Anne Stuart (22 page)

Tonight he was dark and cold and fierce, and he frightened her. If she had any sense, she’d make up some airy excuse.

But she looked into his hypnotic eyes, and sense abandoned her. “You’re the Cat,” she said.

His faint smile was chilling. “And did the cards tell you that, my pet?”

“
The cards don’t lie.”

“
And you work with the runners, don’t you? A little-known fact, but I make it my business to be apprised of all apparently extraneous details. You feed information to Josiah Clegg, and in return he gives you money. That’s how you’ve been able to support your family these last years, isn’t it?”

She wanted to deny it as she’d denied it before. It was her social ruin, the end to all her dreams and plans for Fleur’s security. But she sensed it would be useless. Besides, it might not matter. If he were to kill her, how she’d spent her last few years would be unlikely to matter.

“
It would be a waste of time to deny it,” she said. “But consider this. If I were working with one of the most powerful thief-takers in the country and I were to disappear, don’t you think Clegg would put his considerable resources to finding out what happened to me, and bringing the wrongdoer to justice?”

“
No. Clegg doesn’t care about anything but his purse, and you know it. You were better to have allied yourself with someone like Robert Brennan.”

He rose then, towering over her, lithe and fluid. Reaching down, he pulled her up beside him, dangerously close. “I’m afraid you’ve come too far to go back, sweet Jessamine. I have business in London tonight, and I don’t have time to see you safely home.”

“
I got this far without incident—I can find my way back,” she said, trying to still the spurt of hope that filled her.

“
I’m afraid not,” he said with real sorrow. “You’ll accompany me.”

“
Don’t be ridiculous...” She started to back away, but he caught her arm, and his grip, though gentle, was utterly inescapable. He wore thin black gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather, through her layers of clothing, and it chilled and burned her.

“
You’ll come with me,” he said again, “and I’ll show you just who and what the Cat is. Come along, sweet Jess.”

She tried to yank her arm away from him, to escape, but it was useless. His grip was iron. “Don’t call me that!”

Her horse hadn’t run far. She was grazing near Glenshiel’s mount, dulcet and peaceful, waiting for her. “Why not?” Alistair murmured, releasing her arm and settling his hands on her narrow waist. “It’s your name, is it not? What about tender Jess? Loving Jess? Stalwart Jess?” His voice was a low, seductive purr.

“
What about excessively angry Jess, who will see your hide nailed to the wall if you don’t let her go?” she shot back.

The hands tightened around her waist, lifting her, and in a moment she was back on the horse, staring down at him. His hands were still on her waist, and she could feel every finger pressing against her.

“
They won’t nail my hide to a wall, Jess. They’ll hang me at Tyburn, and thousands of people will come to watch a peer die, and they’ll be selling apples and tracts of my so-called confession, and ladies will bid over articles of my clothing, and if you tell them you once bedded me, you’ll be the toast of that motley society.”

She shivered in the night air. “I wouldn’t be there to watch,” she said. “And I haven’t... bedded you.”

His smile was ineffably sweet as he looked up at her. “Ah, but you will, Jess. You’ll be there to watch me die, and you’ll weep hot tears of remorse.”

“
I doubt it.”

“
And you’ll remember the night I took you over the rooftops of London,” he continued, undaunted, as he vaulted onto his own horse, the reins to Jessamine’s mount held tightly in one gloved hand so she couldn’t escape. “And the night you gave yourself to me.”

“
Never.”

He leaned across the saddle, caught her chin in one gloved hand, and kissed her, a brief, deep, erotic claiming of her mouth that she was powerless to resist. “Tonight,” he said.

And a moment later they were thundering down the London road, Jessamine clinging to the pommel to keep her balance as Alistair, the Cat, led her onward.

Fifteen

Robert Brennan was in a suitably foul mood. Frustration had something to do with it, sheer physical need that he thought he’d mastered a decade before. He was like a randy school lad consumed with lust for an errant barmaid. Except that Fleur Maitland was no barmaid, she was a lady. And he was no boy, he was a man with a man’s responsibilities and self-control.

