Grimly, she also admitted that she could not continue her nocturnal rides while living in London. Leaving town at dusk and returning at dawn was simply too risky.
There was also the matter of the Runners. Simmons and his apparently mute partner had been watching Lady Beddington’s house every night, and Jenny was sensible enough to realize that she could not continue to come and go beneath their very noses. Sooner or later she would be caught returning from a ride, and that would be the end of her masquerade.
Automatically, her thoughts turned to Spencer. She had not seen him for almost two weeks, except in passing during her afternoon rides in the park and the parties they both attended. He had stopped trying to talk to her or dance with her; he had stopped calling at Lady Beddington’s. Apparently he had decided to respect her wish that their relationship be ended.
The thought gave Jenny no satisfaction. If he had loved her as deeply as he had professed, would he have given up so easily? Of course not! So—he obviously did not love her very much. This conclusion brought another sharp pain to Jenny’s heart.
In an effort to wipe away the thoughts that made her so unhappy, she made up her mind to forget about the duke, and concentrated instead on the question of whether or not Jason had had any luck in tracking down the traitor.
Jenny frowned slightly. If Jason had found out something, he might have left a message for her. He didn’t often do so, preferring instead to have John send for her while he waited at the inn. But there was always a chance . . .
Nearly an hour later Jenny stopped her mare beside the hollow tree and dismounted. She reached inside the tree and brought forth a note. It was difficult to read in the faint light cast by a quarter moon, but she managed to make out the words. “I have found that which you seek. Spencer.”
For a long time, Jenny stood in the moonlight, her mind in a whirl. Then, thrusting the note into the pocket of her cloak, she quickly mounted her horse and urged the tired animal toward London. As she rode, she planned her next move.
Her mind balked at the thought of asking Spencer to come to Lady Beddington’s, and she could not go to visit him—God help her if that should get out! But the Cat, of course . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Spencer paced restlessly around the library, casting an occasional worried glance at the open window. Why didn’t she come? It had been nearly two weeks since he had left the message within the hollow tree.
Unbidden, the thought came that perhaps she was unable to come. Visions of her lying cold and dead on some deserted back road whirled about in his head, and he felt a chill trace its way down his spine. No. No, she was alive. He knew it. He felt it.
He pushed the fear from his mind. She was alive. Why, then, didn’t she come? And when she did come, how would he explain his message?
He halted by the fireplace. How indeed. He was under no illusions as to the strength of her temper; she had warned him once against betraying her. She would be furious that he had lied to her.
He turned to the window and felt relief wash over him as he saw her. She was standing silently inside the room, her face pale beneath the mask, her eyes cold. “Where is it?”
He stepped toward her and then halted as she stiffened. “Jenny, I must talk to you.”
She ripped off the hooded mask. “Where is the talisman ring?”
He watched her carefully. “Whose ring is it, Jenny?”
The glitter in her eyes increased. “My father’s, damn you. Where is it?”
Very quietly, he replied, “I do not know, Jenny.”
She flinched as though he had struck her. “You lied to me.” Her voice shook with rage. “You—you bastard. You left that message knowing I would come.”
“Jenny, I had no choice. You wouldn’t see me or talk to me. I couldn’t just let you walk out of my life.”
“If I remember correctly, it was you who walked out—not I.”
“After you threw my proposal back in my face, what was I supposed to do?”
“You should never have made the proposal in the first place.”
“Jenny, I love you. I wanted—want—you to be my wife.” He started toward her, intent on taking her into his arms and showing her how much he needed her. She quickly eluded him, and suddenly he found himself staring down the barrel of her pistol.
There was a tense silence. Coldly, she said, “You swayed me once with your kisses—not again.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet. “That wasn’t well done of me, was it?”
“No,” she replied. “But then, I never expected you to play fair. You lied—so why not cheat as well?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “A desperate man will do almost anything—even lie and cheat—when he feels that the woman he loves is slipping away from him. I do love you, Jenny. I want to help you find your father’s talisman ring.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do, Jenny. For once in your life, why won’t you admit that you need someone.”
“I don’t. I can take care of myself.” She glared at him.
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“No, I don’t know anything about it—but I’d like to. I can help you, Jenny. And, no matter how much you deny it, you do need help. Let me help you—I love you.”
“People in love don’t try to change the person they love.”
“I know that—now.” His voice was so low she had to strain to hear it. “I wish I had cut my tongue out before I said what I did. You were right—I was wrong when I tried to make such an important decision for you.” He smiled faintly, his eyes resting on her still face. “I won’t try to do that again, Jenny. It’s your decision—but I’d like to help you.”
Jenny stared at him, some of the wildness leaving her eyes. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I only lied to get you to come here. I promise that I’ll never lie to you again.” He took a step toward her.
Her fingers tightened on the pistol. “Don’t come any closer. I mean it, Nick—I’ll shoot if I have to.”
He smiled gently. “Then I guess you’ll just have to shoot me, because I intend to come much closer.” He slowly reached out to take the pistol from her hand.
