Regency Sins. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
times during the short trip into Manchester, Alice had invited her to join them for the day. Her daughters had echoed their mother’s sentiment. Nora had refused all requests politely on the grounds that she didn’t wish to hamper their fun and that there was nothing unacceptable about a respectable, middle-class spinster conducting errands on her own.
She did, however, promise to meet them at the inn for tea later that afternoon and to join them on the return to Stockport-on-the-Medlock. Nora had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth. In the cold winter weather, it would be the height of foolishness to make the five-mile trip home on foot and carrying her purchases to boot.
Nora pulled her winter cloak close about her. It was a solid, although inexpensive, affair, made of wool and lined with rabbit instead of the other more luxurious furs worn by the Squire’s wife and his daughters. But it was what she could afford without taking funds away from the truly poor who couldn’t lay claim to even the middling garments she wore.
She pulled her hood over Eleanor’s dun-coloured wig and clutched her reticule and shopping basket close, glad to be off on her rounds. The winter had been especially cruel so far and many people would be happy to receive the relief The Cat offered through the conduit of Eleanor Habersham.
The Cat could not afford the risk of making deliveries in person often for fear of increasing her chance of exposure. If she was too liberal in flaunting her identity, it wouldn’t be long before someone turned her over to authorities.
Early on, she had taken great pains to set up her network by identifying reliable and trustworthy merchants who would convey The Cat’s offerings to those in need. They’d learned to recognise Eleanor Habersham as The Cat’s messenger.
Nora hadn’t gone far when the strange sensation of being watched caused her to pause and reassess her surroundings, which until that point had been filled only with other people going about their daily business at the shops. Someone was not what they seemed.
Cautiously, so as not to give away her awareness of being followed, Nora glanced around, quartering the area with her gaze. A woman with her young children entered the greengrocer’s. A street-sweep cried out his business on the corner. A hackney waited for his next fare. Then she saw him. It was no more than a glimpse before he fell back into the crowd of people moving through the streets, but it was unmistakably him. Stockport was following her.
Nora cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions. He was a busy man. He might very well have his own reasons to be in Manchester. It was, after all, a thriving city and Stockport was a man interested in enterprise and industry. She had no proof yet that he was here simply to follow Eleanor Habersham, a spinster of meagre means, on her errands. He had given no indication of having seen her beyond her intuition sensing his presence.
Yet, his presence sounded an alarm. Nora looked up and down the street. While it was possible that he would be in Manchester for his own purposes, it seemed unlikely that a man of his calibre would be on this particular street, which was devoted to grocers and food shops of various sorts. An Earl didn’t procure his own foodstuffs. This was a section of town frequented by the servants of the wealthy and those who couldn’t afford servants of their own.
There was only one way to find out if his being in town was coincidence or something more. Nora smiled to herself. Forewarned was forearmed. She would put him to the test and still get most of her duties accomplished right under his nose.
Nora deliberately walked down the street, giving him a chance to spot her if that was his intention, and entered her first stop, the bakery.
‘Good day, Mr Harlow. I’ve come to get some of your excellent sticky buns. Hattie would have my head if I returned home without them.’ Nora exchanged pleasantries with Mr Harlow and wandered to the front window while he wrapped up her order. Her initial concern had been warranted. Stockport was occupying himself with a newspaper vendor across the street while keeping the bakery in perfect view.
If he was waiting for her to exit the warm shop, he was going to get extremely cold. There was nothing worse than standing still in the cold unless it was knowing the person you waited for was keeping warm inside. Confident in her strategy, Nora launched into an animated discussion with Mr Harlow regarding the merits of white bread crumbs versus brown in Manchester pudding.
Good God, what could she possibly be talking about that would take so long and demand so much gesticulation? Brandon stamped his booted feet in a feeble attempt to generate some warmth and movement in his legs. Despite his caped greatcoat, muffler, gloves and fur beaver, he was not impervious to the cold.
He fought the urge to check his pocket watch one more time. He had already made the mistake of dragging it out of his waistcoat pocket once. Getting the timepiece out required removing his shearling-lined gloves and parting his greatcoat to reach inside. The newspaper tucked beneath his arm was warmer than he was. Short of going into the bakery and declaring his presence to the spinster, he had no choice but to wait, since the alternative would be to abandon his plan altogether.
Admittedly, the plan was hastily concocted. He had ridden over to Squire Bradley’s to discuss some brief district business regarding the assizes and learned Eleanor Habersham was riding into Manchester with Alice Bradley. The opportunity was too good to pass up after his ‘visit’ with The Cat the prior evening. What better way to determine if there was a link between Eleanor and The Cat than to follow Eleanor about town? It had seemed a plausible idea at the time. Now, he had his doubts. If he had to wait any longer, he’d have frostbite to add to his growing list of regrets.
He did not usually tolerate being relegated to a watch-and-wait role. There was no reason he was tolerating it now. Brandon decided he’d had enough. If he was going to have regrets over the Spinster Habersham, they would be of his making and not hers.
Miss Habersham tucked a package into her shopping basket and reached in her reticule. Brandon came alert, straightening his posture from the slouch he’d adopted against a lamp post. At last! He watched eagerly as Miss Habersham handed over payment for whatever she had purchased. It was his cue to move in.
‘Miss Habersham? Is that you? I thought it might be.’ Brandon strode forward, touching his hand respectfully to the brim of his hat. ‘It’s a cold day to be out. Let me take those packages for you.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, which would have assuredly been ‘no’, and relieved her of the cumbersome shopping basket.
‘Lord Stockport, what a surprise,’ Miss Habersham responded, making a brilliant recovery from the initial look of surprise that had washed over her face. That look bore speculating on, though, Stockport thought.
She’d been surprised, but not in the way someone is startled out of the blue. It was almost as if she’d known he was there. Her look upon his approach bordered on perplexed and annoyed. She had not expected him to announce his presence and she was annoyed that he had. Brandon mused that, if she had known such a welcome would increase his desire to stick close to her, she might have schooled her features better.
‘What brings you to town, my lord?’ she asked in her nasal-pitched voice.
Brandon waved his gloved hand dismissively. ‘Some business that I quickly wrapped up. It was nothing all that important, just something that needed doing. And you? Do you have other stops to make?’ He peered into the basket, filled only with the wrapped buns, trapping her into completing the errands he believed still remained. She’d only just arrived in town and one did not travel five miles simply to visit the bakery. In essence, he knew what he was doing. He was coercing her into the spending the day with him.
Gamely, Miss Habersham took the bait. ‘Why, yes, I do, Lord Stockport. It would be absolutely wonderful if you could accompany me.’
Ah, the victory was too easily won, but Brandon took it anyway. Since he’d met The Cat, his victories had been more like draws, something he wasn’t used to. However, as expected, the easy victory was not without price. Brandon was hard pressed to distinguish whether Eleanor Habersham was being herself with her excessive chatter and tittering or deliberately trying to run him off.
The second stop was the butcher’s,