Lady Thief (2 page)

Staunchly, Owens responded, “Talk till doomsday, Your Grace, I still say the pair of ’em weren’t spawned on this earth. Demons, that’s what they were. Why, that black devil did just what she wanted him to—and she never picked up the reins.”

“Which only proves that she is an excellent horsewoman.”

“Proves she’s a witch—and that black devil’s her familiar.”

Spencer sighed. “I can see that your mind is made up. Let us be on our way—before you conjure up Satan himself.” He climbed into the coach, leaving Owens to stare about nervously.

Owens allowed the fretful horses to continue on their way. The duke could think what he liked—Owens could recognize a demon when one appeared beneath his very nose. He shivered as he recalled the red glare in the horse’s eyes, and the wild glitter in the eyes of the woman. With another nervous glance at the dark, silent woods, Owens urged the team on.

 

 

The huge black stallion galloped swiftly through the forest, weaving easily between the trees as he responded to the light hand on his reins. After nearly an hour’s ride, he reluctantly obeyed a signal to halt. They stood at the edge of the forest as the woman on his back listened tensely for any sound of pursuit. After a moment, she urged the horse toward a small inn just across the road from the woods.

The two riders dismounted at the rear of the inn. The large man reached for the stallion’s reins, dodging a lashing foreleg. “Here,” he grunted, “I’ll take ’im—you go on inside. Have a care—there may be strangers about.” He led the horses off into the darkness.

The woman slipped silently through the back door of the inn. The door opened into a kitchen, where an older woman sat at a table, her face turned anxiously toward the door. Her eyes softened as she saw the black-clad figure. With a relieved sigh, she rose and turned up the lamp on the table. “There you are, dearie! Had me worried—you’ve been gone for hours.”

The Cat drew off her hood, and then her cloak, revealing a slender young woman with raven hair and strange golden eyes. Smiling, she said, “There’s no need to worry about us, Annie—we came off without a scratch! John’s putting the horses away.”

Annie clucked anxiously. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dearie. That no-good brother of mine should be shot for letting you ride all over the place, dressed like a man and shooting at people!”

“Hush, Annie.” The younger woman sat down at the table, her eyes bright. “You know how John tried to talk me out of this. I won’t have you abusing him. He only rides with me so he can watch over me.”

Annie sat down across from the Cat, her plump face worried. “Missy, why don’t you stop this? It’s too dangerous—and you are little more than a babe.”

The Cat gestured impatiently. “Annie, I’ll stop when I find the talisman ring and not before.”

At that moment, the door opened and the large man came in. He pulled the hood from his head and looked inquiringly at the Cat. “Did the duke have the ring?”

Annie let out a scandalized gasp. “Oh, mercy! You never robbed a duke! John, what were you thinkin’ of?”

John grunted and lowered his considerable weight into a chair. “T’weren’t me that picked the duke—missy did.”

“You should have stopped her, John. ”

John’s weathered face creased in a wry smile. “I never could stop her when she got some fool notion into her head. Trouble with her is, she was never broke to bridle. Wild as be-damned, she is.”

“Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here.” She pulled the leather pouch from her belt and upended it on the table. Aside from a rather large amount of gold coins, only a tie pin and an emerald signet ring rolled from the bag. She smiled wearily. “Well, Spencer doesn’t have it. Or, if he does, he doesn’t carry it with him.”

John gave the Cat a thoughtful glance. “A right knowing one, the duke—unless I miss my guess,” he said slowly. “You’d best stay out of his way, missy.”

The young woman got to her feet, smiling. “I fully intend to stay away from him, John. After all, what chance have I to meet a duke way out here in the country? You know Sir George rarely allows me to attend any of the local balls—and a Season in London is out of the question. It isn’t very likely that I will see His Grace again.” She swung her cloak about her shoulders and picked up the hood. “Put the money and jewelry in a safe place, John.” As he turned to go, John spoke again.

“You’ll see the duke when you take his jewelry back to him.”

She turned back to stare at his expressionless face. “So I will.”

“Be careful, missy. If anybody learns the truth, it’ll be the duke.”

“John, you must be getting old.” She smiled and added, “You worry too much.” With that, she slipped silently from the inn.

