Pickpocket Countess. Bronwyn Scott
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 the door. Had he guessed she was there? For a moment Nora slipped back into the shadows. She scolded herself. The Cat didn’t hide. The Cat went where she pleased and when she pleased.
‘Is someone there?’ His voice held the steel of challenge.
Nora stepped inside the doorway before he could rise and come investigate his suspicions. ‘Good evening, Stockport. You and I have unfinished business.’
‘You! How did you get in?’ He snapped, recognition firing his eyes with the intensity of blue coals.
Nora savoured the fleeting look of surprise that skittered across his face. He was not a man who liked surprises unless they were his. Responsibility and control were two attributes that went hand in hand.
She made herself comfortable in a large leather chair, draping her legs over the arm. ‘The same way I got in last night. You’re not as smart as I thought. The lock on the window was still broken.’ She gave him a pointed, flirtatious look, ‘I hope you don’t make it that easy for other women to get into your bedroom.’
‘A smart thief doesn’t return to the same haunt the next night,’ he countered.
Nora smiled wickedly, ‘I am not a smart thief. I’m a brilliant thief, and a brilliant thief knows how to do the unexpected.’
Stockport rose from the desk and she knew a flash of uncertainty as he walked to a sideboard holding a collection of decanters containing varying shades of amber liquid. A bell-pull’s tassel lounged dangerously nearby. One tug would bring assistance. From her relaxed position in the chair, she would be hard pressed to gain the French doors leading into the garden. She was betting on her usually reliable instinct and Stockport’s desire to keep the robbery of his home a secret that he wouldn’t call for help.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed with your criminal antics?’ he asked coolly, his long hands deftly skimming from decanter to glass. The moment of danger passed. He wasn’t going to call for help.
Nora breathed a mental sigh of relief. ‘You’re already impressed.’
Stockport turned