Pickpocket Countess

Chapter Five

The merriment of the Squire’s Christmas ball swirled around him in a cacophony of festive scents and noises while Brandon surveyed the ballroom in all its festooned glory. Throughout the ballroom, young couples in masks stole fun-loving kisses under strategically placed boughs of mistletoe.

Everywhere he looked, the room was alive with colour from the evergreen branches to the swags of rich claret silk draping the walls. Masked women in expensive brocades and velvets twirled past on the dance floor, partnered by elegant men in black. Overhead, the chandelier caught the spark of jewels and diamonds. Brandon already knew the refreshment tables in the other room groaned under the Squire’s largesse, sporting all nature of sweetmeats and cakes and silver.

It was a night of plenty and of possibility. Everyone was masked and no one was paying attention to anything beyond their own pleasure. The Cat would be in her element. Brandon was counting on it.

Tonight, she’d promised to give back his ring. The three one-hundred-pound notes were safely nestled in the breast pocket of his evening jacket. He didn’t intend to turn them over to The Cat. They were simply there to serve as bait. He planned to lure The Cat into a semi-private place under the guise of making payment and then give the pre-arranged signal to alert the four hired undercover guards who mingled undetected in masks around the room. His victory would be swift and decisive. Tonight it was his turn to surprise The Cat.

The Cat had been busy since her last visit to Stockport Hall two weeks ago. He might not have seen her, his forays to uncover where she fenced her stolen goods may have revealed nothing, but he’d heard about her.

She’d struck several times, always limiting her targets to those who had invested in the textile mill and her name was on the lips of every villager. There were tales that painted her as an angel to the poor, bringing medicine to the sick and food to the starving. To hear the citizens of Manchester’s slums talk, The Cat was a veritable paragon.

Brandon had difficulty reconciling this shining example of civic welfare with the brash bandit who taunted the law with her break-ins. None the less, he was intrigued beyond good sense. The dichotomous halves of her personality posed the question, was The Cat sinner or saint?

In an attempt to unravel the riddle, Brandon found himself developing an annoying habit of rising each morning and searching out news of her escapades. He’d begun riding into the village just to overhear conversations in hopes of catching even a snippet of news concerning her latest chicanery.

He was dangerously close to becoming obsessed with her. It was frightening to think of the hold she had taken in his life after only two unorthodox meetings. He was torn between the dread of rising in the morning and hearing she’d been caught and the inexplicable relief he felt upon hearing she was safe one more day. He told himself his relief was because he wanted to be the one to catch her. Not because he needed the reward the investors were offering for her capture, but because he wanted answers.

It was a sad commentary that London’s untouchable Earl could be brought to such depths by a kiss and a caress in the dark from a masked figure. Against his will, he dreamed about her, his imagination conjuring up variations on the theme of their first encounter in his bedroom. When he climbed the stairs to his chambers, he looked for her in the night-shadows of his empty mansion, inexplicably wanting her to be there.

These were not the emotionally detached behaviours he cultivated in his relationships with women. Never had he let himself go, mentally or physically, as he’d let himself go these past two weeks. No situation or woman had ever gotten to him like The Cat.

In a short while, he’d see her. His body was alert on all fronts as he scanned the room. Even if she’d been inclined to break her word to him, she would not be able to resist the lure of such a bold undertaking. Entering the Squire’s house as a masked guest and making free with his unguarded hospitality was a temptation too great to resist for a thief of The Cat’s calibre.

She was among the crowd, somewhere. He’d been watching for her—for midnight hair and cat-green eyes. It unnerved him to think she was in the room and he did not know it. He wanted to find her first before she found him.

Across the ballroom behind the protection of her black-feathered mask, Nora smiled with satisfaction. Stockport was looking for her. Oh, not obviously. No one would guess he was waiting for someone. His gaze gave nothing away, but his other body movements did. There was a certain tension to his posture and his long fingers beat an impatient tattoo against his thigh. It was apparent to her that he wanted to find her first. Not yet. She was having too much fun dancing, wearing a pretty ballgown and being herself for a few hours.

