“Indeed?” Bradford looked at Spencer. “How did you discover the truth, Nick?”
“I fell in love with her the night she held up my coach,” Spencer replied simply.
A twinkle lit Bradford’s eyes. “And the eyes of love found no difficulty in recognizing her without her mask?”
Spencer’s eyes twinkled responsively. “None, sir.”
Bradford turned his gaze to the Beau. “And you, Mr. Brummell? How did you find out?”
“One or two little things at first,” Brummell replied slowly, “made me suspect. Miss Courtenay’s slight tension whenever the subject of the Cat was broached—”
“Slight tension, Mr. Brummell?” Jenny smiled wryly.
Brummell smiled at her. “Yes, Miss Courtenay. The first time we met, I mentioned the Cat, and your reaction was—odd. Then there was Lady Jersey’s party.”
“That dreadful party,” Jenny murmured.
Brummell laughed softly, and turned his eyes to Spencer. “It was just before the two of you had met in society. Lady Jersey held a party, and the sole topic of conversation for everyone present was the Cat. Miss Courtenay was literally showered with remarks and speculation concerning the Cat, and was nearly frantic. However, she managed to allay my suspicions rather neatly—until I mentioned your name. Her reaction convinced me that I had indeed stumbled onto a mystery. I knew that you had been searching the features of every young lady you met for weeks, and I knew that Miss Courtenay was rather worried about meeting you.”
He grinned suddenly and turned back to Jenny. “I shall confess to a bit of mischief, Miss Courtenay. I deliberately told you that I thought Nick knew who the Cat was in order to observe your reaction. When you nearly fainted, I felt that my suspicions had been correct.”
Before Jenny could respond, Bradford asked, “When did you know for sure?”
“The night of Lady Jersey’s next party.” Brummell chuckled softly. “I overheard Nick and Miss Courtenay in the middle of a—er—a rather violent argument, during the course of which Miss Courtenay confirmed my suspicions.”
There was a moment of silence. Bradford looked thoughtfully at Jenny. “I have known from the beginning,” he said, “that the Cat was no common thief. I think you have what you believe is a very good reason for becoming a thief, Miss Courtenay. I would like to hear it.”
“Of course, my lord. I would prefer that Simmons and his partner were also present; I think they have a right to know the truth.”
Bradford nodded, rose to his feet, and went to the door. He opened it and shouted to someone to send in Simmons and Polyphant.
Jenny choked back an involuntary giggle. Avoiding the duke’s amused gaze, she murmured, “Is that his name? I never knew it.”
Bradford returned to his desk and resumed his seat. A gleam of amusement in his eyes, he said dryly, “Samuel Polyphant has little to say. You may have noticed.”
“Yes, I—er—had noticed.” Jenny’s smile faded but did not entirely disappear when the two Runners entered the room. She waited for their reactions.
Simmons came in wearing a faint frown, which changed to an almost ludicrous expression of astonishment when he saw Jenny. Polyphant stopped just inside the door, carefully closed it behind him, and stood shuffling his feet and darting nervous glances around the room.
Forgetting the presence of his superior, Simmons exploded, “I knew it! You are the Cat!”
Jenny nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Simmons. I am the Cat.”
After glaring at her for a full minute, Simmons suddenly burst out laughing. With a grin creasing his florid face, he asked, “How’ve you managed to sneak past us, miss? We never seen you—not even once.”
Before Jenny could answer, Bradford spoke up. “Don’t tell him, Miss Courtenay. Let him find the answer for himself.” He looked sternly at the Runner. “Maybe next time he won’t be so easily fooled.”
Flushed, his expression one of chagrin, Simmons muttered, “I beg pardon, m’lord, but we never seen ’er.”
“I am aware of that, Simmons. Painfully aware.”
Crushed, Simmons stared at his feet. Polyphant, hoping to escape the wrath of his superior, edged toward the door, only to halt as Bradford spoke his name sharply.
