Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle
Page 23
‘Besides, St John, the farmers are my tenants. I am the only one who can “organise” them into a fighting force.’
St. John had the good sense to look abashed. ‘Of course, my lord. I would not be so presumptuous as to order your people. What Witherspoon means is that there is a group of half-pay British regulars billeted at the inn in the next town over. I’ve gotten permission to use them. They should arrive late this afternoon.’
Brandon hid his surprise. ‘That’s excellent thinking, St John.’
‘Will you join us, Stockport?’ Witherspoon asked, fixing Brandon with an intense stare that gave Brandon the impression of being transparent. What was the man looking for?
Before Brandon could answer, Jack’s voice boomed from the hall. ‘Absolutely. Stockport would not miss this opportunity for the world and neither would I. Count us both in.’ Jack invited himself into the private meeting and drew up a chair.
‘Lord Wainsbridge, how good of you to volunteer.’ Witherspoon narrowed his gaze, looking Jack up and down in barely disguised disdain, his eyes clearly conveying the impression he thought Jack’s services would be negligible at best.
‘Glad that’s settled.’ Jack slapped his riding gloves against his palm. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Stockport and I have preparations to make.’ He smiled, ignoring Witherspoon’s chagrin over the abrupt dismissal from someone not even the host.
‘Do be ready, Wainsbridge. Tonight, we ride for blood and we shoot to kill. Are you up for such sport?’ Witherspoon said from the door.
‘Are you?’ Jack shot back.
Brandon stood up to intervene. ‘Gentlemen, let’s save our animosity for another time. We’re all on the same side.’
‘Are we?’ Jack asked after the two visitors departed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Witherspoon and St John have mustered a real army. Your Cat is no match for British soldiers. You heard him. Tonight they’re out for blood. Is that the side you’re on?’
Brandon paced to the French doors overlooking the garden. He looked out over the bleak winter lawn, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘No. I’ve thought about nothing else all day. When I heard she’d struck, I knew it would come to this. I had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. Who knew Witherspoon and St John could be so efficient?’ His attempt at sarcastic levity fell flat.
‘Witherspoon is the brains behind that duo. He doesn’t miss a detail,’ Jack replied. ‘Gawd, the man’s fanatical. He’s awfully emotional over money and for a man who’s not the emotional sort, I find that odd, don’t you?’
Brandon turned from the doors. ‘Are you suggesting there is something else at stake?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Jack shook his head. ‘But I do know Witherspoon would rather see The Cat dead than caught. If The Cat is caught, she won’t live long enough to see a trial.’
Brandon nodded slowly. ‘I find that I don’t care if she left because it was time to be The Cat again. If she bested me, I accept that. As you put it, I had a prime adventure. My pride is wounded, if I meant nothing to her beyond another conquest. Perhaps I am just another man she’s duped into playing the accomplice.
‘But whatever anger or hurt I feel, it is not enough to warrant seeing her dead. I can’t blame her for my willing participation in what happened between us. She did not force me to keep her secrets or to come to her bed. I could have turned her in at any time and I chose not to. I didn’t have to bed her, yet I did. She did not ask for my protection, but I gave it anyway.’
Jack yawned dramatically from his chair. ‘You sound so reasonable for a man who’s been jilted. Can’t you sound a bit angry? You just lost the best sex of your life. Punch a wall or something!’
Brandon turned sharply from the window, his voice a menacing growl that contradicted his dispassionate logic. ‘If I am cool and collected, it is because I have no choice. A hot head will get her shot and me incriminated. Jack, what do you think will happen if Witherspoon actually succeeds in capturing her and discovers that The Cat of Manchester looks distinctly like my betrothed? Barring that most likely of calamities, what happens when I can no longer produce a betrothed? How do I explain that my intended has ridden off into nowhere and broken the engagement?’
‘Disaster comes to mind.’