Guilt had something to do with it as well. The look on Fleur’s face, the sheen of tears in her eyes, ate into his soul like acid. He’d done his best to keep away from her—she was temptation pure and simple, and resistance was becoming more and more difficult.

Anger had something to do with it. Someone was making a May game of the runners, and it angered him as little else could. The Cat was there at Blaine Manor, he had no doubt of that whatsoever. The tricks with the jewelry were just that, tricks to annoy and confuse the keepers of the peace. But he wasn’t fool enough to think things were going to stop at that.

It was a quiet night. Mrs. Blaine and most of her guests were out. The rest had retired early, and once again Brennan’s guilt and frustration surfaced. Not that Fleur would welcome his comfort. Just then she was probably sobbing her heart out on her sister’s shoulder.

Except that he didn’t think so. His instincts, usually infallible, were telling him things were afoot. Clegg and Samuel had gone into the nearby village to spend the evening at a pub, but
Brennan had declined their invitation to join them. Something was going to happen, his very blood told him so. He just wasn’t sure what.

He’d half decided that Freddie Arbuthnot was the infamous Cat. To be sure, he seemed to have neither the wit nor the daring to pull off some of the crimes attributed to the Cat, but looks could be deceiving. He had the entree to the very top of society, and he was in need of money. So desperate was his need, as a matter of fact, that he was busy courting the singularly unpleasant Miss Ermintrude Winters.

The only other choice was the seemingly indolent Earl of Glenshiel. He’d seen the man from a distance, listened to his drawling, faintly sarcastic conversation, and come to the conclusion that he was more interested in the cut of his satin coat than exerting himself for the sake of larceny.

But there was something in Glenshiel’s odd golden eyes that hinted at more than appearances suggested. Something mocking, derisive, and devious. Wit was there as well, lurking. And he seemed far too interested in Jessamine Maitland.

Brennan had no idea whether he believed in her putative powers. To be able to track a criminal by the fall of a card seemed alien to his deliberately practical nature, but there was little doubt that Clegg’s success, and his fortunes, had risen astonishingly in the past year. Josiah Clegg was essentially a lazy man, far more ready to earn an easy penny than to exert himself for the larger reward, yet that was exactly what had been happening. It would make a great deal of sense if he were getting supernatural help.

If such a thing could be considered anywhere in the realm of sensible, Brennan reminded himself wryly. He looked toward the main wing of the house, the windows lit against the stormy night sky. Fleur lay behind one of those squares of golden light, probably cursing his soul. He told himself that that was what
he wanted, and he almost believed it.

The Earl of Glenshiel lay behind another of those windows, suffering the grippe, too miserably ill from a surfeit of oysters to see anyone. Or so he said.

And there was no way Brennan could find his way into that portion of the house. Reserved for the quality, those pretty, useless creatures who knew nothing about hard work or real life. It was damnable—there was nothing he could do but bide his time. And watch.

Sooner or later the Cat would expose himself. Sooner or later he would make one fatal mistake, and then Brennan would pounce. He had no intention of letting Clegg claim that generous reward. Brennan wanted it, needed it. And Josiah Clegg’s nefarious ways deserved no more rich rewards.

Jessamine was cold. She hadn’t dressed warmly enough, she had no gloves, and the tearing ride across the countryside was jarring and absolutely terrifying in the utter darkness. She couldn’t see where they were going, but Glenshiel had no such problem. Like a cat, he could see in the dark, and his hand on her reins kept her horse close behind.

When he finally drew to a halt, it was so abrupt she almost tumbled forward over the pommel of the saddle. The closed carriage that awaited them was black and somber, more like a funeral coach than a private phaeton, but Jessamine had no illusions. It would be light and very fast.