Jenny took pity on the uncomfortable Runners. “Please don’t be too harsh on them, sir. You said yourself that you didn’t have a shred of proof against me; I am sure they would have done better if they had know I was the Cat.”
“I could argue that point with you, Miss Courtenay, but I will not.” He smiled faintly. “Now that Simmons and Polyphant are here, perhaps you would be good enough to tell us your story?”
Jenny told the story simply, beginning eight years before. She told of her father’s murder, the talisman ring, her decision to assume the character of a thief. She briefly told of her relationship with Jason, and how he had helped her. Her voice was without expression, her face calm. She brought forth the bald facts and let them speak for themselves.
Spencer, realizing that his love was not going to defend her, interrupted to tell Bradford of her efforts to uncover traitors, her resolve to return the money she had stolen, Carrington’s decision on behalf of the War Office, and the Royal Pardon.
Bradford looked at Jenny. “Why did you leave all of these items out of your story, Miss Courtenay? You must realize they would weigh heavily in my decision.”
Jenny met the steely gaze squarely. “There can be no excuse for what I have done, my lord. I have knowingly committed crimes against king and country.”
“And yet you had a very good reason.”
Jenny shrugged tiredly. “I was raised, my lord, to respect the laws of England. It was not easy for me to break them. But break them I did.” She raised her chin, her face unconsciously proud. “I will not apologize for that. I do not regret the things I have done—I only regret the necessity of doing them. I have done what I set out to do; I have found my father’s killer. I think he would be proud of me.”
Bradford studied her for a moment in silence. Then, slowly, a smile appeared. “Miss Courtenay,” he said gravely, “I think your father would be very proud of you. And I think that all of England will be proud of you when your story is known. Bow Street will not choose to prosecute.” He glanced at Simmons. “Do you not agree, Simmons?”
Simmons, who had been staring at Jenny with awe written large on his face, started and said quickly, “Yes, m’lord. Why, I told Sam from the very start that such a fine young lady must’ve had a good reason for thievin’—didn’t I, Sam?”
Sam grunted.
Chapter Twenty-three
Spencer surveyed the crowded ballroom grimly. The cream of London society was in attendance, and it promised to be the type of ball that hostesses dream of. Ladies and gentlemen alike were decked out in silks and satins of every imaginable color. Spencer wondered sardonically how all the lords and ladies present would look back on this particular ball.
He felt a touch on his arm, and turned to see Richard Standen’s smiling face. “You’re looking very satanic, my friend. Is something wrong?”
Spencer regarded him thoughtfully. “Richard, I want you to do me a favor.”
His friend looked intrigued. “Name it.”
“In a few moments, I am going to make a speech. I would like you to stand by the door,” he gestured to the double doors leading into the ballroom, “and see that no one leaves.”
“Is the speech that bad?” His smile faded as he gazed at Spencer’s serious face. “Nick, what’s going on? What are you going to say?”
“I am going to expose a murderer.”
“What! Nick, are you serious?”
“Very. Will you do as I ask?”
“Of course! Who is he? Do I know him?”
Spencer smiled grimly. “You will know him before the night is out.” With this rather cryptic utterance, he moved away, leaving Standen to stare after him wonderingly.
Spencer stepped outside, after making sure that he was un
observed. He waited for a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then made his way silently through the garden to the gate that opened onto the mews. Just outside stood a small group of men, all wearing red waistcoats. Spencer nodded decisively, and the men parted to reveal a small, slender, black-clad figure.
Jenny quickly stepped forward, her golden eyes glittering behind the black mask. “Is he here, Nick?”
“He’s here, love. The last of the guests have just arrived. I’ll go inside in a moment and set the stage. Wait outside the garden door and come in when the moment is right.” He smiled down at her ruefully. “I know how important this is to you, love, but remember that the eyes of the world will be upon you. Strive to control that temper of yours.”
She smiled. “Nick, I’ve been searching for Papa’s killer for a long time. I have no intention of botching things now. I promise to be good.”
