She masked her surprise beautifully after that and came sailing across the room, hands extended to Mrs Bradley, apples blooming in her cheeks. The minx had been out riding and for quite some distance to look so ruddy.
‘Mrs Bradley, I regret I was not here to receive you. I’ve been out riding.’
Brandon felt piqued. Not a word of greeting to him. He interjected himself into the conversation. ‘I thought you had gone to see Mrs Bradley.’ He held up the note.
She smiled. ‘You can imagine my disappointment when I arrived at Wildflowers and found I had missed you, then my delight when the butler told me you were here!’ With aplomb, Nora turned to Brandon, beaming. ‘Darling, what did I overhear about a Valentine’s ball?’
Mrs Bradley jumped ahead of Brandon. ‘We are throwing you a betrothal ball, my dear.’
‘I wasn’t sure how long you would be staying?’ Brandon put in cautiously. ‘It is up to you. I think the idea splendid.’ Let her interpret the message and all its import, he thought. It would be tantamount to a permanent declaration.
Nora smiled, but Brandon could see the tension in her lips. ‘If you think it is a good idea, then we shall accept the offer.’ She nodded at Mrs Bradley. ‘You are too kind.’
Brandon grinned. Nora would make a fine Countess if given the chance. Now that she was home, he hoped Mrs Bradley wouldn’t linger over tea.
Mrs Bradley reached for a second shortbread scone and dashed his hopes. ‘Do you think your sister, Lady Dulcinea, will be able to attend?’
The woman was a gossipmonger of the first water. Brandon swore silently, regretting he had mentioned to the Squire that he had sent for his sister. ‘I certainly hope so. However, I am distressed that I have not yet had a reply from her. I fear my letter may have missed her at her current residence,’ Brandon said smoothly.
Brandon let the conversation lag, conveying his desire to be done with the interview. Mrs Bradley finished her scone and took the none-too-subtle hint.
The drawing-room door shut behind her, and Brandon turned his attention on Nora. ‘Where have you been? I was surprised to find you had been out at all.’
‘I went riding. I thought I might pay a call or do some shopping, but I wasn’t sure,’ Nora offered.
Brandon sensed a lie of omission. She was telling the truth, but not all of it. She had gone riding. The rosy cheeks attested to it. She probably had paid a call and done some shopping, but he’d wager his mother’s ring that it wasn’t in the traditional sense.
The knocker on the front door sounded and Brandon swore out loud. ‘Lucifer’s balls, you’d think we were having an at-home.’ The day couldn’t get any worse. Moments later it did. The butler announced Cecil Witherspoon.
‘More tea, if you please,’ Nora ordered tersely, obviously steeling herself against the visit.
‘We’ll need something stronger than that,’ Brandon muttered as Witherspoon strolled into the room, looking as if he had a standing invitation to call on a peer of the realm.
‘Stockport, I have news,’ Witherspoon said with, in Brandon’s estimation, an overblown sense of self-importance.
‘Please, be seated and share it.’ Brandon gestured to a chair with a bonhomie he didn’t feel.
Witherspoon glanced at Nora and then sent a Brandon a silent query as to whether or not she would be staying.
‘You can speak freely in front of my bethrothed,’ Brandon assured him. Whatever Witherspoon had to say, he felt it boded no good for The Cat and Nora had best hear it first hand.
When they were all seated and Nora had poured out, Witherspoon delivered his news. ‘I have had men watching the pawn shops in Manchester, you know, in the hope of finding some of the jewellery taken from us at the dinner party.’
Brandon looked up from his tea cup. No, he hadn’t known. He didn’t let on. He’d thought he was the only one watching them. ‘A very sensible idea,’ he said noncommittally.
‘Indeed. Today, my men found this.’ Witherspoon withdrew a ruby necklace. Brandon recognised it as belonging to Witherspoon’s wife. She’d worn it to the dinner party at St John’s and relinquished it to The Cat.
‘I am sure your wife will be glad to have that back, it’s a lovely piece.’
