Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle (6 page)

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gowns belonging to the persona she showed to the town, the eccentric spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham. Miss Habersham was a silly, giddy lady with a penchant for gossip. By four o'clock tomorrow afternoon, Nora expected Miss Habersham's tiny parlour would be

by local ladies exchanging the

latest tittle-tattle about the night's escapades.

Nora forced herself to doze. It wouldn't do for Miss Habersham to appear with dark circles when everyone in town knew the spinster had no call for such sleeplessness in her mundane life. But sleep was hard to come by. Usually after such sprees, Nora's mind was occupied by the results of the evening and the valuables stashed with her disguise, myriad questions running through her head: how would it be dispersed, how much more would be needed to help those in the most desperate straits?

There was never enough to go around. Her raids had become bolder and more

in attempts to narrow the gap.

Tonight, the disturbing memory of Stockport's hot mouth and the
firm
fit of his body against hers consumed her thoughts.

She had played the wanton in hopes of distracting him to ensure her escape. She'd not expected his active participation or her own enjoyment in the act. There was something erotically compelling about a virile man's compliance.

She had made her point tonight. There would be no reason to go back to his estate. It wasn't an easy target. His patrols were harder to elude than she'd admitted. The safest course would be to put tonight's episode behind her. Yet, the thought of doing so left her feeling strangely empty. She knew she'd go back, for the sake of the challenge if nothing else.

Brandon took his seat at the table in Stockport Hall's cheery informal dining room. He breathed deeply. There was nothing quite as comforting as the smell of scrambled eggs and breakfast ham mixed with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He was pleased to see The Times beside his plate, pressed and ready, relieved at last to have his mind on something besides the im-passioned episode of the prior evening.

He'd spent the dark hours with his groin in a perpetual state of anticipation, alternately reliving the encounter with The Cat and cursing himself for a fool. He'd let the perfect opportunity pass him by. Not only had he ruined a chance to capture the thief, he'd ruined any chance of identifying the woman in the future. It would have been easy enough to remove her mask either by surprise or force when she'd been in his arms. He had done neither.

He reached for the paper and folded it to the financial section. He had barely engrossed himself in the investment news when his butler, Cedrickson, demanded his attention.

'My lord, Squire Bradley inquires if you're at home.'

Brandon looked up from the pages, fighting the urge to scowl in obvious contempt. 'Where else would I be this time

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of day but at home? What

of man calls at nine-thirty in

the morning?' In town no one dared a call before one o'clock and only the intrepid dared call before eleven. But this was the country and he would do well to remember that the rules were different here, less intense. He would not sway the village in favour of the mill by being snobbish.

'He seems quite agitated, my lord, if I may say so.'

'Did he state his business?'

'He did. It's about The Cat.'

Brandon set the paper down. 'Then you'd best show him in.

Have an extra place set.'

The Squire did look quite

Brandon conceded. His

florid face was pale and his usual bluff nature subdued. He had the good manners to apologise for such an early call as he waved away the offer of breakfast. 'This is fine fare, to be sure, although I don't have the stomach for it this morning. We had a difficult night over at the house. It seems that while we were scheming at your place, The Cat struck at Wildflowers.

It's the third time. My poor wife was in fits .' At this, the Squire stopped to mop his forehead with a large handkerchief produced from a jacket pocket.

'I can imagine,' Brandon offered as sincerely as he could manage. Indeed, he could picture just what an uproar the Squire's wife had produced. The woman was exactly the of flibber-tigibbet he avoided whenever possible. 'What was taken? Are you certain it was The Cat? The items haven't simply been mislaid?'