All of the Runners except one had vanished into the night. The remaining man stepped forward. It was Simmons—the man who had accused Jenny of being the Cat. “My men are all posted around the house, Your Grace; he won’t be able to get away.” He hesitated, then said, “I hope you an’ the lady are right, Your Grace, about Mr. Courtenay’s killer.”
Spencer nodded. “So do I, Simmons. My mother is growing old waiting for grandchildren.” While the Runner was puzzling over this remark, the duke gazed once more at his love. “Be careful,” he said quietly.
Ignoring the Runner’s interested presence, Jenny said huskily, “I love you.”
The duke struggled with his baser instincts. After a moment he responded with a hoarse, “Now you tell me—when I can’t do a thing about it.” He turned quickly and headed toward the house.
Jenny gazed after him for a moment, her eyes soft with love. Then, with a businesslike air, she turned to the Runner. “It is time for us to assume our places, Mr. Simmons. I would like you to remain outside the garden door with me. Once I go in, you’ll be able to hear exactly what goes on inside the ballroom.”
Simmons nodded. “I was told to follow your orders, miss.”
“Then let us go. The curtain is about to rise on our little drama—and I don’t want to miss the first scene.” She began to make her way toward the house, the Runner at her heels.
Spencer stepped inside the ballroom, leaving the door open. The musicians were playing a waltz and the room was filled with laughter, talk, and whirling couples. He gazed toward the hall doors and, catching Standen’s eye, nodded. His friend immediately went to stand, arms folded, before the doors.
Spencer then moved slowly across the room to a point near the musicians. He saw Stoven talking to Brummell, and felt a flicker of amusement at the Beau’s bored expression. He glanced at the musicians and made an almost imperceptible gesture. Immediately, the music stopped. The couples on the floor halted, bewildered, and a buzz of protest broke out.
Spencer mounted the musicians’ raised platform. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please!” His deep, commanding voice cut through the commotion, and curious faces turned toward him. He waited for a moment, while the silence grew taut with suspense. His eyes moved over the room. Slowly, he began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I crave your indulgence for a few moments while I tell a story.”
A murmur of confusion was heard, and the guests drew nearer to Spencer, their interest aroused.
“It is not a happy story, my friends. Where murder is involved, there can be no happiness.” He nodded grimly at the ring of shocked faces around him. “Aye—murder.”
“See here, Spencer!” It was Lord Buckham, his round face concerned. “You shouldn’t talk about such things in front of the ladies! Not fitting!”
The duke smiled faintly at the agitated little man. “I have found, my lord, that the female sex is, in general, far less squeamish than we hardy males.”
A titter of amusement followed Spencer’s remark. Lady Catherine, a most dignified matron, stepped forward. “I believe I can speak for the ladies, Your Grace—we are eager to hear your story.”
Spencer bowed to her. Again he paused before speaking. His was an imposing figure at any time, but now, dressed in black as he was and with a decidedly grim expression, he seemed positively threatening.
“My story begins some years ago, outside London. On a fine old country estate, far from the thieves and cutthroats of the city, a gentleman was murdered. The killer escaped—or so he thought. He was unaware that there was a witness to his crime.”
Spencer folded his arms and continued. “The witness, my friends, was only a child—a young girl. The shock of what she had seen kept her silent, and later, when she tried to tell her story, no one believed her. But she was determined to bring the killer to justice. And so, the girl waited until she grew older. There was no room in her life for the pleasures of other young ladies. She thought not of balls and suitors; her only thought was to find her father’s killer.”
Lady Catherine again raised her voice. “The poor child.” Her blue eyes were dark with pity. “But what could she do, Your Grace? How could she hope to find the killer?”
“A difficult problem, my lady, but the girl, now a beautiful young woman, found a solution. You see, the young woman knew that the years had most likely changed the killer’s appearance. She was uncertain of her ability to recognize him by sight alone. But, ladies and gentlemen, she had seen him take an article of jewelry from his victim’s body. It was this she hoped to find. And so, this young lady, as courageous as she was beautiful, took to highway robbery in order to find that article of jewelry.”
