Cat and Mouse (2 page)

“Yes, Mr Brenner, I am quite aware.” Making sure none of the other thieves were about, Katrina slipped from the room and hurried down two corridors and a short hall to her trunk. She pulled out her oldest and least favourite gown. A yellow taffeta straight front, sporting a sheer, white, organdie overlay with daisy vines embroidered in columns around the skirt and cuffs.

She sighed—her very first ball gown. Regardless of its highly old-fashioned look, it still held the bittersweet memories of her once blossoming adulthood.

Shedding her black thieving attire and fingerless gloves that once held the sorrowful position of her mourning garb, she then quickly slipped into the daisy skirt followed by the long-sleeved bodice, then connected the corresponding eyes to the hooks below the square neckline. She pulled on the appropriate underskirts beneath the dress, tying the drawstring tightly around her waist. In compensation for wearing the gown that was all the rage ten years ago, the fabric originally taken from the last of her mother’s possessions, she donned her best ivory crocheted gloves with the seed pearl trim. She recalled the time a drop of punch splashed onto her thumb. It had nearly broke her heart, but luckily, it hadn’t left a stain.

Her current situation was a stain that could probably never be washed off. With much effort, she rose above the thought and focused on her mission. Her survival depended upon it.

* * * *

In no time she arrived back at the town house where the ball was still in a frenzy of gaiety. Katrina gave the doorman her coyest smile, knowing without a doubt that a lady would never do such. “I fear I’m awfully late.” She allowed her eyelashes to flutter just enough to see him melt and open the door for her. With a tentative hand she reached out and ran a gloved finger down his forearm. One could catch more flies with honey, she’d learnt recently.

Not only did he allow her to pass without another word, but he bowed to her as if she were Princess Alix.

Katrina went directly to the ladies’ retiring room and stood in front of one of the vanities. Strategically placed wall sconces and candelabras filled the feminine space with a soft golden light. The woman in the mirror before her looked quite the opposite of the debutantes, much younger than her own twenty-three years, who’d turned up at tonight’s soirée in order to capture a husband. If any of her old acquaintances happened to be in attendance, they would never recognise her. She’d changed so very much in the last year or so. Her figure had gone from the very bud of womanhood to gaunt—her skin seemed to cling to her bones. She imagined the condition was left over from watching her father’s health deteriorate.

For the last two months, following the auction of her family’s estate, she’d dined on a deficient amount of less than meagre fare at the Den. And aside from wearing not a single jewel this evening—every last one sold to settle the gambling debts that weren’t covered by the sale of her late sire’s possessions—her hair wasn’t the crowning glory it used to be. During her first week with Mr Brenner, he’d persuaded her to sell her raven-black, waist-length locks to a wig-maker. He’d wrapped a strand of twine round the width and shorn her hair, just below the ears, with the biggest pair of rusty scissors she’d ever seen.

“This fist full of quids will feed you, here at the Den of course, for two months,” he’d crowed and waved the paper pound notes under her nose.

She never had found out exactly how much he’d acquired, her tears had been too heavy and too frequent that night.

Katrina’s morbid thoughts were interrupted by a woman who’d entered the room and lowered herself onto an upholstered bench.

“I fear I’m getting too old to stay up all night dancing.” She shook her head and patted the back of her beribboned coif. The reflection in the mirror revealed her sparkling earbobs to Katrina.

“Nonsense.” Katrina smiled and turned to the woman. “You couldn’t be more than, what, thirty?”

The woman’s fan snapped open and she giggled while the stiff white lace fluttered beneath her chin.
Chins
. “I’m a good
fifteen
years more than you suppose. Had you not been standing in the ladies’ retiring room in a gown, I would have taken you for a flattering young buck.” Katrina silently wondered if the woman was referring to her hair until she spoke again. “Honestly, I suppose we women should stick together. We’re all we’ve got, after all.”

She nodded but was well aware that her smile was nowhere near genuine. The conflict of guilt versus necessity pooled like a boulder in her soul. “I shall leave you to repose, then.” She had turned to depart when the woman stopped her.