Annie stared after her. “John, why didn’t you go with her? It’s an hour’s ride to the manor—she shouldn’t be out there all alone.”

John sat back and regarded his sister with a tolerant smile. “She’d only lose me in the woods. She doesn’t like to be followed.”

“But, John—”

“Oh, woman, never mind. Why do you think they call her the Cat? She always lands on her feet.”

 

 

The Cat drew her weary mare to a stop and gazed at the dark windows of the large manor house. It was a beautiful old house, dating back several generations. Surrounded by formal gardens, it sprawled gracefully at the edge of a large game preserve. Many generations of Courtenays had lived and died beneath its roof, and the girl felt a surge of rage as she thought of the man who now ruled the manor with a despotic hand.

With a smothered and very unladylike curse, she urged her horse toward the stables, vowing silently to throw Sir George out the moment she turned twenty-one. Her father had left the house, along with the majority of his fortune, to his only daughter. Unfortunately, he had chosen his neighbor—Sir George Ross—to be her trustee. A scant two years after her husband’s death, Mrs. Courtenay had become Lady Ross. Sir George had it all now. For another year.

Once inside the stables, the girl quietly rubbed the mare down, erasing all traces of the midnight ride. With a silence born of long practice, she made her way through the gardens to the house. Warily, she moved to the west wing, where a large tree grew beneath her bedroom window. In moments, she had climbed the tree as easily as a boy. She slipped through the open window and carefully closed it behind her. Only then did she heave an unconscious sigh of relief.

She drew off the black hood and flung it onto the bed, her movements swift and restless. She lit the lamp on the bedstand before picking it up and carrying it to the dressing table. For a long moment she stared fixedly into the gilded mirror above the table.

A beautiful, raven-haired, golden-eyed young woman stared back. The shining black hair was drawn away from her face and wound in a braided coronet about her head, exposing the delicate bones of her face. Her nose was small and straight, and the gently curved lips seemed more inclined to a smile than a frown.

But the most outstanding feature of all was the golden eyes. They were enormous, with long, curling lashes. Catlike, they had a slight upward slant. There was no serenity in their golden depths, only wild, restless emotion.

She continued to stare into the mirror, remembering with a bittersweet pang how her father had always teased her about her eyes. He had told her that one day she would meet a man who would calm her restless spirit and tame the wildness in her soul. She had flung back her head and told her father that no man would ever master her.

Her father had smiled and gently touched her cheek. “He won’t master you, kitten. If he’s smart, he’ll just love you.” His calm golden eyes had been warm with love. “And if you love him, you’ll find peace of mind.”

She leaned against the dressing table and stared down at her clenched fists. “I haven’t found him yet, Papa,” she whispered. “I don’t think he exists. Oh, Papa, why did you have to die? Everything would have been so different.” For a long time, she stood silent, telling herself fiercely that she wouldn’t cry. She could only remember crying once, years ago, when her father had died. Never before, never since.

Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door. She stiffened, her heart thundering in her ears.

“Jenny?” It was almost a whisper.

Jenny relaxed and went to open the door. A slender wraith in a pale pink dressing gown slipped through the doorway. A stray blond curl had escaped from her nightcap, and her blue eyes were wide with fright. “Oh, Jenny,” she whispered breathlessly, “Father wanted to see you, but I knew that you were riding tonight, so I told him that you had a headache. He was furious!”

Jenny went to turn up the lamp and then turned to face her stepsister, her expression grim. “Was he drinking, Meg?”

Meg sat down weakly on the bed. “Oh, yes. He was ranting and raving. Jenny, he said that you had refused the Earl of Stoven! He was
furious
!
”

Jenny’s wild eyes darkened with rage. “I don’t care how angry he was. I will not marry that pompous, self-opinionated
ass.
He has a red face and sweaty hands, he’s fifty if he’s a day, and fat as a pig besides.” She began to pace restlessly around the room. “Your father only wants me to marry Stoven because he’s rich. Well, he can just forget it. I won’t marry him.”

“But, Jenny—” Meg hesitated. “He—he won’t live forever! You could have a fine house and beautiful clothes, and you could spend the Season in London.”

“I can’t, Meg.”

“But, why? Oh, Jenny—at least you could get away from Father.”