A collective gasp came from the assemblege. “The Cat! He’s talking about the Cat!” Spencer took the opportunity to glance toward Stoven. The earl’s eyes were riveted on Spencer, his face pasty-white. He stood stock-still, his hand gripping his cane tensely.
Spencer smiled grimly and spoke again, his words producing instant silence. “The Cat—aye, the young lady became the Cat. She donned a man’s clothes and hid her beauty beneath a hooded mask. She became a thief. But a very unusual thief. The jewelry that she took was almost immediately returned, and the money is being kept in a safe place—to be returned to the rightful owners as soon as the killer is apprehended.”
Lord Alver spoke, his eyes intent on the duke. “How do you know this, Spencer?”
“My path crossed the Cat’s some weeks ago,” Spencer replied. “I found myself intrigued by her. I set out to find the reasons behind her strange career. I found those reasons; I also discovered that she had—on several occasions—assisted with the identification and elimination of spies against England.”
“If that is so,” Alver said slowly, “then the Cat should be honored—pardoned at the very least.”
“My thoughts exactly, Lord Alver. And, the Cat has been pardoned—fully and completely. The documents were signed only this morning. But she has one more duty to perform before she hangs up her mask.”
Lady Catherine frowned. “Do you mean she must find the killer?”
Spencer bowed. “The killer, my lady, is here—in this very room.”
There was a stunned silence, then the room became filled with shocked exclamations. Stoven began to edge toward the door, only to find his path blocked by a smiling Beau Brummell. “Come, Stoven,” the Beau said gently, “I am sure you are as eager to learn the identity of the killer as the rest of us.” Stoven, denied the chance to make good his escape, turned stiffly to face Spencer.
“Who is the killer, Your Grace?” Lady Catherine asked. “And the Cat—who is she?”
A voice came from the doors leading to the garden. “I believe I am the best person to answer your questions, Lady Catherine.” The voice was cool, faintly mocking. As one, the guests turned to face the Cat. By this time, the guests were almost beyond shock; they simply stared.
The Cat moved forward slowly, her hood obscuring all but her glittering eyes and the brilliance of her mocking smile. A black cloak brushed her booted heels with every step
, and one black-gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword she wore—a relic of a bygone age.
She paused and swept her cloak aside in a graceful bow. “Good evening.”
Before she could utter another word, a voice spoke from the crowd. “Is it not true that you are a murderess?”
The crowd gave a gasp, and parted to reveal the pale, determined Stoven.
The Cat moved slowly to stand before him. “No, Lord Stoven,” she replied calmly, “it is not true.” She stared into his eyes and her own glittered with hatred. “Can you say the same?” It was little more than a whisper, but every person in the room heard her words.
Stoven fell back a step. He started to turn, and felt his arm seized by a powerful hand. It was Brummel. “The lady asked you a question,” said the Beau impassively. “It would be rude of you to ignore it.”
“She’s mad!” Stoven exclaimed. “I’ve never killed anyone!”
In a flash, the Cat’s hand darted out to snatch the cane from his grasp. He started forward instinctively and was once again halted by Brummell’s hand.
The Cat twirled the cane and said casually, “The killer that I seek has a certain ring in his possession. Do you know anything about that ring, my lord?” Stoven was silent; sweat beaded his brow.
The Cat twisted the silver head of the cane and seemed surprised when it came off in her hand. “Why, what is this?” She slowly turned the silver head until a ring rolled out in her hand. “A ring—a talisman ring. In fact, the very ring I seek.”
Stoven strained against Brummell’s powerful hand. “I killed no one!” he gasped.
“Then why do you have in your possession Thomas Courtenay’s ring?” Her voice was cold.
“You put it there,” he said desperately, “when you took my cane! When you robbed me!”
She smiled grimly. “You will have to find another explanation, Stoven. The ring was already in the cane the night I robbed you. I have a witness to prove it.”
“I’m sure you do,” Stoven sneered. “Another thief—like yourself.”