Witherspoon smirked and held it up to the light, appreciating the jewellery. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? I had it commissioned for our wedding anniversary. You might try the same for your first anniversary,’ he offered pompously.
Brandon fought the urge to punch the condescending tone right out of the lout’s mouth. ‘Did your men discover how the necklace got to the pawn shop?’
‘That’s the best part, Stockport.’ Witherspoon replaced the necklace carelessly in his outer coat pocket. ‘A woman dressed in a gaudy print gown and wearing spectacles brought the necklace in. My men can testify they saw a woman matching the description of Eleanor Habersham enter the shop late this morning. They sent for me right away.’
‘Was Miss Habersham’s name on the ticket?’ Brandon asked, casting a sidelong look at Nora. He didn’t need further evidence to know where she’d gone and what she’d done when she’d said she had shopping to do. Damn her, she had promised. How could he protect her when she refused to be protected?
‘No, of course her name isn’t on the ticket, although my men did look,’ Witherspoon said in a condescending tone that suggested he found the Earl to be soft noodled. ‘She was clever enough to use an alias. It would be foolhardy to pawn stolen merchandise under one’s real name, don’t you agree?’ Witherspoon paused briefly and then went on to outline his own thoughts on the matter. ‘I wouldn’t have been suspicious if it hadn’t been a necklace I personally knew. After all, the Habersham woman hasn’t a penny to her name and she has to live on something,’ he said callously, maligning the poor spinster with the implication that she was disgracefully selling off family heirlooms.
Brandon’s fist clenched. If Eleanor Habersham had been real, he would have called the man out for abusing the woman with his aspersions on her finances.
Unaware of Brandon’s growing agitation, Witherspoon droned on. ‘I did some checking. I stopped at the Grange on my way home from Manchester. Do you know what I found?’ Witherspoon was delighting in the telling.
‘I cannot possibly guess,’ Brandon said in a tone he hoped conveyed interest, although he already knew to some extent what Witherspoon had found. Eleanor Habersham wasn’t in residence.
‘Her man of all work told me Miss Habersham had left a week ago to visit an old aunt in Yorkshire. There’s a rat here, Stockport. How could she be in Yorkshire when she’s pawning stolen goods in Manchester pawn shops, I ask you?’
‘What exactly are you implying?’ Brandon asked, feeling heartsick at the man’s discoveries.
‘That Eleanor Habersham is The Cat. It fits with the timing and my discovery that The Cat is a woman,’ he said grandly.
Egad, the arrogant man was making himself out to be Christopher Columbus. ‘That’s quite a hypothesis. You’ve done a lot of work,’ Brandon said.
It became apparent the conversation was going no further. Witherspoon rose awkwardly. ‘I thought you should know, as the area’s magistrate and as the head of our little investment group.’ There was coldness in his tone that implied he thought Brandon was lax in his duties.
Brandon rose with him. ‘I appreciate your assistance. I am sure this matter will be brought to a close very soon. I believe The Cat has not struck anywhere since the dinner party. I am hoping that the raids have stopped and that Eleanor had some other reason to be in possession of the necklace. I would not like to taint her name with any unnecessary scandal.’
‘We’ll see,’ Witherspoon said tersely, patting the pocket containing the necklace.
‘Are you certain it is your wife’s necklace?’ Nora asked innocently, entering the discussion for the first time. ‘After all, I am sure there’s more than one ruby necklace in the world. Are there any markings or special engravings?’
Witherspoo
n growled at her. ‘It was commissioned specially for her. I have the jeweller’s papers and original design to prove the necklace is hers.’
Nora appeared to brighten and Brandon was instantly alert. ‘How lovely for her that you’ve retrieved it, then. And how important that necklace will be as a proof should there be a trial. I’d keep it under lock and key. It would be a shame to lose it again.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Witherspoon said, a bit nonplussed.
‘I’ll walk with you to the hall,’ Nora offered.
Brandon sat down and waited. He and Nora would have a grand discussion when she returned. If she thought she was going after the necklace, she thought wrong. After today’s débâcle, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight for a moment.