“Before you go, would you please help me? I think my stays have popped open at the back—I knew the drawstring was frayed, but I didn’t take the time to replace it.”

Katrina smiled—sincerely this time. Here, before her, was a pickpocket’s dream. The woman was actually inviting Katrina to lay hands upon her person. With an inward grimace, she shifted her weight and took a step forward. What she was doing was quite wrong, and yet vital in support of her very existence. Determined, she focused on the job at hand. “Of course I will help you.”

She bade the woman stand, making sure that no matter which way
Madame Baubles
turned, a mirror couldn’t be seen. “The light is much better over here.”

After manoeuvring the layers of fabric over the woman’s head, she found that the worn corset strings had merely come untied. Katrina retied the strings and, with much show and fuss, pulled the material back down over her bustle, skimming the woman’s ears just enough to render them temporarily desensitised. The moment she had hold of the diamond earrings, she concealed them between her palm and thumb, then folded her hands demurely in front of her.

“Oh, thank you, my dear. It feels quite like I’m in for the duration, now.”

“I consider it an honour to have helped you out.”

With a nod, the woman swept from the room.

It was as if a massive weight lifted from Katrina’s shoulders. She wasn’t in the mood to return to the Den—now that she’d procured the required fiscal payment for Mr Brenner. She decided to wander around the upper floors of the grand town house for a while. Who knew? Perhaps she’d come across a few items that would hold her landlord at bay for at least another month if not two.

* * * *

It was near sunrise. Everyone had finally left Maxwell Courtland’s Third Annual Spring Ball for their prospective homes—if not for rendezvous with their lovers.
The
ton
could be categorised as the biggest bunch of contradictions in history, save the Romans
, he mused as he shed his coat.

Max decided to have a nightcap in his study before heading to bed. A cap to top off the half-dozen or so other caps he’d had throughout the night. The mouth of the brandy decanter clinked cheerfully on the lip of his crystal snifter, sounding like a greeting between old friends. He lifted the beverage in a salute to no one in particular and precipitously dispensed half the glass down his throat.

The two finalists on his sister’s ‘Find a Wife for Max’ list, had attended this evening’s soirée. Weary, he lowered himself into the closest chair, feeling like a small nocturnal canine who’d narrowly escaped his captors in a summertime fox hunt.

One of the young ladies, a Miss Winifred Boonsbury, came from a very old family, but it was whispered that she was icy-cold to the touch, and, Max imagined, those doing the whispering were merely being diplomatic. With him, she neither practised nor likely held in high regard any sort of conversational skills. The sour look cemented permanently on her face attested to the fact. And the woman’s mother was so hard of hearing that the most discreet verbal exchange floated happily across any room as if she’d taken up a trumpet. If he married this girl, he’d be doomed to a silent—save the mother-in-law—wintry sort of life, which was ideal for a Christmas landscape, but Max wanted more. He wanted adventure. He wanted chemistry, heat. And, specifically, he wanted someone who’d be experimental—in bed and out.

His other choice, a Miss Charity Wilson, was a beauty. Sadly, she’d made the rounds—flat on her back—with nearly every randy buck of the
ton
, who in turn shared the not-so-engaging experience with anyone who would listen. Apparently, she demanded expensive baubles for her
position
in society. This was not what he envisioned for his future, either. He didn’t wish to spend his millions paying for the privilege of bedding
Mrs
Maxwell Courtland.

With a flip of his wrist, the rest of the brandy blazed a trail down this throat just as smoothly as the first half. The other listed females ‘ripe for the picking’, as his sister put it, he’d disregarded—their conditions were even worse than that of Boonsbury and Wilson. He shook his head and untied his cravat, flinging the silken tie in disgust to land where it would.

Taking up the decanter once again, he then splashed more liquid aid into his glass, the happy sound at odds with his unpleasant thoughts. He sank deeper into the chair in the darkened room and tossed back a healthy swig. Exhaling the heat from his throat, a sound startled him. It had come from behind the drapes.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, rising from the chair. He set his drink down on the fireplace mantle and took up the iron and brass poker from its stand. Softly he stepped over to the window, raised the poker high above his head, grabbed hold of the thick fabric and tossed the curtain aside.

