Lady Thief (24 page)

Lord Alver spoke, his eyes intent on the duke. “How do you know this, Spencer?”

“My path crossed the Cat’s some weeks ago,” Spencer replied. “I found myself intrigued by her. I set out to find the reasons behind her strange career. I found those reasons; I also discovered that she had—on several occasions—assisted with the identification and elimination of spies against England.”

“If that is so,” Alver said slowly, “then the Cat should be honored—pardoned at the very least.”

“My thoughts exactly, Lord Alver. And, the Cat
has
been pardoned—fully and completely. The documents were signed only this morning. But she has one more duty to perform before she hangs up her mask.”

Lady Catherine frowned. “Do you mean she must find the killer?”

Spencer bowed. “The killer, my lady, is here—in this very room.”

There was a stunned silence, then the room became filled with shocked exclamations. Stoven began to edge toward the door, only to find his path blocked by a smiling Beau Brummell. “Come, Stoven,” the Beau said gently, “I am sure you are as eager to learn the identity of the killer as the rest of us.” Stoven, denied the chance to make good his escape, turned stiffly to face Spencer.

“Who is the killer, Your Grace?” Lady Catherine asked. “And the Cat—who is she?”

A voice came from the doors leading to the garden. “I believe I am the best person to answer your questions, Lady Catherine.” The voice was cool, faintly mocking. As one, the guests turned to face the Cat. By this time, the guests were almost beyond shock; they simply stared.

The Cat moved forward slowly, her hood obscuring all but her glittering eyes and the brilliance of her mocking smile. A black cloak brushed her booted heels with every step, and one black-gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword she wore—a relic of a bygone age.

She paused and swept her cloak aside in a graceful bow. “Good evening.”

Before she could utter another word, a voice spoke from the crowd. “Is it not true that you are a murderess?”

The crowd gave a gasp, and parted to reveal the pale, determined Stoven.

The Cat moved slowly to stand before him. “No, Lord Stoven,” she replied calmly, “it is not true.” She stared into his eyes and her own glittered with hatred. “Can you say the same?” It was little more than a whisper, but every person in the room heard her words.

Stoven fell back a step. He started to turn, and felt his arm seized by a powerful hand. It was Brummel. “The lady asked you a question,” said the Beau impassively. “It would be rude of you to ignore it.”

“She’s mad!” Stoven exclaimed. “I’ve never killed anyone!”

In a flash, the Cat’s hand darted out to snatch the cane from his grasp. He started forward instinctively and was once again halted by Brummell’s hand.

The Cat twirled the cane and said casually, “The killer that I seek has a certain ring in his possession. Do you know anything about that ring, my lord?” Stoven was silent; sweat beaded his brow.

The Cat twisted the silver head of the cane and seemed surprised when it came off in her hand. “Why, what is this?” She slowly turned the silver head until a ring rolled out in her hand. “A ring—a talisman ring. In fact, the very ring I seek.”

Stoven strained against Brummell’s powerful hand. “I killed no one!” he gasped.

“Then why do you have in your possession Thomas Courtenay’s ring?” Her voice was cold.

“You put it there,” he said desperately, “when you took my cane! When you robbed me!”

She smiled grimly. “You will have to find another explanation, Stoven. The ring was already in the cane the night I robbed you. I have a witness to prove it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Stoven sneered. “Another thief—like yourself.”

Spencer, who had been moving silently through the crowd, stopped just behind the Cat. “Do you consider me a thief, Stoven?” he asked coldly.

Stoven goggled at him. “You?”

“Yes. You see,
I
am the witness she spoke of. I rode with her the night she held up your coach.”

Stoven went whiter than before. “You still can’t prove I put the ring into the cane.”

The Cat smiled gently. “I saw you kill Thomas Courtenay. Oh, you have changed in the past eight years—I’ll grant that—but you still have that peculiar little scar beneath your right ear. I took particular notice of that—eight years ago. Now, how many men do you suppose there are in England who have a scar shaped like a horseshoe beneath their right ear and who carry a talisman ring concealed in the head of their cane?”

Stoven sneered again. “Who will believe the word of a thief?”

“Well now—
there
you have a point. The Cat may not be believed.” She reached up and calmly removed the hood. “But I think people will listen to—and believe—Jennifer Courtenay.”

There was a gasp from the crowd. Jenny, ignoring everyone else, fixed her eyes on Stoven’s pale face. “Why did you kill my father, Stoven?” she asked softly. “Was it because he was going to expose you as a traitor? Was that it?” She smiled gently at his start of surprise. “Oh, yes—I know all about that. You see, Stoven, my father always kept a journal. He wrote down everything that was important to him. And finding a traitor is certainly very important.”

Stoven broke free of Brummell’s restraining hand and stared wildly around the room. “It’s a conspiracy! You’re all against me!” He started to turn toward the door, and froze in his tracks as the point of Jenny’s sword touched his throat.

“Would you like me to cut the truth out of you, Stoven?”

He stared into her deadly eyes and became suddenly calm. “All right. I killed him. I killed Thomas Courtenay. I had no choice—he was going to tell them.”

Only sheer willpower kept Jenny from cutting his throat. She thought of the father she had lost, and her arm trembled slightly from the effort of holding back.

As Simmons entered through the garden doors, Jenny slowly lowered the sword. “I hope you rot in hell!” she said in a fierce whisper.

Stoven, staring into the chill of her golden eyes, felt almost relieved when Simmons took his arm and said, “Lord Stoven, I hereby arrest you for the murder of Thomas Courtenay.” He was led silently away.

Suddenly, the room errupted into noisy confusion. People crowded around Jenny, congratulating her for finding her father’s killer, and expressing admiration for her daring masquerade.

