Regency Sins. Bronwyn Scott

brown serge but no spinster in the history of the world had a body like that.

      Of course, he probably wasn’t supposed to notice such a fine figure thanks to the camouflage of the hideous gown and the severe hairstyle, which was most likely designed to call attention to the heavy glasses perched on Miss Habersham’s nose—a delightfully pert creation if one got past the spectacles.

      The glasses not only obscured her nose, they also obscured her eyes; that made Brandon uneasy. In his line of work, he preferred to see a person’s eyes. Eyes were the only true indicators of trustworthiness. Something was not right.

      ‘My lord, you honour us with this unexpected visit. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Eleanor Habersham.’

      The lady in question spoke with a grating nasality to her voice. Brandon fought the urge to cringe—no doubt most did. Such a nagging tone would be a sure deterrent against holding protracted conversations with the lady.

      ‘The honour is all mine.’ Using his considerable drawing-room charm, Brandon smiled over her hand as if she were a diamond of the first water. He expected her to titter and play into the fantasy that he found her attractive. After a smile or two, with his eyes firmly fixed on the woman he was addressing, women usually did. This one did not.

      ‘What brings you to the Grange?’

      Was that a touch of steel he heard beneath the nasal-pitched voice of this insecure spinster who could hardly meet his eyes?

      ‘I’ve come to greet my new neighbours,’ Brandon offered congenially, overlooking the defensive nature of the question. He winked at the assembled ladies and directed his comment to the group at large, ‘Also, I am here to gather information about The Cat. Everyone knows you ladies are the eyes and ears of the village.’

      At that, the room began to buzz with voices eager to tell their tales. Alice Bradley’s voice rose above the din and she waved a lace handkerchief to silence them. ‘La! I don’t know what the world is coming to when decent country folk can’t sleep peacefully in their own homes. This is the third time we’ve been robbed. So many of us have suffered!’ She waved her handkerchief again to indicate other ladies in the room. Those who nodded in distress were apparently wives of the men Brandon had met with last night.

      Alice turned back to her hostess. ‘Miss Habersham, that gives you and his lordship something in common. The two of you are the only ones whose homes haven’t been visited by The Cat.’ She eyed Brandon speculatively. ‘It is strange your home hasn’t been targeted since it has been unoccupied these last weeks. Pardon my bluntness, but you’ve got far more to plunder than the rest of us.’

      ‘Ma’am, I am sorry to hear of your loss last night. I passed the morning with your husband, trying to deduce who might be behind these attacks. Miss Habersham and I must count ourselves fortunate thus far. However, I would rather catch this thief than see how long my luck holds,’ Brandon offered neutrally. At the moment he was far more interested in Miss Habersham’s reaction.

      Behind her thick lenses, he noted that Miss Habersham’s eyes widened in surprise at the reference to The Cat and she’d actually dared to look up at the mention of their two homes being untouched. Granted, it was only the briefest of glances, but it had revealed to Brandon a pair of sharp ice-green eyes that suddenly seemed too lively to belong to the shy woman awkwardly standing beside him.

      Brandon let the conversation swirl around him as the conversation moved on to discuss the Squire’s upcoming Christmas masque. It gave him a chance to study Miss Habersham in further detail.

      During his tenure as Earl, Brandon had learned the difficult lesson that, more often than not, people wore disguises. He’d developed a knack for seeing beneath the exterior façade to the truths people hid within. He wondered what kind of disguise Miss Habersham wore and why she wore it.

      He would bet good money the glasses were unnecessary. They were thick on purpose to distort the size and shape of her eyes, making them look unnaturally bug-eyed. They also offered an excuse to keep her gaze downcast. She probably couldn’t see straight ahead at all with them on. Her hair was another matter, worn in a dun-coloured brown mass scraped back into a tight, unbecoming bun that emphasised her face and the unattractive spectacles.

      An ordinary man might have been daunted by the nature of Miss Habersham’s appearance, but Brandon saw the idiosyncrasies. Miss Habersham’s skin was smooth alabaster with not a mark to mar its perfection. For all her professed nervousness, her mittened hands were steady when she held her tea cup. Her submissive posture belied a striking height. If she stood up straight, Brandon wagered she’d stand over five and a half feet.

      Her figure didn’t speak spinster either. For all her prissy mannerisms, she was a woman in good shape. Her waist was trim, her legs long beneath the brown skirt, her torso lean and her bosom impressive despite the efforts of her undergarments to the contrary. No, there wasn’t a dry brittle bone beneath the ugly gown.

      His fifteen minutes for a polite afternoon call were up and the Squire had not appeared—so much for masculine loyalty. Brandon turned to his hostess and took his leave. The other ladies near them discreetly drew back, allowing him a semi-private moment with her.

      ‘Could I persuade you to walk with me to the door?’ he asked, taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘I want to talk with you about your safety. Since it has been pointed out that your home has not yet been a target, I am worried that it soon will be. Do you have adequate protection? I can send men to stand watch.’

      ‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Habersham said in a dismissive tone that frankly shocked him. He had not expected to be declined.

      ‘I must protest—’ Brandon began.

      ‘No, my lord, it is I who must protest. The Cat would not be interested in my home. Look around, you can see that I possess nothing that would appeal to a burglar of The Cat’s calibre. There is no silver to steal, no china of merit, nothing but a few knick-knacks and souvenirs. I am a woman of modest means.’

      ‘Burglars are not careful of station, Miss Habersham. They are common thieves,’ Brandon lectured. This woman was too naïve by half to think she’d go untouched. She might not be a woman of great wealth, but no doubt there was a trinket or two of some value waiting to be discovered within these walls. She was a woman who had the means to live on her own no matter how modestly. ‘It may be true that you have nothing of merit, but The Cat doesn’t know that. The thief may strike anyway.’

      They reached the door and Brandon knew Miss Habersham was glad to be rid of him. Her farewell was curt and skilfully put the interaction back into her hands.

      ‘Thank you for the warning. I will let you know if I change my mind about your offer.’ No polite pleasantries followed, no gesture was offered to visit again, no opening to make sure she saw him again.

      Brandon swung up on his horse, disgruntled with the outcome. He’d expected an entrée into Miss Habersham’s life. What was wrong with him? The better question was what was wrong with her? Miss Habersham didn’t add up. It wasn’t just his ego, it was a well-known fact in his London circles that no woman could resist his charm. It was galling to think that a spinster of Miss Habersham’s unfortunate disposition would succeed so thoroughly where other more sophisticated women had failed. That in itself was a red flag.

      Eleanor’s rejection of him was quite telling. Sure of his charm, Brandon had expected the woman to drool with anticipation at the thought of an Earl’s attentions, no matter how inconsequential. Instead, she had refused his attentions and his offer of protection.

      The afternoon visit had not gone as planned, but he had not come away empty-handed. The squire might quickly discard Miss Habersham as a potential suspect, but Brandon knew what the squire did not. The Cat was a woman. It seemed an odd coincidence that The Cat and a woman masquerading as a spinster would take up residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock simultaneously. If he’d learned anything this afternoon it was that Miss Habersham wasn’t a spinster. She was a mystery.

       Chapter Three