‘Disaster doesn’t begin to cover it, Jack. Damn it, this is no time to be flippant,’ Brandon reprimanded his indolent friend.
‘Do we have a plan?’ Jack said, sobering.
Brandon nodded tersely. ‘I have some ideas about where she might go.’ He hoped his guesses paid off. Nora was out there somewhere, alone and without any way of knowing what awaited her. ‘Jack, it is imperative that we find her first, especially if you’re right and Witherspoon would rather shoot than ask questions.’
In spite of his best efforts, Brandon failed to locate Nora by sunset. With great anxiety over what was to come, he and Jack saddled their horses and went to join Witherspoon and his ‘militia’.
The night was moonless, forcing the men gathered to search out The Cat to rely on other senses than sight. The blinder the better, Brandon thought grimly. He would take whatever luck he could make or steal. Even the devil’s own luck would do tonight. It was very likely the only hope he had left.
During the afternoon, he had discreetly scoured the area, searching out The Cat or any sign of her. He tried the Grange, although it was too obvious a choice for a hideout. He tried tracking her horse. He looked in abandoned cottages.
All of his efforts revealed naught. The Cat was every bit the master she purported to be. If he had any doubt on that score, it was clearly settled now. Any sign of her presence had vanished. He prayed it was sign of safe passage. It was entirely possible The Cat had settled for the loot of last night’s robberies and was well away from Stockport-on-the-Medlock without a backward glance. Brandon fervently wished the night would result in nothing more than a wild goose chase.
Dogs bayed in the distance, the growing loudness of their howls indicating they were nearing the assembled group. Brandon cast a sharp glance at Jack.
Jack took his cue. ‘Lud, Witherspoon, dogs? This is no fox hunt. A bit unnecessary, I say.’
Witherspoon gave the foppish viscount a cold look. ‘What better way to flush out a cat than with dogs?’ To all gathered he explained with a dictatorial flourish, ‘We’ve left nothing to chance this evening. Between Squire Bradley’s excellent hunting hounds, the British regulars and our own manpower, The Cat will not elude us. Everyone has been given their instructions. Let us ride!’ He waved his arm in a forward motion and the teams broke out in various directions.
‘Tally ho!’ Jack said derisively as his horse stamped eagerly, wanting to be off with others. ‘Gawd, the man thinks he’s a general. He only lacks a sabre to complete his pose.’
Brandon cast Jack a sideways glance as he wheeled his horse around. ‘Self-importance can make a man careless. All the better for us if he overvalues himself.’ He kicked his horse into a canter and set off after the two soldiers assigned to ride with him and Jack. ‘Keep Witherspoon’s group in sight,’ he reminded Jack.
Witherspoon’s group rode to Brandon’s left. The plan was to create a fan, eventually becoming a circle that encompassed the residences of the investors and the mill. If The Cat was in the vicinity, planning to strike, she’d meet with guards at each house. Should she manage to elude them, there would be a living net of men encircling the area to contend with. It would be nearly impossible to get through. The Cat’s incredible skill could not compete with the sheer number of men out against her.
Brandon forced himself into a state of heightened alertness. His eyes scanned the perimeter of their search for the flare that signalled The Cat’s capture. His ears strained for any sound that someone was nearby in the underbrush. He clamped his thighs tightly around his big bay stallion, trying to feel for any change in the horse’s demeanour. If someone unseen were nearby, his horse would give sign of it. He wished he could shake the feel
ing that The Cat had finally run out of lives.
Chapter Nineteen
Dark at last! Nora rose from her cramped position in the little-used root cellar of the Grange. She ran her fingers through her hair, freeing it of cobwebs and who knew what else. However, she had few complaints. She had leased the Grange specifically for the feature of the hidden room beneath the kitchen floor.
Earlier in the day, the root cellar had served its purpose, allowing her to rest and to hide, both of which had been imperatives. She could not carry out her final mission in Stockport-on-the-Medlock sleepless. Booted feet on the kitchen floor under which she hid proved the importance of the latter.