Nora came back in, a look of contrition on her face. At least she had the good grace to feel guilty over being caught in her little deception. He wanted her to feel guilty for more than that, though. Brandon wanted her penitent for have perpetrated the deceit in the first place, not simply for having been found out.
‘You are not going after the necklace,’ Brandon began. ‘If you think I’ll let you so much as leave the house unescorted, you’re dead wrong. Look at the bumblebroth you caused today.’
‘You’re absolutely right. I won’t leave the house,’ Nora agreed readily, far too repentant for his taste. Something was wrong. She hadn’t interrupted him. He hadn’t thought he would get through the first line of his planned scolding. Now that he had, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Do I have your word on that?’ Brandon asked warily.
‘Yes, Brandon. I give you my word. I won’t leave the house to go after the necklace,’ Nora pledged solemnly.
Something definitely wasn’t right. Her compliance had been too easily won. Not that her word meant anything after her latest exploit. She had already broken one promise. Still, she wouldn’t promise away her permission to leave the house. Unless she didn’t need it. The inspiration struck Brandon all at once. He grinned in spite of himself. ‘You already have the necklace, don’t you?’
Nora held up the item in question, dangling it from her fingers and laughed. ‘He was far too careless with it. I am sure it would have fallen out of his coat pocket on the ride home. It could be laying anywhere on the ground between Stockport Hall and Cheetham Hill.’
Brandon couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud, finding an outlet for his tension after the last two interviews. Witherspoon would be mightily surprised to find his pocket empty when he returned home.
Goodness, he loved his pickpocket Countess. He pulled Nora to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘Life with you, Nora, is never dull.’ He reached beyond her shoulder for the bell pull, suddenly finding he had a penchant for scones and a pot of jam.
Chapter Seventeen
‘What did you do in Manchester?’ Brandon asked later as they lay in his big bed cuddled together and drowsily sated. His hand rested on the curve of her hip, his thumb stroking the flat of her belly.
‘You know what I did.’ Nora sighed. She had known he wouldn’t let it go, that he would ask.
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘I pawned the necklace and took the money to the apothecary for Mary Malone’s medicines. Then I arranged for a doctor to visit her. I stopped in to see her and gave her the rest of the money.’
‘That should have been a pretty penny. The necklace was worth a few hundred pounds.’
‘It probably was, but pawnbrokers won’t pay full price, although I am sure the broker was happy to charge Witherspoon full price for it. The shop was not one I usually use and I find that particular broker less than trustworthy. Witherspoon must have paid him a nice bonus for showing him the ticket too. Those tickets are supposed to be confidential.’
‘How is Mary?’ Brandon changed direction.
‘Worse. I fear she is beyond medicine. She needs a permanent change. Consumption and lung diseases are the bane of the industrial working class.’
Brandon nodded. She knew what was coming next. ‘Nora, you could have asked me for the money. You didn’t need to risk yourself. I would have given you the funds.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You cannot pretend The Cat doesn’t exist, Brandon, that you can turn me into a philanthropic Countess overnight. Those people need The Cat. They need what she brings, but they also need what she stands for. It gives them hope that someone is watching out for them, that they are valued. Can you understand that, Brandon?’
‘Yes, but there is a better way, Nora, a legitimate way. You know The Cat’s days are numbered. Once we are married—’
Nora sat up so quickly the sheet slipped down to her hips. ‘Married? We have not reached that conclusion yet, Brandon, and after today, we cannot even think it.’
It was Brandon’s turn to sit up. ‘What else is there for us to do? Devil take it, Nora, you just agreed to Mrs Bradley hosting our betrothal ball. I assumed when you accepted her offer you were signalling your acceptance of our relationship as well. My protection is limited as long as we remain unwed. You were the one who put the betrothal-façade gambit in motion—you have to see it through, Nora.’
‘I only accepted the invitation because it seemed awkward not to. When are you going to realise you don’t want to marry me? You want to save me. However, I am completely capable of saving myself.’
‘When are you going to realise that you want to marry me?’ Brandon shot back. ‘You cannot pretend you are repulsed by the idea of marrying me.’
