Regency Sins. Bronwyn Scott
Читать онлайн книгу.
her bedroom door. Escape at last! She’d thought the ladies would never leave. Usually the Wednesday tea lasted for an hour and a half. Today, the ladies had stayed until half past six, dissecting every moment of the Earl’s visit.
She tugged at the pins holding her wig in place and freed her head with a sigh. Who would have imagined a wig could be so tiring to wear or so hot? Even in December she managed to sweat beneath it. Nora shook out her hair and let it fall freely. She walked to her vanity, placed the glasses in a small drawer and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
The tea had started off well enough. Alice Bradley had been eager to recount the doings at her place. Thanks to Alice’s tendency to gossip, The Cat’s legend grew with each robbery. The Cat needed that kind of exposure if she was going to succeed. If she were a big enough menace, the threat of The Cat’s presence would be enough to warn off the investors in the textile mill. In the meantime, if the investors continued to take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock, she’d gladly pilfer their wealth to feed the people they were putting out of work.
Then Stockport had shown up, looking devastatingly handsome in his immaculate clothes. She’d felt his excellent physique the prior night but the perfection of his face had escaped her notice in the dark. In the afternoon light, she could better appreciate the strong jaw set off by a razor-straight nose, classical cheekbones and deep blue eyes. His good looks commanded attention and she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every woman in the room had their eyes riveted on him. They hung on each word the black-haired, blue-eyed devil uttered.
His presence would have been a piece of luck if he’d told everyone about the burglary. Yet when given the chance to admit Stockport Hall had been robbed, he had ignored the opening and perpetuated the belief that his home was untouched. That made him a liar.
His omission hadn’t helped her cause either. The whole point of going there last night had been to make a statement, but if he didn’t tell anyone the point was moot. He was supposed to react like everyone else and shout his frustration all over town. That was the problem. He wasn’t like everyone else. She’d discovered that last night, although her brain had failed to comprehend the impact it would have on her escapades.
Nora plopped into the chair in front of the vanity and began brushing out her hair. Last night, she’d thought the kiss was a stroke of bold brilliance, despite its risks. Now she saw it as a mistake. No wonder he hadn’t told anyone of her visit. What was he to say that wouldn’t make him look like a fool? ‘The Cat put her tongue in my mouth, ripped open my shirt and cupped me through my trousers until I thought I’d burst?’ A lesser man might have enjoyed circulating that juicy tit-bit over ale in the taverns but there was nothing lesser about Brandon Wycroft.
It was clear enough from the way he’d smiled and doted on the ladies today that he thought highly of himself. He was a prideful man who was completely aware of his effect on people. His self-conceit would not allow him to admit a thief, and a woman at that, had provoked such a base reaction from him.
The kiss had been her first mistake. Her second mistake had been leaving the ring. Nora was certain that, if she’d taken the ring, he would not have hesitated to mention her presence in his home. He would have gone to great lengths to put word out about the ring in case anyone saw it. That ring meant something to him and he would not be parted from it easily.
Nora tapped her fingers on the vanity, an idea surfacing in her mind. Stockport might go so far as to declare a reward for the ring if it were missing. Even if he didn’t, she could blackmail a ransom of sorts out of him. That settled it. She would go back tonight for the ring and to set the record straight. By tomorrow morning news of The Cat at Stockport Hall would be common knowledge in the village.
Stockport Hall was dark except for the lone light burning in the library window as Nora approached from the south shortly before midnight. She was not surprised. Her information was highly reliable. Stockport lived alone when he came to the country and kept late hours in the library, which had a convenient entrance from the garden on the south side of the estate. She wouldn’t use the entrance to go into the house. She had a stop to make first. She would climb up the tree to Stockport’s bedchamber and retrieve the ring first, but later she’d need an exit after their little tête-à-tête.
Nora scaled the tree easily, her arms and legs recalling the toeholds she’d found the previous night. The tree wasn’t the hard part, although it was tall and climbing it was no easy task. The hard part was getting from the tree to the window.
Nora climbed the tall oak a level higher than necessary so that she looked down on the window. Lying on her belly, she inched out along a wide, sturdy branch that effortlessly took her weight, a much more reliable branch than the one below it onto which she’d exited the night before. She took the coil of black rope from her belt and securely looped it about the branch in an intricate knot. She gave it a tug and was satisfied it would hold. She double-checked her watch—ten minutes before Stockport’s highly trained patrols would pass this way, plenty of time to reach the sill and pop inside.
Taking a deep breath, Nora levered herself onto the rope. Her arms took the initial weight as her legs found their grip. Then she began the process of lowering herself down the rope length until she was level with the window. She halted and took three more deep breaths. Now it was time for the fun.
Swinging back and forth, she gained enough momentum to launch herself over to the window ledge. The ledge was only six inches wide, hardly wide enough for a strong foothold, so Nora steadied herself with one hand on the rope, using the other hand to grope for the broken window latch while her feet balanced against the sill.
Victory! In his pride, Stockport had failed to have the lock fixed immediately. No doubt he’d guessed The Cat wouldn’t strike again so soon or by the same method. The window slid up and Nora scrambled inside. She gave the black rope a yank and reeled it in behind her. It took only a moment to see that the room had been righted and the casket holding the ring was in the same place.
Nora lifted the lid and found the ring couched among the purple velvet cloth. She reached for it and suffered a momentary lapse of conscience. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the people the ring could help. Little Timmy Black, youngest of seven children, would have hot porridge until spring. Widow Malone, bereft of a husband because of a careless maintenance error in a Manchester cotton mill, would have clothes to warm her three children. There were others too numerous to mention. She grabbed the ring and shut the lid of the box before she could change her mind. Stockport would get the ring back, she reminded herself. It wasn’t as if she was stealing it permanently. She was only temporarily borrowing it for the greater good of humanity.
Feeling better, Nora slipped the ring into a small pouch around her waist and tucked it securely inside the band of her trousers. She squared her shoulders, allowing a small smile to creep across her lips as she contemplated her next task: a visit with Stockport. She was looking forward to giving him a piece of her mind.
The trip downstairs to the library was uneventful, which ironically only served to provoke her irritation with the man. She passed down the darkened major staircase and met no one, not even a footman. What a crime it was for one man alone to command all this space when families crowded together in single-room dwellings!
Nora gained the library. The door stood ajar, affording her the luxury of studying her quarry undetected. Stockport sat behind a large mahogany desk, diligently applying himself to letter writing, documents spread across the desk top. The light caught at his hair, giving it the polished gloss of obsidian. If he wasn’t such a prodigiously arrogant man, she’d consider him handsome.
He lifted his head from his correspondence, giving her a glimpse of his remarkable blue eyes, behind spectacles that rode the bridge of his nose. Glasses? The Earl of Stockport wore glasses? Nora found the image before her hard to reconcile with the picture her research painted of the Earl as a man about town who had a way with women. But she had been warned that while Stockport had a well-earned reputation as a lover, he also had a reputation for responsibility.
Stockport stilled, his eyes probing the darkness beyond his door. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger before returning his gaze to