Brummell stepped up to Spencer, a faint smile on his face. “A fine woman you’ve picked for yourself, Nick. She has fire and spirit. I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing—trying to tame her, I mean. Wouldn’t care to try it myself.”

Spencer looked at the Beau with some surprise. “I don’t mean to try, George. Why should I? I love her.”

Brummell watched him move away. To himself, he murmured, “That just may do it, my friend. That just may do it.”

Jenny looked about her, dazed, and became dimly conscious of Spencer telling everyone that she was tired and would talk to them all later. Then he was leading her through the sympathetic crowd and out into the garden. She was unaware of the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Her only thought was that—at last—it was over.

Once in the privacy of the garden, Spencer took her into his arms and held her gently while sobs racked her slender body. Loving her as he did, he knew that the tears were a needed release from the tensions and fears of the past years.

At long last, her sobs died away, and she lifted tear-bright eyes to gaze up at him. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispered huskily. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Spencer cupped her face in his large hands and smiled gently. “If anyone has a right to tears, love, it is you.”

“I just can’t believe it’s over. It is, isn’t it, Nick? It is over?”

“Yes, love—it’s over. And now we can spend the rest of our lives together with no shadow hanging over us.”

“Nick, are you—are you sure? So much has happened since we met—”

He laid a gentle finger across her lips, silencing her hesitant words. There was a glow deep in his eyes. “I am very, very sure, Jenny. Sure that I love you—sure that I want you to be my wife.”

Jenny slipped her arms around his neck. With a glowing smile, she said, “I believe you mean that, Your Grace.”

A laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “You require a great deal of convincing.”

“Well? What are you waiting for?” There was an impish gleam in her eyes. “Convince me.”

And he did.

Chapter One

A
cold wind snatched at her cloak as Cassandra Eden bent forward to peer in the direction of her coachman’s pointing finger. She shivered as she looked at the broken axle. It was a
very
broken axle, and she did not require the opinion of an expert coach-builder to perceive that the vehicle was not going anywhere until it was repaired. Cassandra’s dismay intensified when fat white flakes of snow began to swirl through the gloom of approaching night.

“Oh, no,” she said.

John Potter, her coachman, nodded glumly. “I suspicioned that axle was cracked, miss, and this godforsaken road finished it off right enough. There’ll have to be a new one, and where to find aught tonight—”

“Obviously we won’t be able to get it repaired tonight,” Cassandra said with a sigh. “But we must have shelter. How far to the nearest inn, John?”

The grizzled coachman ruminated with a frown, then said, “That’d be the Boar’s Head, miss, and it’s all of twenty miles along and back on the main road.”

Even a lightweight racing curricle and team of fine horses would have required more than an hour for the journey on such a bad road, but in any case Cassandra had neither. She had a weary team of well-bred but sturdy horses and an elderly, broken coach that should have been left in her uncle’s London stables. It was late January, late afternoon, and the leaden sky was a grim indication that the drifting flakes of snow were only the overture to a storm.

Cassandra glanced up at the window of the coach, where her maid’s worried face could be seen, then stepped away and surveyed the countryside with considerable—though masked—worry of her own. A damaged bridge some miles back had necessitated this detour from the normal route between London and Bristol; they were presently somewhere in north Berkshire, an area that was almost exclusively patchy forests and endless acres of cultivated or pastured land.

“John, is that a manor house? There—on the edge of that forest across the field?”

The coachman squinted, then nodded slowly. “It appears to be, miss. Haven’t seen another place bigger’n a cottage for miles, so stands to reason there’d be an estate of some kind in these parts. Lonesome place, though.”

Cassandra agreed silently. In the fading light it was difficult to see clearly, but she thought the distant house looked lonely and more than a little desolate. But that was probably the weather, she told herself sternly.

“We shall go there, then,” she said in a decided tone. “Another half mile along this road should bring us to the drive, I think.”

“I’ll go, Miss Cassie. I’m sure they’d be agreeable an’ send a carriage—”

“Oh, nonsense, John. I would much rather walk to the house than huddle in the coach awaiting rescue. We shall not impose upon our host any more than absolutely necessary. Come out, Sarah—we must walk from here.”

Her maid, a pretty but apprehensive young woman no more than a few years older than her mistress, left the shelter of the coach reluctantly. “Walk, Miss Cassie?”

Cassandra could hardly help but smile at Sarah’s consternation; town bred, the maid considered anything outside London’s narrow and bustling streets the wilderness and undoubtedly quaked at the thought of walking any distance at all through this bleak landscape.

“Would you prefer to freeze, Sarah?” She didn’t wait for a response but directed the groom to unstrap her smallest bag from the coach and hand it down to her. Since the horses were standing wearily with no need to be held, the lad scrambled atop the coach and did as he was bid.

“I’ll carry that, miss,” John Potter told her as he reached up for the bag. “Tom can stay with the coach till I bring help from the manor. An’ you won’t be wantin’ to rap on a strange door with no more than this slip of a girl beside you.”

Cassandra, who was neither a shy woman nor one who imagined herself threatened where there was no cause, was a little amused as well as resigned by her servant’s determined protection. It was one of the reasons her uncle had allowed her to set out from London with only her maid; he knew very well that John Potter was a more trustworthy guard than any number of outriders and could be depended upon to defend as well as advise Cassandra in the event of trouble.

“I very much doubt the manor is filled with desperadoes,” she told him in a dry tone.

“Likely not, miss,” the coachman returned stolidly. “But Sir Basil would have my head on a platter was I to let you out of my sight before I was sure you’d be in good hands.”