Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle (44 page)

John and Witherspoon made money off the grime of industry, but wouldn't dare to dirty themselves by living amid the squalor they wrought.

They might think twice about their fortunes if they couldn't look down on the factories of Manchester from their lofty mansions on Cheetham Hill, but instead had to live in a once-elegant, but quickly succumbing, suburb of Manchester or some other such neighbourhood.

The decision to carry out her plans at St John's had been a classic prisoner's dilemma and she'd spent the better part of the week debating her decision.

Go or stay? There appeared no way she could win. If she went and there was no trap, it would mean that Brandon had used their intimate encounter to manipulate her plans. If not, it would mean Brandon held some modicum of feeling for her, but going would put her in significant danger.

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Pickpocket Countess

Nora knew she should hope the first option was true, but part of her didn't want to believe Brandon could fake such an intense encounter or, even if he could, that he would have done so with her. After all, she'd been honest with him from the start about who and what she was.

While Nora, the woman on the brink of catapulting into love, was tempted to play the coward and renege on her Wednesday raid, The Cat knew her duty. The Cat did not shirk her responsibilities.

Despite the hiccup of her interlude with Brandon, The Cat was succeeding; the investors were scared; word in the village had it that two were

to pull out. The mill was short on

funds. Everything was going according to plan.

Experience taught her that was when the bottom usually fell out of the bucket. Just not tonight, she prayed, please, just don't let it be tonight. Still, in spite of her responsibilities, she might have opted for remaining at home this evening if it hadn't been for the note that arrived Monday afternoon.

The regular food supplies had not improved Mary health. She desperately needed a doctor and expensive medicines. Nora was her only hope. That Mary had written to
ask
for help indicated how dire her situation must be.

The street on which St John lived in his palatial townhouse was near. Nora

off and followed the lane behind the fine homes leading to the mews where the residents stabled their cattle. She found a quiet corner behind St John's home, not far from the gate leading to his small city garden where she could discreetly leave her horse.

She'd been here twice before and

the gardens and house

well. The dining room, with its

crystal chande-

lier, was St John's pride. The elegant room could be accessed from the outside by French doors that opened into the room so guests could be entertained by the burbling fountain in the spring.

In the winter, the doors were kept shut and the gardens dark.

Scott

149

It would be the perfect entrance as long as the undercook had done her job and slipped the sleeping potion Nora's network had provided into the staff's afternoon tea, the last meal they would have before serving St John's guests. The powder would induce a sound eight hours of sleep before off.

If the potion worked as planned, all the non-essential staff would be asleep, leaving her to deal only with the footmen in the dining room serving the meal. She wasn't worried overmuch. Many of them were hired just for the evening and already had sympathies with The Cat. The others didn't care much for St John and his blustering ways. She was counting on them enjoying the sight of their arrogant master being brought to heel too much to pose any real problem.

Nora dismounted and continued the short distance to St John's on foot. She deftly scaled the garden wall and dropped silently to the ground. Her first task was to unlock the gate.

There was no sense in scaling the wall on her way out too.

When she left, she had only to run to the gate, push it open and she'd be in the street with only a short distance between her and the horse. Better yet, should Brandon be telling the about the party, the guests would have their carriages and horses hidden from common view. By the time they retrieved their horses to give pursuit, she would be long gone into the night.

Her escape route secured, Nora turned her attention to the house. Customarily, on Wednesday nights the St Johns played cards. She scanned the exterior. Her eyes lit on the dining-room window. The room was dark, the exquisite chandelier dim. Her spirits sank.

She supposed a part of her had hoped to see the chandelier blazing, but that was ridiculous. Witherspoon and St John wouldn't overlook that obvious detail. A lit chandelier would off a burglar, a sure sign that someone was dining at home.

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Pickpocket Countess

She pulled a small watch out from beneath her cloak and consulted its face. Five minutes before nine. St John and company were to have sat for dinner at a quarter past seven.

By now they would be finishing their third course, the fowl course, and have had plenty to drink. It was well known that St John served drinks before dinner and kept an excellent wine cellar for his entertainments.

Nora did quick calculations in her head. Her information indicated St John served his meals la
Russe.
That meant there would be ten footmen in attendance, one for each guest.

Her tallies totalled twenty people in all. Unless Brandon was in the room-then that made twenty-two, Brandon and the footman serving him. The thought drew a shiver from her that she did not dare to contemplate. She had not seen him since their night together. She could not stop to dwell on him now. She had a performance to give-if not to the group quietly waiting for her in the dark house, then for Brandon when she finished here.

She neared the panes and her breath caught. She glanced again and was sure. Candle flames, invisible at a distance, flickered on the dining-room table. Elation surged through her.

Brandon hadn't lied. Do not think on him! she cautioned herself, breathing deeply to center her thoughts.

She checked the two pistols and knife she carried at her waist-three weapons, not counting the hidden dagger in her sleeve sheath, the one she'd pulled on Brandon. She thought of Mary's three children and shoved fears for her own safety aside and bravely plunged ahead.

The glass-paned doors that gave out on to the terrace from the St Johns' dining room shattered the polite tones of supper conversation. Women screamed. Men bit off barely restrained expletives at the

of their well-ordered evening. A

dark form vaulted on to the white-clothed table. In each hand, two deadly, long-nosed pistols gleamed in the dim candlelight.