Jenny turned to Meg, her eyes blazing. But, when she saw the innocence in her stepsister’s eyes, her anger melted. Gently, she said, “Honey, I
can’t.
You don’t understand—I can’t bear to have the man touch me.”

Meg’s face pinkened. “Oh! You—you mean the way he holds your hand and puts his arm round your waist?”

Jenny managed to smile faintly as she sat down beside Meg. “There is a little more to it than that. A husband and wife are—intimate. They sleep in the same bed and they—hold and touch one another.”

Meg went scarlet suddenly. In a small voice, she said, “You mean when they make a baby?”

“Yes. I just couldn’t bear to let Stoven touch me that way. The thought of it makes me ill.”

“Jenny, will I—will I feel that way about the man I marry?”

“Oh, my dear, of course not. If you love him, you’ll want to be close to him.”

Meg’s blue eyes widened in sudden fright. “Oh, Jenny—what if he makes
me
marry Stoven?”

Jenny gave her stepsister a gentle hug. “You’re only sixteen—not even your father is monster enough to marry you to a man like Stoven.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am. Meg, anytime your father tries to make you do anything against your will, just tell me. I’ll stop him, or get you away from here.”

Meg smiled. “I know. You’ve always protected me from Father’s temper.” Her smile died as she looked gravely at her stepsister. “But, Jenny—who will protect
you
?”

Jenny stood up abruptly. “It’s late. You had better get to bed.”

Meg slowly got to her feet, blue eyes concerned. “You didn’t answer my question, Jenny.”

Jenny smiled brilliantly. “I’ll protect myself. I always have and I always will.”

Meg suddenly looked older than her sixteen years. “Jenny, you can’t stand alone forever. You need someone. Someone big and strong. You need someone to rely on occasionally.”

“Well, if that’s so,” Jenny responded lightly, “then I think I met him tonight.”

Eagerly, Meg asked, “Who? Jenny, who is he?”

“The Duke of Spencer. He’s tall and strong—he’s even handsome.”

“A duke. Just think—you could be a duchess.” She sighed rapturously. “It’s like a fairy story.”

Jenny, no stranger to her stepsister’s romantic nature, smiled wryly. “Don’t get your hopes up, Meg. To Spencer, I’m just a strange woman in a black mask, a woman wanted by the Runners, a woman who robbed him.” Rather grimly, she went on. “I can’t let Spencer—or anyone else—find out who I am. If the Runners catch me, I’ll hang.”

Meg went white. “No. Oh, Jenny, please don’t go out anymore.”

Seeing the fear in Meg’s eyes, Jenny hastily spoke. “Now, why do you think they call me the Cat? I have nine lives. Don’t worry about me, Meg—they’ll never catch me.”

A sob escaped Meg. “I never thought how—how dangerous it is! It seemed so romantic—like a fairy tale. But, now . . . Jenny, even if they don’t catch you, you could be shot. Please,
please
don’t go out anymore.”

Jenny shook her head. “Meg, I
can’t
stop. Don’t you see that it’s the only way I can hope to find my father’s murderer?”

“But, Jenny—”

“Hush. I’ll be fine—really. Only you, John, and Annie know who the Cat really is. And that’s the way it will stay.” She led Meg to the door. “Now, you go to bed and get some sleep.”

Meg paused in the open doorway and whispered, “Father—what if he beats you?”

“I’ll just stay out of his way until he calms down. Good night, Meg.”

“’Night, Jenny.” She silently made her way toward her own bedroom.

Jenny closed the door and leaned against it wearily. After a moment she straightened and prepared for bed. She undressed and donned her nightgown, then sat before her dressing table. Unconsciously avoiding her mirrored image, she took down her hair and began to brush the long silken mass that hung below her waist.

She hid her masculine clothes in the locked chest she had had since childhood. After blowing out the lamp, she crawled into bed. She lay sleepless until dawn, her ears echoing with the memory of a deep, resonant voice.

Chapter Two

Sir George Ross had never been noted as an even-tempered man. Although sympathetic voices maintained that he had suffered a severe disappointment in his youth, those who knew him well could say, with complete honesty, that Sir George was a hard-drinking, evil-tempered man who kept his wife in a state of cowered obedience and terrified his daughter. As for his stepdaughter, no one was quite sure what her feelings were toward her mother’s second husband.