“Damn you,” she whispered. “Why did I have to hold up your coach? Why did I have to fall in love with you?” A moment later, she was in his arms.
He held her tightly. “Oh, Jenny—I’ve missed you.” Drawing back slightly, he smiled down at her. “As soon as this is over, you will marry me. I won’t take no for an answer.”
It was characteristic of Jenny that, having once surrendered, she did so totally. Smiling up at him mistily, she said, “You won’t get no for an answer. I would like very much to marry you.”
“I was afraid I had destroyed forever what you felt for me. I never meant it to be so, Jenny. I only wanted to keep you from danger. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
She looked grave. “Nick, I know that what I do is dangerous, but it’s necessary.”
“Why, Jenny? Why is your father’s talisman ring so important?”
She slipped from his arms and moved across the room to stand before the fireplace. For a long moment, she stood silent, the flickering firelight outlining the contours of her slender body. “The ring is important because the man who holds it in his possession is the man who murdered my father.” Her voice was low and haunted.
“I was told that your father committed suicide.”
“That was the ruling of the Court of Inquiry. He was found in his study, shot through the temple—his pistol in his hand.”
“Jenny,” he hesitated, “how do you know that he didn’t kill himself?”
“Because,” she replied quietly, her voice filled with pain, “I was there. I saw a man kill my father, and then I saw him remove my father’s ring and place it on his finger. It was very late—everyone was in bed. I had had a nightmare and left my bed to find Papa.” She smiled sadly. “I always wen
t to Papa when I was afraid.” Her smile faded. “I saw the light beneath the study door and I opened it very quietly. My father had his back to the door. He was standing by the fire, the way he always did when he had something on his mind.”
“Did you see the killer’s face?”
“No. Just as I started to go inside, I saw a man creep up behind Papa with a pistol in his hand. Before I could call out, the pistol went off, and Papa fell. The man knelt on the floor and put the gun in Papa’s hand, and then he took the ring.”
Gently, Spencer asked, “What happened?”
Her voice was weary. “He opened the window, climbed outside, and then closed it behind him. I was frozen—standing at the door—until I heard the servants stirring. I ran to hide in the closet beneath the stairs. One of the servants found me there hours later.” She turned to face him, her eyes dark with pain. “I couldn’t eat or sleep—I couldn’t talk to anyone. I cried for days. The doctor said I was in shock.”
Spencer gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. “So you couldn’t tell anyone what you had seen.”
“I tried, Nick.” She burrowed closer to him. “Later—when I could think again. But no one would pay attention to a twelve-year-old child. Not even Mama.”
“What about the ring? Didn’t your mother notice that it was missing?”
Jenny shook her head. “A few weeks before he was killed, Papa had lost the ring during a hunt. He was very upset about it; the ring had been in the Courtenay family for generations. That day—the day he was killed—I found the ring while I was out riding. Just before I went to bed, I gave it to him. Mama never saw the ring.”
Spencer tilted her face up and gently kissed her. “I’m sorry, kitten. I see now why it was so important for you to find the ring.”
She gazed up at him, her lovely face serious. “I tried to think of some way to find the ring. And then I decided to become the Cat. As a thief, I could carefully examine the jewelry of every gentleman I came across.”
“Are you certain that the killer is a gentleman?”
Jenny smiled faintly. “I am not very likely to forget what I saw. The man is a gentleman—or at least he dresses like one.”
Spencer shook his head ruefully. “Jenny, do you realize how many gentlemen there are in England? You could go on holding up men for years without finding the one you seek.”
“I know.” She drew away slightly. “But I have to keep searching, Nick, and I won’t rest until I find that ring. Not until I find the man who killed my father.” She hesitated, then continued slowly, “I—I know it was wrong of me—for whatever reason—to become a thief, but I could see no other way. I’ve always returned the jewelry and, as for the money, every cent of it is being kept in a safe place. I keep a list of how much is taken from each man, and I plan to return it all as soon as Papa’s killer is found.”
For a moment, she was silent, and then, very quietly, she said, “I never hurt anyone, Nick. The rumors and the speculation—none of them are true. I have never killed.”
“And the man who rides with you?”
“John? He’s as gentle as he is large. John has been like an uncle to me for as long as I can remember. He was Papa’s head groom and then, when Mama remarried, John bought a little inn not far from the manor. He and his sister run it.”
Spencer hesitated and then asked gravely, “What about Conover?”
Jenny’s smile was wry. “I have a—friend. A highwayman. He knew I was searching for a traitor, and promised to help me. Shortly before I met you, he held up a coach—I assume it was Conover’s—and the documents were in the gentleman’s purse. When Jason realized what he had, he brought them to me. I returned them to the War Office. I never saw Conover.”
“Did your friend kill Conover?”
“I don’t know,” she replied rather dryly. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t ask. There is an unwritten law among thieves—no awkward questions. Asking Jason if he killed Conover could easily be construed as an awkward question.”