‘I am not repulsed at the thought of marrying you, but I am repulsed by the thought that I could cause your ruin. If people found out you knowingly married a wanted thief and that you assisted her, I doubt your title would protect you.’ Nora swung her legs out of bed and reached for a robe, belting it furiously. The man was stubborn to the core. It was all a game to him. It no doubt galled him that the almighty Stockport didn’t have her eating out of his hand—well, he did, she just couldn’t let him know it. If he’d been talking of love, true love, and not honour and protection and duty, she might have been less resistant.
‘Don’t worry about Witherspoon. I can take care of him,’ Brandon assured her with his customary confidence. ‘He’s been so eager for my friendship, he’ll do anything for my approval. Once you’re my wife, he’ll fawn all over you in hopes of winning my favour. He won’t think to connect any of it back to you.’
‘We don’t know what Jack will find.’
‘Jack’s findings are the least of our worries. We can manage them. There are other larger worries that deserve our attention, like Witherspoon. Don’t go out again,’ Brandon warned. ‘I’ll send for Mary Malone and the children. I have an empty crofter’s cottage they can have.’
‘She won’t take charity.’
‘I’ll find something for her to do. The oldest boy can work in the stables and I am sure there’s work in the kitchen.’
Nora gave a tremulous smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, touched by his concern. She bit her lip and paused. ‘Brandon, I want you to know I wish it could be different.’
Brandon stretched across the bed and took her hand. His voice was quiet, commanding. ‘It can be different. You just have to choose to make it so. You’ve made a difference in others’ lives for so long. Now it is time to make a difference in your own.’
The night of the betrothal ball approached, bringing with it, for Nora, an increasing amount of anxiety. Everything was running too smoothly. The interceding weeks between the ball and Witherspoon’s visit had gone well.
Mary Malone and her children were established in the cosy cottage. Witherspoon had to eat humble pie and confess Brandon’s belief that the raids would stop had been legitimate.
The harder decision was Nora’s choice to let Eleanor Habersham take the brunt of Witherspoon’s suspicions. She sent word to Hattie and Alfred to close up the house, pack their things and move away. It would keep them safe if anything we
nt wrong; if Witherspoon wanted to believe the spinster had been the thief, she was happy to let him. Eleanor had disappeared and with her, The Cat. Brandon had arranged everything so that her past was tied up into a neat package. She only had to accept it and the book on The Cat was closed for ever. She could start again as a Countess, as Brandon Wycroft’s wife, if she chose. That appealed to her more than the title. But there was still one loose end in that regard.
There was still no word from Jack, although she knew Brandon remained hopeful that his friend would turn up shortly. There was nothing to do but wait. The waiting was killing her. Brandon said it was because she was not used to inactivity. The everyday thrills and dangers she had lived with for so long had receded from her lifestyle.
Nora thought otherwise. It seemed the rest of her life hinged on what was to come. She understood completely that the night of the betrothal ball would mark the beginning or the end of what she could have with Brandon. Did she trust him enough to admit to her feelings and reach for the life he offered her? Could she do it knowing that he was offering sanctuary, but not his love?
So she waited impatiently, spending her days with a recovering Mary Malone, reading books in Brandon’s well-stocked library and storing up a treasury of memories in case the worst happened. By the night of the ball, she was a bundle of nerves.
‘Ellie, we won’t need you any longer. I’ll help my lady finish with her toilette.’ The connecting door between Brandon’s rooms and Nora’s little-used chambers opened, revealing Brandon resplendent in full evening dress.
Ellie, the hastily employed lady’s maid, bobbed a curtsy, hiding a nervous titter and the implications of his request before fleeing downstairs to share the latest bit of gossip regarding the master and his betrothed.
Nora’s breath hitched as she stared at Brandon in the vanity mirror. The dark clothes suited his commanding presence. He carried with him the urbane aura of the socially astute, but tonight it was coupled with a lethal quality that suggested he was something more than what lay on the surface of his polite veneer.
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