ Jack twirled the snifter’s stem carelessly. ‘She beds you…’
‘She did not bed me,’ Brandon retorted, his pride stinging.
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Correction. You bedded her. That’s what she’s convinced you to think anyway. In return, you spilled the beans and told her everything.’
Brandon stared into the fire. He was mad at Jack for making his time with Nora into something manipulative and tainted. He was mad at himself for partially believing his friend might be right. There was nothing like a little disgust and self-loathing to queer his pitch with Nora.
He was conscious of Jack rising from his chair. Jack gained the door and turned back. ‘Tell me, did you ever get a look in that wardrobe she so zealously defended?’
Brandon met his question with stoic silence. No, he hadn’t and, worse, he hadn’t thought anything of it until Jack brought it up. Whatever she was hiding in there, she had successfully defended. So successfully, in fact, he hadn’t even realised she had diverted him until a day later.
‘That’s what I thought. Now, explain to me again how she doesn’t have you where she wants you?’
Brandon sighed and slumped down in his chair. By Lucifer’s stones, sleeping with Nora was the worst best thing he’d ever done.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday night found Nora guiding her horse up the dark Cheetham Hill Road towards the wealthy neighborhood where Magnus St John lived.
She was glad she had chosen to come. She couldn’t stand hypocrisy in any form. It irked her endlessly that men like St John and Witherspoon made money off the grime of industry, but wouldn’t dare to dirty themselves by living amid the squalor they wrought.
They might think twice about their fortunes if they couldn’t look down on the factories of Manchester from their lofty mansions on Cheetham Hill, but instead had to live in Ardmore, a once-elegant, but quickly succumbing, suburb of Manchester or some other such neighbourhood.
The decision to carry out her plans at St John’s had been a classic prisoner’s dilemma and she’d spent the better part of the week debating her decision.
Go or stay? There appeared no way she could win. If she went and there was no trap, it would mean that Brandon had used their intimate encounter to manipulate her plans. If not, it would mean Brandon held some modicum of feeling for her, but going would put her in significant danger.
Nora knew she should hope the first option was true, but part of her didn’t want to believe Brandon could fake such an intense encounter or, even if he could, that he would have done so with her. After all, she’d been honest with him from the start about who and what she was.
While Nora, the woman on the brink of catapulting into love, was tempted to play the coward and renege on her Wednesday raid, The Cat knew her duty. The Cat did not shirk her responsibilities.
Despite the hiccup of her interlude with Brandon, The Cat was succeeding; the investors were scared; word in the village had it that two were asking to pull out. The mill was short on funds. Everything was going according to plan.
Experience taught her that was when the bottom usually fell out of the bucket. Just not tonight, she prayed, please, just don�
�t let it be tonight. Still, in spite of her responsibilities, she might have opted for remaining at home this evening if it hadn’t been for the note that arrived Monday afternoon.
The regular food supplies had not improved Mary Malone’s health. She desperately needed a doctor and expensive medicines. Nora was her only hope. That Mary had written to ask for help indicated how dire her situation must be.
The street on which St John lived in his palatial townhouse was near. Nora turned off and followed the lane behind the fine homes leading to the mews where the residents stabled their cattle. She found a quiet corner behind St John’s home, not far from the gate leading to his small city garden where she could discreetly leave her horse.
She’d been here twice before and knew the gardens and house well. The dining room, with its imported Venetian crystal chandelier, was St John’s pride. The elegant room could be accessed from the outside by French doors that opened into the room so guests could be entertained by the burbling fountain in the spring. In the winter, the doors were kept shut and the gardens dark.
It would be the perfect entrance as long as the undercook had done her job and slipped the sleeping potion Nora’s network had provided into the staff’s afternoon tea, the last meal they would have before serving St John’s guests. The powder would induce a sound eight hours of sleep before wearing off.
If the potion worked as planned, all the non-essential staff would be asleep, leaving her to deal only with the footmen in the dining room serving the meal. She wasn’t worried overmuch. Many of them were hired just for the evening and already had sympathies with The Cat. The others didn’t care much for St John and his blustering ways. She was counting on them enjoying the sight of their arrogant master being brought to heel too much to pose any real problem.
Nora dismounted and continued the short distance to St John’s on foot. She deftly scaled the garden wall and dropped silently to the ground. Her first task was to unlock the gate. There was no sense in scaling the wall on her way out too.
When she left, she had only to run to the gate, push it open and she’d be in the street with only a short distance between her and the horse. Better yet, should Brandon be telling the truth about the party, the guests would have their carriages and horses hidden from common view. By the time they retrieved their horses to give pursuit, she would be long gone into the night.
Her escape route secured, Nora turned her attention to the house. Customarily, on Wednesday nights the St Johns played cards. She scanned the exterior. Her eyes lit on the dining-room window. The room was dark, the exquisite chandelier dim. Her spirits sank.
She supposed a part of her had hoped to see the chandelier blazing, but that was ridiculous. Witherspoon and St John wouldn’t overlook that obvious detail. A lit chandelier would warn off a burglar, a sure sign that someone was dining at home.
She pulled a small watch out from beneath her cloak and consulted its face. Five minutes before nine. St John and company were to have sat for dinner at a quarter past seven. By now they would be finishing their third course, the fowl course, and have had plenty to drink. It was well known that St John served drinks before dinner and kept an excellent wine cellar for his entertainments.
Nora did quick calculations in her head. Her information indicated St John served his meals à la Russe. That meant there would be ten footmen in attendance, one for each guest.
Her tallies totalled twenty people in all. Unless Brandon was in the room—then that made twenty-two, Brandon and the footman serving him. The thought drew a shiver from her that she did not dare to contemplate. She had not seen him since their night together. She could not stop to dwell on him now. She had a performance to give—if not to the group quietly waiting for her in the dark house, then for Brandon when she finished here.