“True.” He smiled faintly. “Do you think Jason could have killed Conover? Is he capable of killing?”
“Of course.” She smiled tightly. “Any of us could kill under the right circumstances. But I don’t think Jason killed Conover.”
“Woman’s intuition?” His voice was teasing.
“If you like.” She smiled. “Whatever the reason, I don’t think Jason killed him.”
“You said Jason knew you were searching for a traitor. What makes you think your father’s murderer is a traitor?”
“His journal—Papa’s, I mean. In the week before he was killed, Papa wrote that he was on the trail of a traitor. My guess is that the traitor found out how close Papa was to discovering his identity, and killed him.”
Spencer frowned slightly. “Could you be wrong about that? Could anyone else have had reason to kill your father?”
Jenny sighed softly. “I don’t think so, Nick. Papa had no enemies.”
Spencer began to pace restlessly around the room. “Is that the only clue you have to the identity of the killer—that he’s a traitor?”
For a long moment, Jenny was silent. There was a frown of concentration on her face and her eyes were distracted.
Spencer stopped pacing long enough to direct a searching look at her. “Something?”
Jenny continued to frown. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes—there is something else. Something I’ve seen or heard. If only I could remember.”
“Don’t worry about it—I’m sure you’ll remember sooner or later.” He smiled at her. “In the meantime, we’ll continue with what we have.”
She smiled in return. “It’s all we can do,” she agreed. “I only hope that what we have is enough to find the killer.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Duke of Spencer strolled slowly along St. James, his mind occupied with the problems that stood between him and his marriage to Jennifer Courtenay. He had every intention of helping Jenny find the man who had killed her father; he also intended to find some way of turning the Cat into a heroine in the eyes of the world.
The latter, as far as he could see, would present something of a problem. The duke, no stranger to the hypocrisy of his society, was keenly aware of the rules governing the behavior of young ladies. Those rules did not bend easily and, even for someone of the duke’s undoubted influence, it would be somewhat difficult to establish a young lady who had an unfortunate habit of riding about the country dressed like a man—not to mention robbing people.
But the duke had faith in his abilities. He also had a rather rueful belief in Jenny’s ability to land on her feet. Between the two of them, the problems would be worked out eventually.
He nodded to an acquaintance, and then turned in the direction of White’s. There was still the problem of locating Thomas Courtenay’s murderer. The best place to begin that search would be with Richard Standen. Perhaps he would remember Courtenay’s search for a spy.
Spencer stopped just inside the door of White’s and blinked at Mr. Brummell. “Hello, George. It’s a little early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?”
The Beau gave his friend a reproachful look. “You must have lost an hour or so somewhere along the way, Nick—it’s gone four o’clock.”
“As late as that?” Spencer murmured. “I suppose I was woolgathering.”
Brummell nodded wisely. “And how is Miss Courtenay, by the way?”
Spencer grinned. “We’ve patched things up.”
“Have you indeed? Then tell me—before I expire from curiosity—why such an engaging young woman would enjoy her—er—peculiar pastime.”
The duke glanced around and then nodded toward a vacant room. “In private, if you don’t mind, George.”
Brummell followed his friend into the room and waited until he closed the door behind them. “Well?”
“She doesn’t enjoy it, George. She’s searching for her father’s talisman ring.”
The Beau’s keen gray e
yes narrowed slightly. “Oh? The ring is important?”
“Very. It will point the way to Thomas Courtenay’s killer.”
“I was under the impression,” the Beau remarked slowly, “that Courtenay committed suicide.”
“No. Jenny saw him murdered. She also saw the killer take Courtenay’s ring.”
“Does the killer know that there was a witness to his crime?”
“No. Jenny didn’t get a clear look at his face. But she saw him take the ring. That is why she became the Cat—to search for that ring.”
Brummell smiled faintly. “A courageous young woman. I assume she knows that there is a hangman’s noose dangling above her head?”
“She knows.” Spencer frowned slightly. “I may need your help, George. One way or another, I mean to clear her name.”
“Happy to oblige. But tell me—is Bow Street suspicious of her?”
“Yes. Someone gave them a damn good description of the Cat. Two Runners came to Lady Beddington’s and asked Jenny some awkward questions. I was able to frighten them off—but I have no doubt that they are watching every move she makes.”
“Who informed against her?”
“I don’t know. I think Jenny does, but it doesn’t seem to worry her. I suppose she has already taken care of the informer.”
“My dear friend, I do hope you don’t mean she killed someone!”
“Of course not, George—she isn’t a killer.”
The Beau looked relieved. “Then how did she rid herself of the informer?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Moved to expostulate, the Beau said, “Nick, we cannot have an informer lurking about in the woodwork—even if Miss Courtenay isn’t worried about him.”
The duke sighed. “Knowing Jenny, I’m sure she found some devious way to dispose of him. I’ll ask her; I’m going to Lady Beddington’s later today.”
“Do you mind if I tag along? I have a fancy to hear about the informer.”