Glenshiel was already beside her, reaching up to help her dismount. “Come along, Jessamine,” he ordered.

She stared down at him through her tangled curtain of hair, glaring, unwilling to move. “If you think I’m going anywhere further with you...”

His hands were hard on her waist, and he hauled her down from the horse with nothing short of brute force. She fell against
him, and if she’d had the presence of mind, she would have tried to knock him over.

It wouldn’t have done any good. He was in dangerous control of the situation, and of her, and there was little she could do for the time being but go along with him.

“
What the ‘ell is that?” a coarse voice, followed by a pungent odor, demanded. Both emanated from a small, swarthy creature dressed in improbable black.

“
This is my partner in crime, Nic. Miss Jessamine Maitland, about to embark on a night of larceny. This, dear Jess, is Nicodemus Bottom, my mentor and accomplice. He disposes of the purloined jewels for me and takes a share.”

“
Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?” the man exploded. “Your bleedin’ lordship might have a bleedin’ death wish, but I hopes to live a long and happy life without being turned over to the likes of Josiah Clegg. What made you bring her along? She’ll be the death of both of us.”

“
It wasn’t my idea. She followed me,” Alistair said mildly enough. “I couldn’t very well let her go back to the house and raise the alarm.”

Nicodemus glared up at her. “I’ll have to kill her, I s’pose,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t hold with killing females, but if it’s a choice between her and me...”

“
If anyone kills her, I’ll do the honors,” Alistair drawled. “She’d probably prefer that. In the meantime, we have an appointment in London.”

“
I’d prefer that you didn’t discuss me as if I weren’t even here,” Jessamine said.

“
Lass, I wish to God you weren’t here,” Nicodemus said. “And you aren’t going to have any say in what happens to you. You’re a nasty complication, that’s what you are.”

“
And you’re a nasty little man,” she replied.

“
Not as bad as his lordship here,” the man called Nicodemus
said cheerfully enough. “And not near as bad as your bosom buddy Clegg.”

“
Everything set in the carriage, Nic?” Alistair had already moved away, opening the door and peering in.

“
You can count on me, yer worship. You wants I should hit the lass over the head and tie her to a tree? It would make things a mort easier.”

“
No,” he said. “I want her with me.”

He was a good ten feet away, holding on to the door of the carriage. Nicodemus was even farther away, and with those bandy legs he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. Jessamine waited a moment longer, until Alistair leaned into the darkened interior of the carriage, and then she took off, picking up her heavy skirts and running toward the woods in mindless panic, sensible of nothing but her need to escape, and fast, from these two conscienceless villains.

She heard the explosion behind her, accompanied by a harsh whizzing noise. The quiet thunk, the spit of bark from the tree not two feet away from her path, convinced her immediately of the unbelievable, and her shock was so great, she tripped over her skirts, sprawling onto the forest floor.

He took his time reaching her, obviously unconcerned with the possibility that she might decide to run again. He towered over her, and she simply lay there in a tangle, glaring up at him. “You shot at me,” she said faintly. “Didn’t you?”

“
Yes.”

“
You could have killed me!”

“
Yes,” he said again in a thoroughly pleasant voice. “And I’m not in the mood for target practice. You have three choices. You can get up and run again, and this time I won’t deliberately miss. You can lie where you are, and I’ll let Nicodemus put a bullet in that addled brain of yours. Or you can get on your feet, walk back to the carriage, and climb
inside without any further fuss.”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t see his expression in the darkness, but she had little doubt it was completely cold and ruthless. “I don’t suppose I have a fourth choice,” she asked in a remarkably docile tone of voice. “You could leave me here, and I could walk back to the manor, and I could promise not to say a word to anyone....”

“
No,” he said. “Make up your mind.”

She felt oddly shaken, though she wasn’t about to let him see it as she scrambled to her feet without his assistance, brushing the twigs and loose dirt from her dress. Her dress had a wide rip under one arm, and her knee hurt, but apart from that she was still in one piece.