The intruder’s voice belonging to the purposeful steps had been Stockport’s. She’d taken satisfaction in his presence. He was worried enough to come looking for her. He had every right to be worried; worried about what might become of his mill if she were allowed to run loose; worried about all the different ways he could be incriminated if she were caught.
It did not escape her that the man was faced with an awful dilemma, either let her stay free and protect his culpability while potentially endangering his precious mill, or attempt to catch her and save the mill while exposing his connection to her. Nora wondered what he would risk, his reputation or his finances. One or the other would have to be sacrificed. He had nothing left to barter with. He’d already sold his soul with the plan he engineered to keep her at Stockport Hall.
Nora struck a match and lit one of the candles stored in the cellar. It was time to get to work. She struggled out of the dirty ball gown, tamping down memories of the nimble fingers that had done up the tiny buttons in the back. She could not afford to let sentiment cloud her thought. Nora shut her eyes tight, pushing back images of Brandon, naked, fastening diamonds and emeralds about her neck, making false promises.
Nora slipped into The Cat’s costume, dark leather breeches, black silk shirt, and enveloping cape. The clothing felt like a second skin, comforting and familiar.
The only change tonight in her costume was an expensive dun-colored wig she had decided on at the last minute. She pinned up her hair and tucked it beneath the excellent hairpiece, which looked real and hid her own dark mane effectively, before tying the pirate headscarf over it. She wasn’t planning on being caught, but, if she was, she wasn’t ready yet to expose herself as Brandon’s intended. One didn’t burn bridges until they were absolutely unnecessary.
Last, she tied on the black silk mask that partially hid her face and emphasised her cat-green eyes.
She went to the crude chest in the corner and lifted the lid, revealing a small cache of arms. With the calculation of a duellist selecting his weapons, Nora tested and rejected a snub-nosed pistol. She hefted the weight of another pistol and found it to her liking. She put it in her belt along with a pouch of ammunition and a skein of dark rope.
She turned her attention to the array of knives and selected a small dagger reminiscent of a sgian dubh for her arm sheath and a longer one for her belt. She hoped she wouldn’t need any of the weapons.
Nora hung a powder horn about her chest, bandit-style, and grabbed up a medium black bag and matches. Charges were a bit of a nuisance, heavy and weighty.
She did a final mental inventory of her supplies: powder, charges, pistol, knives, matches. She had everything. Her saddle bags, containing the valuables from the previous night, were already at the base of the ladder leading to the hatch. She was ready for her last raid.
Outside, Nora breathed deeply of the crisp night air. It felt good to stretch, to be in the open, after hours in the confinement of the cellar. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled for her horse. She’d let the gelding roam during the day. The horse couldn’t lead Stockport to her if he happened to find it, recognise it and try to track it. If anything, her horse probably led him on a merry chase to nowhere since her horse had no idea where she was.
The horse came to the whistle though, following the birdcall of the night-jar to where Nora stood. She flung the saddle bags over his withers and fastened them with a cinch. She retrieved a bridle and deftly slipped it over his head. It was the only harness he’d wear. Tonight, she’d ride bareback.
Nora set out for the mill, her progress slowed by the lack of the moon, but she appreciated the added invisibility it afforded her.
A short distance from the mill, Nora stopped to survey the structure. A patrol passed by the structure. So, Stockport thought to increase his security. She watched for a half-hour, sure of the guards’ circuit. They passed every ten minutes. It would be enough time to lay a quick line of powder from where she hid to the structure and run back to light the fuse. She was counting on the explosion and subsequent flames to create enough distraction for her to make an invisible getaway.
The guards made their pass. Nora went to work, efficiently sprinkling the powder and setting the fuse. She hesitated for a moment upon reaching the mill. When she dropped the match she would put paid to Brandon’s dreams. There would be no going back for either of them. He would be ruined and he’d know she was the one who had done it.
