What could he say to that? It was Brandon’s turn to embrace the silence. Perhaps silence was best. Darkness had a way of encouraging the exchange of confidences, but, this day aside, they were still adversaries. Tomorrow, he’d still be building the mill and she’d still be robbing his investors in an attempt to undermine his efforts.
At the crossroads, he handed her the reins and jumped down to untie his horse. ‘You’ll be able to see well enough in the dark?’ he inquired politely.
‘Yes. The ring will be sent to you tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ He could feel them revert back to their former roles. The Christmas truce they had implicitly negotiated was already evaporating.
‘Stockport,’ she called. ‘Why did you do it?’
Brandon pulled his horse alongside the wagon. ‘I did it for you. You won’t have to rob any houses for a while.’ ‘Then you can’t catch me,’ her voice teased.
‘Exactly. Happy Christmas.’ He kicked the big bay into a gallop and set off, leaving The Cat to contemplate what kind of Christmas wish he had granted her.
When the intersection disappeared behind him, Brandon slowed his bay to a cautious lope. It wouldn’t do to have his stallion step in a rabbit hole because he’d acted foolishly. He’d hoped the cold wind generated by his brief gallop would have had a sobering effect. He desperately needed it.
There was no escaping it, he had allowed himself to be caught up in the emotions The Cat had evoked in him. As a result, he’d acted rashly. What if someone discovered he’d knowingly spent the day with The Cat and had done nothing to fulfil his legal obligations? Those ramifications would exile him from polite society for ever, if not see him tried for a miscarriage of justice.
To top off the list of questionable decisions he’d made, he had just granted The Cat immunity. Immunity! What had he been thinking back there at the crossroads? He didn’t have to search long for his answer. The Cat might have uncouth methods, but, from what he had seen today, her heart was pure gold. She had not lied to him about why she stole.
No matter what he’d experienced today, there was no future in pursuing The Cat beyond his capacity as the local magistrate. He detested the dichotomy it put him in. He detested the idea that his success relied on her demise. Unless …
An inspiration began to form. Brandon’s pulse raced as the possibility took shape. Perhaps there was a compromise between their situations if he could convince her to give up the mad game. She’d have her freedom. He’d have his mill. But for his plan to succeed, he had to figure out who she was. He could not protect her otherwise.
While he learned much that day about The Cat, he had no further clue as to her identity. The only link was through the whiny spinster Eleanor Habersham. The correlation between the arrival of a handsome spinster, who hid her form in ugly gowns, and the appearance of The Cat four months prior could not be ignored. The only way to confirm that would be to question Eleanor directly.
Eleanor might have routed him from her house, but she could not rout him from someone else’s home. The thought brought a smile to Brandon’s lips as he pulled into the stable yard. He didn’t know where The Cat would be tomorrow night, but he knew with a fair amount of certainty where Eleanor Habersham would be—Mrs Dalloway’s card party. The matron had mentioned it at the masquerade. He had not thought to attend, but circumstances had changed. Instead of wanting to avoid the boring card party, he was starting to look forward to it.
Mrs Dalloway’s card party was complicating her plans immensely, Nora groused, jabbing at a ripped hem with her needle as she sat in front of the Grange’s fireplace, turning over the dilemma in her head. Eleanor was expected at the party, but The Cat needed to return Stockport’s amethyst ring that evening or he’d think she’d welshed on their agreement.
Technically, Stockport was expendable. There wasn’t much Stockport could do if she didn’t return the ring, but it bothered her that Stockport might think the worst of her, especially after what they’d shared yesterday.
Nora pricked her finger and muttered a curse before sucking on the wounded digit. Her stitches were as unbalanced as her thoughts. Stockport was getting to be a hazardous distraction.
There was nothing for it. The Cat would have to return the ring herself. She would go after the card party. Nora’s heart sped up at the prospect of encountering Stockport. Already, she was anticipating the inevitable sharp-edged conversation. Perhaps they would sip brandy together as they had done before.
She might allow herself to kiss him again. After all, once the ring was returned, The Cat would have little reason to seek him out. The Cat must turn her attention in the New Year to other investors who could be more easily influenced to abandon the factory project. Yes, tonight would be The Cat’s farewell to Brandon Wycroft and it would be for the best.
Chapter Eight
Nora, dressed in her frumpiest Eleanor Habersham finery, concluded the evening was not going as planned a few hours later, after finding herself partnered at whist with none other than Brandon Wycroft himself.
‘What did we bid?’ Nora asked for the thousandth time that night in Miss Habersham’s nasally voice, hoping that her irritating mannerisms were enough to distract Stockport from the fact that they were on the brink of winning their second rubber.
She was certain a man like Stockport would never believe a silly woman like Miss Habersham could be so canny at cards. However, Nora could not bring herself to cheat at cards simply to live up—or down, as the case might be—to Stockport’s notions. If there were two things Nora could not abide, they were cheats and liars. She would not make herself both just to reinforce Stockport’s beliefs about the card-playing abilities of a spinster. So she spent the evening across from her self-sworn nemesis, tittering behind her hand of cards at Stockport’s polite conversation while soundly routing their opponents with astute play.
‘We bid spades,’ Stockport said with commendable patience while Nora made a production of peering at her hand through her thick lenses.
Nora tossed a card on the table, intensely aware of Stockport’s cobalt gaze fixed on her. ‘What is it, my lord? Have I misplayed?’
‘Quite the contrary, Miss Habersham, I think you want to fool us into underestimating you.’ Stockport smiled another of his drawing-room smiles, polite, charming and yet somehow slightly mocking—of who or what, Nora could not divine.
‘There is nothing to underestimate,’ Nora offered smoothly, playing a trump.
‘I think there is. You’ve shown yourself to be an outstanding card player this evening,’ Stockport complimented. He turned the conversation towards the woman seated to his left. ‘Mrs Tidewell, is Miss Habersham always so capable at card parties?’
The woman blushed and thought for a moment. ‘I suppose she is. Miss Habersham is always winning, but she’s so humble we forget how handily she plays.’
‘I am fortunate in my partners,’ Nora responded, gathering the last trick. ‘There, my lord. We’ve made our bid. You can speculate all you like about my card playing, but I say it is merely luck and good partners.’ Nora rose and stretched, grateful that the other two tables were finishing their hands and that the tea trolley had arrived.
Tables began to break up and guests milled around the tea service, Stockport among them. Nora was glad to be out from under his sharp eyes after enduring the evening under their scrutiny. Within the hour the party would reach its conclusion and she could get on with her business.
Nora took a seat on a nearby couch and tried to look unobtrusive. She failed completely. Within minutes, Stockport’s sharp eyes found her. Damn.
‘Miss Habersham, would you like some tea?’ She’d expected Stockport to join some of the male guests