Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

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.’

To her relief, Brandon moved towards the door. She backed up, using a careful sidestepping motion to keep both him and the table in her line of vision. It wouldn’t do for Brandon to play the traitor now. For good measure, Nora fired a shot at the chain holding the chandelier, sending the Venetian crystal confection crashing on to the table, scattering china.

‘What do we do now?’ Brandon asked once they cleared the house and were out in the street.

‘I’ve a horse hidden down the street. I don’t expect those idiots in there to actually wait ten minutes before they come hunting.’ She stuffed the guns into her belt. ‘Now we run.’ Nora sprinted down the street, leaving Brandon to follow, although it never occurred to her that he might not.

Her assumption that he would blindly follow orders and play the hostage-cum-accomplice galled Brandon beyond the point of good sense. The tumult of emotions that had roiled within him all night rose to the fore while he ran after her; all the anxiety of waiting for her to show or not—did she trust him or not?—and the awkward mixture of fear and pride at watching her perform her antics on St John’s white-clothed table. It angered him that she would risk her own life to test him.

Deuce take it, he’d worried himself sick on her behalf and she was using him as a hostage. Jack would get a hearty laugh out of that along with his twenty quid. Clearly their night together hadn’t meant the same to her as it did to him. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it. The game stopped here and it stopped tonight.

They gained the dark corner where the horse waited. Brandon didn’t wait a moment longer. He grabbed for her arm, bringing her to a jarring halt. He spun her around amid a torrent of protests and backed her into a wall, both of his hands now fiercely gripping her shoulders beneath her dark cloak. ‘Listen to me, you little minx. Whatever game you and I are playing is finished. I could have exposed you back there at dinner and I didn’t. You owe me and you’re going to pay,’ he growled in menacing tones.

‘Do you think I’ll kiss you for it or perhaps you hope for something more? Would another night between the sheets be enough to cover my supposed debt?’ She was all sauce and boldness, making the most of their bodies’ close proximity. ‘Any debt I owe you has already been paid. I could have shot you for good measure and ensured no one would follow us since they’d be too busy looking after your wounded self.’

Her brassy behavior, coupled with her cocky assumptions, fired Brandon’s ire further. ‘Stupid fool! You wouldn’t have shot me. You were betting on me behaving more like your accomplice than your hostage the whole while.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Brandon growled, ‘Because you’d never take an unbound hostage who has a height advantage of five inches and several pounds of brawn. You’d be setting yourself up to be overpowered. Like this.’

In a fast motion, Brandon pulled her to him, trapping her against his chest. He lowered his lips to claim a primitive kiss while she bucked against him in outrage. He used her in rough fashion, finding an outlet for his earlier frustrations over the danger she’d put herself in by storming the party. He tasted salt where her teeth bit the tender flesh of his lips. He revelled in the fight she posed.

Their mouths duelled. She bit. He nipped. Their tongues tangled. Brandon felt the tempo change as their duel became infused with a heat of a different sort. It wasn’t so much the heat of battle that raged between them now, but the heat of passion, of an attraction that, once acknowledged, was not easily quenched. He drew back for a moment to gather breath.

‘How dare you!’ she cried, remembering to be angry at his advances.

‘Tonight, I want something more than kissing from you. I want the truth and I’ll have it as soon as we get to safety.’ He had more to say, but a glimmer in the next lane demanded his attention.

He was loathe to let Nora out of his sight; however, the appearance of lanterns could only belong to a hastily launched search party. His plans were thwarted.

Brandon jerked his head to the west, calling her attention to the cluster of bobbing lights. ‘In the meanwhile, you might want to cultivate some common sense and develop some anxiety over your precarious position.’ He was gratified to note a flicker of concern pass through her as she took in the burgeoning scene.

‘Unhand me at once. You can stay here. Finding you in one piece will take the necessity out of their cold evening search,’ she ordered, taking charge again.

Brandon shook his head and held his ground. ‘No. We’ll do this my way. I’ve had enough of your plans for one evening.’

He knelt on one knee and began rubbing handfuls of dirt into his evening clothes. He smudged his cheek and then proceeded to gather his shirt between his hands and rent the cloth until he looked thoroughly abused. ‘I will go to them and tell them I’ve eluded you. I’ll show them my wound and ask to be taken back to St John’s for bandaging. That way no one will be looking for a trail you might have left behind. You will go on to my estate and await me there. You and I are not finished tonight.’

‘What if I don’t follow your dictates? You cannot force me to show up at your house and turn myself over to your dubious care. How do I know it’s not a trap of your own making?’ she argued coolly, her mind as sane as ever, but Brandon saw the nervousness in her eyes as she assessed the nearing lanterns and raised voices.

‘You don’t have a choice. If you do not comply, I’ll call out the hounds myself. I doubt Eleanor Habersham will appreciate her servants being subjected to the indignities of a house search, to say nothing of having to explain the oddity of her own nocturnal absence.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Nora raged in impotent fury.

‘Follow my wishes and I’ll protect you if needed.’

‘There’s another consideration you’ve overlooked. You don’t have a wound,’ Nora pointed out.

‘Not yet. Give me your dagger.’

Reluctantly, Nora threw back the cuff of her shirt, revealing the hidden sheath and pulled out the dagger, handing it to him handle first.

He gripped it and quickly flashed the sharp blade across the palm of his hand.

Nora stifled an undignified yelp at the sight of dark blood welling in his hand. He’d cut deep, giving himself a realistic gash. Instinctively, she wadded the hem of her cloak to press against the cut. ‘You go too far!’

He stayed her with his good hand. ‘Meet me at the estate in an hour and you can doctor me all you wish.’ With an impish smile that suggested adventure sat well with him, Brandon took off in the direction of the lanterns. His hand hurt like hell. She was probably right—he’d cut it far more deeply than necessary. But he could not deny he’d enjoyed himself immensely tonight. It surprised him to realise that there wasn’t a night in recent memory that he could recall having so much fun despite all that was at risk.

The magnitude of the risk she was taking struck Nora all at once and all too late. She was already ensconced in Brandon’s private rooms, wrapped in a paisley robe she’d liberated from his dressing room and sitting before the fire his valet had kept stoked against my lord’s return later in the evening, when she realised what she had done. She had trusted Stockport unconditionally not once, but twice that evening.

First, he was right. She had indeed bet that he wouldn’t revolt against playing the role of ‘hostage’ when Witherspoon pulled out his derringer. Second, she actually believed that she would have his protection when he returned to the estate. She believed it so thoroughly she had made free with his chambers, shedding her damp clothing and curling up before his fire in anticipation of the forthcoming conversation.

What was she thinking? At what point had her wits become so addled that she’d started thinking the Earl of Stockport was her ally? In reality, there was nothing to stop Stockport from returning to St John’s and leading the company straight to her. After all, he’d told her where to be. It made sense that he was setting her up so he could capture her. Arresting The Cat in front of the people to whom her arrest mattered most would be a feather in his cap. Such an act would go far to restore his damaged credibility over the factory.