Well, the gown was a heavily remade cast off from a brothel and she wasn’t really being herself. Tonight she posed as Adelaide Cooper, daughter of a potential investor in the new textile mill project. Everyone would assume she was here on someone else’s invitation and no one would expect to see her in the future.

‘Miss Cooper, may I have this dance?’ a voice politely asked beside her.

It was the Squire’s son, Frederick, a kind enough young man with his father’s bluff country looks. Nora favoured him with a smile and accepted. The dance was a hearty polka she loved. After this she’d get to work. Frederick could even help her get started.

‘Who is that man over by the pillar?’ Nora asked as they spun around the floor, pretending ignorance of the masked man’s identity.

‘That’s the Earl of Stockport, but it’s a masked ball so we aren’t supposed to know. Really, who could mistake him for anyone else? The local lads and I all admire his style.’ Frederick supplied, quick to oblige the reportedly rich, pretty daughter of a man who would make his father even richer if the investors could ever enlist the last two people needed to complete their financing.

‘Not many aristocrats would deign to dirty themselves with trade, but this man sees the possibilities, he admits to the future.’ Frederick would have kept going, clearly suffering from a case of hero-worship for the Earl’s wardrobe and his progressive ideas.

Nora cut him off with a coy toss of her head, uninterested in hearing the benefits of a dirty mill extolled in her presence. It was time to confront Stockport. ‘Do you think you could introduce me? I’ve never met an Earl.’ She added a débutante’s silly giggle for good measure.

Within moments the dance ended and Frederick unknowingly escorted her straight to the side of her adversary. He made the introductions and eased the way into conversation with small talk.

Nora noted Stockport was polite, but distracted. He made cursory responses, doing only the minimum required to sustain the conversation without appearing rude. Just as he had politely borne the conversational forays made by the Bradley girls during the carriage ride from Manchester, tonight he was unaffected by Adelaide’s efforts. He was no more interested in young Adelaide than he’d been in the Squire’s daughters.

His indifference prompted the curious question—what kind of woman would interest him? The answer was suddenly obvious. He liked The Cat. Her boldness appealed to him. She did not stand on ceremony and she challenged him. It was the only way to explain why he had not taken the opportunity to apprehend her on the two occasions they’d met.

Of course, being attracted to The Cat’s bold sensuality was no more than a courtesan’s allure. A man of his position would never seek to make such a woman his Countess.

Wife? She had to stop her wool-gathering immediately. It must be the ball that made her so fanciful. Either that or Stockport’s excellent physique. Surely a girl was entitled to a little fantasy now and then as long as she understood that’s all it was. If fairy tales were real, he’d be the living embodiment of the handsome prince. Frederick was still going on inanely about the fashion of men’s clothes, oblivious to Stockport’s neutral apathy on the subject. Nora took the chance to indulge, covertly studying Stockport.

Nora had long thought men’s evening clothes were the epitome of uniformity. The black trousers and tailed dress coat left little room for individuality. Indeed, the last bastion of uniqueness lay with the waistcoat and cravat.

Stockport had done well with both ends of the dressing spectrum. His broad shoulders filled out the dark coat appreciably. The snowy fall of his elegantly tied cravat and the pristine linen of his shirt peeking from beneath the cravat’s fall, reminded all lookers that only a gentleman could afford to wear immaculate linen on a regular basis. She had yet to see him in anything less.

His cravat gave way to a waistcoat of tasteful claret brocade, which was neither too garish like the peacock colours worn by the younger men present, nor too plain like the ivory or grey tones favoured by the older country gentlemen. Tasteful and smart, Nora reflected. He did not flash his town bronze overtly in these people’s faces, but chose a rather subtle way to state his rank. An expensive gold chain spanned his waistcoat, boasting a single watch fob, which was also very classic and discreet, not overdone like Frederick’s crowded, fussy watch chain.