He could barely make out the figure of the little mouse of a girl who stood there. Upon closer inspection, he could discern the surprised, wide-eyed look and form of an ‘O’ her luscious lips held. His cock seemed to react in adolescent glee before his mind registered any further information.

Knowing he’d probably frightened her, he flung the poker to the ground. “I do apologise. I thought everyone had departed.”

“I—I—”

Max motioned with his hand. “Come out. I won’t harm you.” He stepped out of her path so that she could pass when the sound of something large and metal hit the floor in the vicinity of her feet.

Chapter Two

“What was that?” the man asked. Amused suspicion rang in his voice. Had his face not been cast in shadow, Katrina would have been able to read which conflicting emotion prevailed. How could she tell him that the silver tray from the stunning tea service in the upstairs sitting room had just fallen from between her knees?

Katrina stepped over the tray, intending to make a dash for the door, when a hand encircled her upper arm like an iron band. A metal tinkling, albeit muffled, sounded from beneath her skirts. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth to stop herself from cursing—a habit she’d picked up from the rabble with whom she shared lodgings.

“Just a moment.” He manoeuvred her off her intended path and paused. “What do we have here?”

Shite
! It seemed he had indeed noticed the tray on the floor.

“Hm. A thief, eh? Any other curious intrigues beneath your skirts?”

“Nothing else—I mean, this is all some sort of mistake. Unhand—”

“I think not. This situation calls for further investigation.”

She tried futilely to pull free from his grip. “No… Release me this instant… Bastard!”

A strangled breath that sounded as if it could have been a humorous noise caught in his throat. “Such language, madam,” he scolded.

Regardless of her struggles, he muscled her over to a settee, sat and positioned her over his knees as if she were a naughty child in need of a spanking. Bloody hell, he could have at least allowed her to face her punisher head on!

“Let me go, you cur!” She kicked her feet, but they never struck their target. This was not good. Katrina needed to escape the nightmare she’d stepped into before she ended up in Newgate.

“Stop wiggling, this instant.”

At once, his hand came down on her backside. Hard. She squeaked in protest—or had she moaned?—and froze. Regardless, the sting, which refused to fade beneath the fabric of her skirts, sent liquid fire straight to her womb. She must have broken into a sweat, for the cotton of her drawers at the juncture of her thighs seemed damper than it had before. Too embarrassed to admit even to herself that the pain and pleasure of the still-smarting tap was affecting her in such a heated way, not to mention the fact that her vulnerability in this position could induce all sorts of immoral ideas, she shouted at him, “There, you’ve done your worst—now let me go!”

His laugh could’ve definitely been categorised as wicked. “That, madam, wasn’t anywhere near my worst.” With that, he yanked the back of her skirt up and over her bottom.

Indignant beyond words and trapped between his solid chest and rock-hard thighs, Katrina tried again to get away with more kicking and thrashing about, but the way in which he held her could not be broken. The silverware she’d fixed to her petticoat now tinkled aloud with each movement. At once she stilled. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice her take. It was quite dark, after all. She drew in a breath. A warm, spicy scent invaded her senses, but only for a moment.

“What do we have here?”

Good God
.

“Either you were in the midst of setting the table for supper and your skirts ingested a few essential items or in your spare time you are a wind chime.”

“Release me, damn you!”

“Not until I’ve retrieved my family’s silver.”

Katrina heard each shellfish fork, butter knife and teaspoon as they were ripped from their restraints, and after enduring the inquest of her lower region in a manner only a husband had the right to do, she stiffened when he spoke. “There, that should do it.” She felt him lean over and away from her to set her near-pilfered prizes upon an end table next to the settee. At that fortuitous moment, Katrina jumped from his lap. She slammed the heel of her boot down hard and with purpose on top of his foot, then ran for the door. Behind her the man roared out a name—likely that of someone in his household. The frantic, frustrated echo followed her all the way down the two-tiered set of stairs to the foyer. She pulled the heavy door open—damned if she was going to close it—and fled through the front gate, her frantic steps too loud upon the pavement for comfort.