Her spirits sank.
She supposed a part of her had hoped to see the chandelier blazing, but that was ridiculous. Witherspoon and St John wouldn’t overlook that obvious detail. A lit chandelier would warn off a burglar, a sure sign that someone was dining at home.
She pulled a small watch out from beneath her cloak and consulted its face. Five minutes before nine. St John and company were to have sat for dinner at a quarter past seven. By now they would be finishing their third course, the fowl course, and have had plenty to drink. It was well known that St John served drinks before dinner and kept an excellent wine cellar for his entertainments.
Nora did quick calculations in her head. Her information indicated St John served his meals à la Russe. That meant there would be ten footmen in attendance, one for each guest.
Her tallies totalled twenty people in all. Unless Brandon was in the room—then that made twenty-two, Brandon and the footman serving him. The thought drew a shiver from her that she did not dare to contemplate. She had not seen him since their night together. She could not stop to dwell on him now. She had a performance to give—if not to the group quietly waiting for her in the dark house, then for Brandon when she finished here.
She neared the panes and her breath caught. She glanced again and was sure. Candle flames, invisible at a distance, flickered on the dining-room table. Elation surged through her. Brandon hadn’t lied. Do not think on him! she cautioned herself, breathing deeply to center her thoughts.
She checked the two pistols and knife she carried at her waist—three weapons, not counting the hidden dagger in her sleeve sheath, the one she’d pulled on Brandon. She thought of Mary’s three children and shoved fears for her own safety aside and bravely plunged ahead.
The glass-paned doors that gave out on to the terrace from the St Johns’ dining room shattered the polite tones of supper conversation. Women screamed. Men bit off barely restrained expletives at the interruption of their well-ordered evening. A dark form vaulted on to the white-clothed table. In each hand, two deadly, long-nosed pistols gleamed in the dim candlelight.
‘I say!’ St John half-rose in his seat to protest the intrusion.
‘You’ll say nothing more until I command it!’ came the reply.
Sitting to the right of St John, Brandon felt the tension he’d been carrying between his shoulder blades all evening dissipate in anticipation of what was to come. The Cat had arrived. The trap—laying in wait for The Cat to come—had been sprung, only now it seemed more to her advantage than to theirs.
The investors’ plan seemed silly in the wake of the reality playing out before him. They’d thought to catch her by changing the St Johns’ weekly schedule and being at home when The Cat came calling. They had not planned for the contingency of The Cat confronting them directly. The servants were supposed to have subdued the intruder.
That worried him. What would she do when the servants stormed the dining room? She couldn’t hold off the entire staff. But then, The Cat wouldn’t leave such a detail uncovered. Perhaps there would be no staff. Looking covertly around the room, it became clear that the footmen were not going to leap to St John’s aid. Maybe no one else would either. Brandon relaxed. The odds were looking up.
Now, the investors’ very nemesis danced on the table and held them at gunpoint against the odds of ten to one. Silently Brandon applauded her tenacity but he didn’t want to see her hurt and he’d prefer not to be compromised by coming to her defence. Although, at the moment it didn’t look like she needed much protection.
His conscience mocked him. It was a bit late in the game to be worrying about compromising situations now. Besides, he’d chosen to put himself in this predicament by coming to dinner at all. His curiosity had gotten the better of him; had Nora believed him and used the information he had given her to protect herself or had she been filled with the same doubts that plagued him and come anyway, thinking he had lied for his own benefit?
Tonight would be a litmus test. If she stayed away, it meant she trusted him. If she came…Well, then he’d owe Jack twenty quid and Nora would owe him an explanation about what exactly she thought had transpired between them.
Oh, indeed, his curiosity had led him to St John’s dining room. Inarguably it certainly had gotten the best of him. Now, as he watched Nora hold court on St John’s damask cloth, he hoped curiosity wouldn’t kill The Cat.
With nimble steps, Nora stepped towards St John and presented him with a black bag. ‘Pass the bag about the table and deposit your jewellery and effects into it,’ she snapped, giving one of the guns an ominous wave.
St John was too flustered to do anything but comply. He fumbled with the ruby cravat pin he wore and put it in the bag. Mister Flack on his left had no such compunction.
‘Now see here, you insolent bastard, you cannot commandeer us in such a fashion!’
She cocked the pistol, an unmistakeable sound. ‘Can I not?’
‘Damn it all, man,’ Flack beseeched the host. ‘Call for your servants.’
Eyes blazing at the man’s insistent mutiny, Nora kicked over his crystal goblet of red wine and let the burgundy stain seep into the pristine cloth. ‘Better wine than blood, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Flack? At the next interruption, I shoot. Don’t take any notions about servants coming to your rescue. They have been effectively subdued thanks to a wee potion in their afternoon tea.’ She hoped that sufficiently cowed Mr Flack. She would rather not shoot anyone although, if it came to it, a flesh wound to the shoulder might do some of them good.
The women put up no resistance as she trained the pistols on each guest in turn, causing them to make their donations quickly so that the pistols might be turned on their neighbour instead. The bag came to Brandon last. Her eyes locked on his, compelling him to keep her secret. Don’t make me have to try to shoot you.
His gaze was riveting and demanded her attention, which almost cost her. In order to keep the bag and Brandon in sight, she turned her attention slightly away from the other half of the table. Brandon’s face saved her at the last moment. His sharp eyes slid to the left and she whirled with his gaze, hearing the noise as she did so.
Stinging from the loss of his diamond cravat pin, Mr Witherspoon tried to play the hero. A gentleman’s derringer flashed in his hand. Only his penchant for the dramatic bought her the needed extra seconds. If he had shot first and talked later, the outcome might have been vastly different.
‘Drop your weapons!’ Witherspoon bellowed.
Nora laughed fearlessly. ‘Drop your weapons, sir!’
‘I am not afraid. I don’t think you’ll shoot,’ Witherspoon retorted.
‘How willing are you to risk your companions on that bet? For instance, would you be willing to risk the Earl?’ She turned one of her pistols on Brandon. Damn the seating arrangement. She had no choice. The shattered door lay to his right—her escape and he was in the way. She wished it was anyone but him. This was the very scenario she wanted to avoid. If she couldn’t shoot him, she would have to take him with her.
She started barking instructions while the table erupted into muffled shrieks of horror at the possibility of a murdered Earl. ‘My lord, take the bag and start backing towards the door. Do not try to run. I will use my second pistol to shoot you down in your tracks. To the rest of you, I command you to stay seated in your chairs for ten minutes.