Her fingers trembled with the match. She struggled to light it. She tried again. This had to be done. Firing the mill now would save lives and minimise whatever funds Witherspoon would collect in insurance. Brandon would find a way to go on.
No image she could conjure up could persuade her to see it through. Just as she’d known that night at St John’s that she couldn’t shoot Brandon, she could not bring herself to destroy his mill in a wanton act of violence.
Her heart rebelled at her weakness. He betrayed you!
Be fair! Nora argued. You entered into the liaison knowing his full mettle and he yours. It’s not his fault you fell for him. He set the trap and let you decide if you wanted to spring it.
Nora blew out the match, careful to cup her hands around the flame and the residual smoke. She dropped the extinguished match to the ground. She wouldn’t do it. She would get on her horse and ride away.
It would be punishment enough for Brandon to struggle with the remnants of The Cat’s presence. The charges were still laid. He would see the last gift she left him. He would know The Cat had won their private game. He would know she could have blown up the mill, but hadn’t. He could spend his life pondering why.
Lost in her own thoughts, Nora didn’t hear the two stealthy soldiers approach her from behind. She turned to go and ran right into their scarlet-clad chests.
‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’ one of them said in a tone that indicated full well they already knew the answer.
‘I think,’ said the other, ‘The Cat has come out to play for the last time. Fire your flare and get Witherspoon over here.’
An orange spark lit up the night sky. An excited cry issued from the men up and down the search line. After two hours of empty patrols, there was action at last. Brandon’s heart leapt. Nora was caught. Without waiting for the rest of his party, Brandon wheeled his horse towards Witherspoon’s group, thankful that they were the two search parties closest to the location from which the flare issued.
‘We’ve got The Cat now!’ Witherspoon cried in a near-maniacal voice as Brandon flew past him. He refused to wait for anyone. His bay stallion was fast and fresh from a night of slow riding. If he could get there soon enough, he might be able to do something before the others arrived.
He could effect a diversion, but he could not directly aid her without incriminating himself beyond the pale. It struck him that it might not matter. He might be incriminated already. If her mask was off and someone who knew his ‘betrothed’ had found her, there would be awkward questions to answer.
A thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind as he rode. Was she hurt? Had the men wounded her? If there was any chance for escape, it would depend on Nora being whole. God, he hoped it was men who had found her and not the dogs. She might stand a chance against a pair of malleable young half-pay soldiers. Her wiles would mean nothing to the dogs.
It wasn’t until the skeletal frame of the mill’s structure loomed against the night sky that Brandon realised where the flare had come from. He’d been too full of fear for Nora to notice where he was headed. Of course The Cat would go to the mill—what else could possibly keep her around? It made sense now. She had no more use for baubles after her raids last night. If she was still in the area, it would be because of unfinished business at the factory.
He saw the trio and recognised the cut of the uniform. He called out to them to warn them of his approach. He didn’t want to risk a trigger-happy soldier mistaking him for The Cat’s accomplice.
Nearing the threesome, he could see Nora standing rigidly, hands over her head. She still wore the mask, but it wouldn’t be long until Witherspoon arrived and the secret was out.
She barely looked at him, keeping her eyes and all her attention on the two soldiers, waiting for an opportunity. Brandon silently applauded her. She might give the appearance of surrender, but she had not yet admitted defeat.
Beneath him, his stallion pranced, agitated over having his hard run curbed. It gave Brandon an idea. ‘Good work, lads!’ he congratulated the two soldiers in an overloud tone that enhanced the bay’s sidestepping.
‘That’s quite a horse you’ve got there, milord.’ One of the soldiers, a young pimply-faced boy, said, eyeing the big stallion with grave speculation and nervousness.
Brandon preened, putting on a show worthy of Jack’s dramatics. ‘Yes, he’s a big brute. I must admit he’s almost too much for me to handle on occasions. He’s quite high strung tonight.’