She neared the panes and her breath caught. She glanced again and was sure. Candle flames, invisible at a distance, flickered on the dining-room table. Elation surged through her. Brandon hadn’t lied. Do not think on him! she cautioned herself, breathing deeply to center her thoughts.
She checked the two pistols and knife she carried at her waist—three weapons, not counting the hidden dagger in her sleeve sheath, the one she’d pulled on Brandon. She thought of Mary’s three children and shoved fears for her own safety aside and bravely plunged ahead.
The glass-paned doors that gave out on to the terrace from the St Johns’ dining room shattered the polite tones of supper conversation. Women screamed. Men bit off barely restrained expletives at the interruption of their well-ordered evening. A dark form vaulted on to the white-clothed table. In each hand, two deadly, long-nosed pistols gleamed in the dim candlelight.
‘I say!’ St John half-rose in his seat to protest the intrusion.
‘You’ll say nothing more until I command it!’ came the reply.
Sitting to the right of St John, Brandon felt the tension he’d been carrying between his shoulder blades all evening dissipate in anticipation of what was to come. The Cat had arrived. The trap—laying in wait for The Cat to come—had been sprung, only now it seemed more to her advantage than to theirs.
The investors’ plan seemed silly in the wake of the reality playing out before him. They’d thought to catch her by changing the St Johns’ weekly schedule and being at home when The Cat came calling. They had not planned for the contingency of The Cat confronting them directly. The servants were supposed to have subdued the intruder.
That worried him. What would she do when the servants stormed the dining room? She couldn’t hold off the entire staff. But then, The Cat wouldn’t leave such a detail uncovered. Perhaps there would be no staff. Looking covertly around the room, it became clear that the footmen were not going to leap to St John’s aid. Maybe no one else would either. Brandon relaxed. The odds were looking up.
Now, the investors’ very nemesis danced on the table and held them at gunpoint against the odds of ten to one. Silently Brandon applauded her tenacity but he didn’t want to see her hurt and he’d prefer not to be compromised by coming to her defence. Although, at the moment it didn’t look like she needed much protection.
His conscience mocked him. It was a bit late in the game to be worrying about compromising situations now. Besides, he’d chosen to put himself in this predicament by coming to dinner at all. His curiosity had gotten the better of him; had Nora believed him and used the information he had given her to protect herself or had she been filled with the same doubts that plagued him and come anyway, thinking he had lied for his own benefit?
Tonight would be a litmus test. If she stayed away, it meant she trusted him. If she came…Well, then he’d owe Jack twenty quid and Nora would owe him an explanation about what exactly she thought had transpired between them.
Oh, indeed, his curiosity had led him to St John’s dining room. Inarguably it certainly had gotten the best of him. Now, as he watched Nora hold court on St John’s damask cloth, he hoped curiosity wouldn’t kill The Cat.
With nimble steps, Nora stepped towards St John and presented him with a black bag. ‘Pass the bag about the table and deposit your jewellery and effects into it,’ she snapped, giving one of the guns an ominous wave.
St John was too flustered to do anything but comply. He fumbled with the ruby cravat pin he wore and put it in the bag. Mister Flack on his left had no such compunction.
‘Now see here, you insolent bastard, you cannot commandeer us in such a fashion!’
She cocked the pistol, an unmistakeable sound. ‘Can I not?’
‘Damn it all, man,’ Flack beseeched the host. ‘Call for your servants.’
Eyes blazing at the man’s insistent mutiny, Nora kicked over his crystal goblet of red wine and let the burgundy stain seep into the pristine cloth. ‘Better wine than blood, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Flack? At the next interruption, I shoot. Don’t take any notions about servants coming to your rescue. They have been effectively subdued thanks to a wee potion in their afternoon tea.’ She hoped that sufficiently
cowed Mr Flack. She would rather not shoot anyone although, if it came to it, a flesh wound to the shoulder might do some of them good.
The women put up no resistance as she trained the pistols on each guest in turn, causing them to make their donations quickly so that the pistols might be turned on their neighbour instead. The bag came to Brandon last. Her eyes locked on his, compelling him to keep her secret. Don’t make me have to try to shoot you.
His gaze was riveting and demanded her attention, which almost cost her. In order to keep the bag and Brandon in sight, she turned her attention slightly away from the other half of the table. Brandon’s face saved her at the last moment. His sharp eyes slid to the left and she whirled with his gaze, hearing the noise as she did so.
Stinging from the loss of his diamond cravat pin, Mr Witherspoon tried to play the hero. A gentleman’s derringer flashed in his hand. Only his penchant for the dramatic bought her the needed extra seconds. If he had shot first and talked later, the outcome might have been vastly different.
‘Drop your weapons!’ Witherspoon bellowed.
Nora laughed fearlessly. ‘Drop your weapons, sir!’
‘I am not afraid. I don’t think you’ll shoot,’ Witherspoon retorted.
‘How willing are you to risk your companions on that bet? For instance, would you be willing to risk the Earl?’ She turned one of her pistols on Brandon. Damn the seating arrangement. She had no choice. The shattered door lay to his right—her escape and he was in the way. She wished it was anyone but him. This was the very scenario she wanted to avoid. If she couldn’t shoot him, she would have to take him with her.
She started barking instructions while the table erupted into muffled shrieks of horror at the possibility of a murdered Earl. ‘My lord, take the bag and start backing towards the door. Do not try to run. I will use my second pistol to shoot you down in your tracks. To the rest of you, I command you to stay seated in your chairs for ten minutes. Do not follow me. My lord is my hostage. It will go poorly for him if you attempt any more heroics.’
Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle Page 14