His trousers fit over naturally narrow hips and waist that needed no corseting to give the impression of athleticism. Nora forced her eyes to stop there. She could not afford the distraction of contemplating what lay between his strong thighs. The memory of cupping him was still potent, even though two weeks had passed since that night in his bedroom. Two weeks only! She felt she had known Stockport longer than that.

‘What do you think, Miss Cooper?’ Frederick asked, breaking into her not-so-pure thoughts about Stockport. She had no idea what they were discussing specifically.

Nora raised her pretty fan and flapped it in front of her face and said in her best insipid tone, ‘I try not to think too much. Mama says it’s not attractive.’

Frederick bought the act. ‘Right-o, that’s what a pretty girl has a gentleman for.’ He patted her hand, commending her comment as if it were the wittiest thing he had heard in a long while.

Nora hazarded a glance at Stockport. He was not so easily gulled. She offered a simpering smile to reinforce her vacuous image. Damn him, he had caught her looking at him. Her little performance hadn’t fooled him in the least. If anything, he was more alert. He studied her hard for a moment and then moved his gaze beyond her shoulder.

Nora followed his eyes as they lit on four strategic points around the ballroom and the four men in those locations. She took their measure instantly. Ha! Stockport thought to hedge his bets and call for reinforcements. She had to admire the man for his confidence that all would go as planned. But he was dealing with The Cat.

It wasn’t too late to melt back into the crowd and disappear. Although Stockport might have his suspicions aroused, she could still stage a quick getaway by faking a visit to the ladies’ retiring room. But Nora didn’t seriously consider the option for long. Five against one might be unfair, but it wasn’t insurmountable.

With acuity, she calculated what needed to be done. First, she would confirm her presence to Stockport and then she needed to create a distraction to get them out from under the watchful eyes of Stockport’s hired men.

Nora went into action, flapping her fan again. ‘I am hot and need a glass of punch.’ Smiling sweetly, she dispatched Frederick to the crowded refreshment room.

She turned back to Stockport, all traces of the sugar-sweet innocent gone, replaced by the self-assured poise of a temptress confident in her abilities. ‘I believe you’re looking for me, or rather you’re looking for this.’ Nora produced a small felt pouch from the beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. She didn’t need to open it. They both knew what it contained. She had his attention—now for the distraction. She held out her hand. ‘Dance with me, Stockport.’

Stockport cast a meaningful glance at Frederick’s retreating back. ‘Have you no compunction about dancing with people you rob?’ he asked archly.

‘If I didn’t dance with people I rob, I wouldn’t get to dance at all. There’d be no one left.’

Stockport tightened his jaw at her cheeky banter, causing a tic to jump in his perturbation.

Nora grimaced. ‘I thought the remark was witty.’

‘I am not here to trade clever repartee. I am here to conduct a business transaction.’

‘Standing amidst all these people?’ Nora queried, enjoying baiting him. ‘Not here where everyone can see.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, where couples took their places for the set of waltzes that preceded the midnight supper, and reissued her invitation to dance.

Stockport led her to the floor without further conversation and swung her into the dance, skilfully manoeuvring them about the floor.

He waltzed impeccably, which didn’t surprise Nora. The man was all about flawlessness, from his perfectly combed hair to the toes of his spotless boots. However, he also waltzed with a passion that astonished her. His precision was not an empty effort.

A surreptitious ferocity lurked beneath his well-polished surface, practically undetectable except to another kindred soul who shared the same love for dance. Nora sensed it in the turns he took a shade too quickly at the top of the ballroom and in the press of his hand against her back as he signalled his instructions.

Nora looked into the sharp blue eyes that peered out from behind his dark demi-mask. They were daring her, but what the dare was, she could not immediately place.

Stockport leaned close to her ear, his voice low and melodious. ‘Can’t you do better than this? I would have thought The Cat was capable of more,’ he taunted.

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