Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle. Bronwyn Scott

They both didn’t know what the thief looked like, only he knew.

      ‘We know he must be from around here, because he has knowledge of upper-class homes,’ the Squire countered, showing more intelligence than Brandon had previously given him credit for.

      ‘Is there anyone new in the neighbourhood since these robberies began?’

      The Squire thought for a moment. ‘That’s the one drawback with progress. Since we’ve been planning for that textile factory, there have been lots of new men in the area—workers, supervisors, architects, engineers, investors, the whole gamut.’

      ‘If it’s too difficult to think of new people, think of a motive,’ Brandon suggested, shifting in his chair. The sooner the Squire was placated or given the illusion of action, the sooner he’d leave and Brandon could get on with his day, something he desperately needed to do. Talking about The Cat was creating an interesting side effect in his nether regions. ‘Who would have reason to rob certain wealthy homes while leaving other potential homes untouched? Perhaps someone is not happy about the factory and believes it will cost people their jobs?’ Brandon shamelessly hypothesised, borrowing liberally from The Cat’s argument the prior night. He hoped to plant the idea firmly in the Squire’s head.

      ‘That’s ridiculous. There isn’t anyone who believes that kind of nonsense!’ the Squire blustered, nonplussed by the very idea. ‘Why, that sort of thinking is not English!’

      Bradley’s intelligence quotient fell back a notch. Brandon schooled his features to hide his disbelief. Surely the man didn’t believe the issues that had sparked Peterloo twelve years ago had actually been resolved? If anything, the intervening years had created a stronger, better-organised working class.

      The coming of widespread industrialisation had changed everything, including the need for different representation in Parliament—the very issue he’d been debating when the message had arrived in London regarding the burglaries. No wonder Bradley was having trouble coming up with motives. The poor man couldn’t fathom the political realities of the day.

      Brandon returned to his previous suggestion. ‘Perhaps names would be the best place to start after all.’

      The Squire leaned forward, frustration evident in his tone. ‘My lord, I don’t think you understand. Your suggestions are theoretically sound. However, there haven’t been any newcomers who’ve taken up long-term residence in Stockport-on-the-Medlock recently except for the investors from London.’

      Brandon raised his eyebrows. ‘None beyond that? I find it unlikely since all the expansion in Manchester has put the outskirts of the city a mere five miles from the town. I would have expected other hangers-on to be arriving in order to capitalise on the new economies that will be opening up.’

      Bradley fidgeted. Aha, Brandon thought. There was someone. ‘We mustn’t discount anyone, Squire,’ he encouraged.

      ‘Well, it’s just that the newcomers seem highly unlikely suspects.’ Bradley drew a deep breath. ‘The vicar’s new since you’ve been here, but he’s a man you’ve personally appointed so there’s no point in looking that direction. The new industrialists in town have nothing to gain from committing robberies against themselves. In fact, their homes have been hit the hardest.’

      ‘Out with it, man,’ Brandon urged, sensing the Squire was holding back. ‘Is there no one else?’

      ‘The only other newcomer isn’t a man at all, but a spinster, Miss Eleanor Habersham.’ Bradley shook his head as he said the name. ‘It’s hardly right to even bring the sweet lady’s name up in such a conversation. She’s quite a silly thing, although the ladies adore her. My wife is going for tea at her place this afternoon. Apparently, Miss Habersham serves the most delectable cakes. I have to take my wife’s word for it. The vicar and I both tried to call on her when she first arrived to be neighbourly, but she’ll have nothing to do with men. Men intimidate the poor dear, I suppose.’

      ‘Is that so? The woman sounds quite vulnerable to me,’ Brandon suggested, hoping to lead the Squire to a particular conclusion.

      ‘S’ truth, she’s a shy lady on her own. I dare say she knows little about the ways of the world,’ the Squire agreed, appearing to mull the thought over for a moment before reaching a decision.

      Brandon pushed his point. ‘It may be that Miss Habersham has nothing to do with the goings-on around the village, but there might be someone in her household who does. Perhaps someone in her employ has pulled the wool over her eyes and is committing these crimes behind her back.’ That scenario seemed most likely since the woman he’d encountered last night definitely didn’t look like a spinster or, for that matter, act like one.

      The Squire seemed genuinely horrified at the possibility. ‘Oh the poor dear! I hadn’t thought of that. How awful for her to be in the midst of such danger and be completely unaware of her jeopardy. We must do something.’

      Brandon had the Squire where he wanted him. Without an entrée, he could not insinuate himself into a ladies’ tea hosted by a painfully shy woman and not appear heavy handed. He needed the Squire to go with him and provide a casual introduction. ‘What’s our next step?’

      ‘Perhaps we should attend the tea today as well. We can use my wife’s invitation to Miss Habersham’s little circle. It’s all for the dear lady’s own good.’

      ‘A capital idea!’ Brandon agreed. ‘I think it is time the lady in question got over her fear of gentlemen callers and high time the Earl of Stockport met his newest neighbour.’

      Nothing Squire Bradley imparted about Stockport-on-the-Medlock’s resident spinster adequately prepared Brandon for afternoon tea at Miss Habersham’s. To start, the poor dear had the misfortune of living at the Old Grange, a nice enough middle-class manse in its day, once having played home to a comfortable gentleman farmer, but which now had fallen into apathetic neglect. The Old Grange was not faring well if the bleak gardens and straggly front lawn were indications. December made it worse, Brandon thought, dismounting from his bay stallion.

      At the door, Brandon gave the dour manservant his card and mentally eliminated him as a possible suspect simply because of his gender. The Cat was definitely not male. The manservant gave him a distrusting glance that said men were a rare commodity in Miss Habersham’s milieu and reluctantly led the way down a short narrow hall to the front parlor.

      Feminine voices reached Brandon before he stepped into the room. It was a good thing too, otherwise he’d have thought he’d stepped into a chamber of mannequins. Upon his appearance, all conversation halted and teacups stopped halfway to lips as they took in his masculine presence with extreme shock. Brandon could imagine the gossip that would circulate town tomorrow—the Earl of Stockport calling on the local spinster in the midst of her weekly ladies’ tea.

      Brandon squared his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his actions. He’d correctly kept his hat and gloves with him to indicate this would be the briefest of duty calls. No etiquette expert could fault him for calling on Miss Habersham first since it was the higher-ranking person’s duty to initiate a call on lower-ranking persons. After all, he didn’t have the time to wait for her to come to him. The faster this business of The Cat was concluded, the sooner he could return to London.

      ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ Brandon bowed to the room in general. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, but Squire Bradley will be along shortly and he assured me this was the best place to make the acquaintance of every important woman in town.’ He flashed a practised smile sure to dazzle, while inwardly he was quite peeved Squire Bradley was not already there helping to pave his way.

      Brandon cast his gaze about the room for a woman likely to fit Miss Habersham’s qualifications. The woman who rose to meet him was a walking juxtaposition, putting his politician’s senses on high alert. She might dress like a spinster in that ill-fitting 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