Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Lady Thief
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Masquerade
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Praise for Kay Hooper
“Kay Hooper writes a wonderful blend of wit, whimsy, and sensuality . . . She is a master of her art.”—Linda Howard
“A multitalented author whose stories always pack a tremendous punch.”—Iris Johansen
“A master storyteller.”—Tami Hoag
“Kay Hooper’s dialogue rings true; her characters are more three-dimensional than those usually found in this genre.”
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“Not to be missed.” —All About Romance
And don’t miss these other Kay Hooper collections . . .
THE REAL THING
Includes Enemy Mine and The Haviland Touch
ENCHANTED
Includes Kissed by Magic, Belonging to Taylor,
and Eye of the Beholder
ELUSIVE
Includes Elusive Dawn, On Her Doorstep,
and Return Engagement
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
LADY THIEF
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author.
PRINTING HISTORY
Lady Thief: originally published by Dell Publishing / July 1981 “Masquerade”: originally published by Jove Books / February 1994 Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / March 2005 Jove mass-market edition / May 2006
Copyright © 2004 by Kay Hooper.
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Lady Thief
In loving memory of Mary Sue Price,
my Aunt Sue, who kept the faith,
and who did not live to see
the realization of my dream
Chapter One
Dominic Vernon Ware, Duke of Spencer, swayed easily in the traveling coach, making no attempt to hold to the strap even when the wheels struck a bad rut in the road. He was deep in thought, remembering what one of his friends in the War Office had told him.
Richard Standen’s face had been grave, his eyes worried. “I just don’t know what to make of it, Nick. Vital papers turn up in the wrong files or, worse yet, are simply found lying on someone’s desk. Last week an entire bundle of military papers was left on the doorstep of the Office—and no one knows how long they’d been missing. The next day, Conover was found near the coast; he’d been shot.”
“Any speculation?”
“Of course. The most popular idea seems to be that Conover was a spy trying to get the papers to France, and that the Cat stopped him and returned the papers to us.”
“The Cat? But the Cat is a thief.”
“True. She is also something of a legend. After all, how many female highwaymen have there been?”
“You have a point. What do you think, Richard? Do you believe the Cat is trying, in a rather unorthodox manner, to locate and eliminate spies?”
Standen shook his head, puzzled. “There’s something deuced odd about the woman, that much I’m sure of. She seems more concerned with jewelry than money, and yet . . . Nick, do you remember how old Farrell ranted and raved a few weeks ago about how she took his signet ring?” As Spencer nodded, he continued. “I saw him the other day and he was wearing that ring—not a copy, but that very ring. When I questioned him, he said that he had misplaced it.”
“Perhaps he did.”
“Nick, that ring hasn’t been off his finger for more than thirty years. No, I believe the Cat took it from him—and I believe that she returned it to him.”
Spencer frowned. “But, why?”
“That, my friend, is the question—why?”
Spencer was brought abruptly back to the present as his traveling coach ground to a shuddering halt. There was an ominous silence, and he began to reach for the pistol that he kept in the coach. But before his hand touched the handle of the gun, he changed his mind. With a faint smile on his lean face, he folded his arms and settled back in his seat.
The door of the coach was suddenly flung open, and a calm feminine voice said, “Step out of the coach, if you please—and don’t do anything foolish.”
Spencer slowly climbed from the coach, realizing that his team was perfectly quiet and that his coachman sat rigidly in the box, eyes fixed on the imposing figure of the Cat’s henchman. The large man was masked and hooded, and held two pistols in his capable hands—one pointed at the coachman, one at the duke.
Spencer straightened and turned his gaze to the woman sitting at ease on th
e back of a huge, powerful black stallion. Dressed like a man, she was outfitted entirely in black and, like her cohort, wore a black hood and mask. She seemed a figure carved from the night, save for her strange eyes, which glittered like the eyes of a wild animal. One black-gloved hand held a pistol pointed squarely at the duke’s heart.
The stallion stamped one hoof suddenly, his eyes glaring redly, and the duke wondered which was wilder—the woman or the beast she rode. “So,” he murmured, “you are the Cat.”
“Indeed.” Her voice was cool and mocking. “And you are His Grace, the Duke of Spencer.” A small leather pouch was tossed to land at his feet. “Your money and jewelry, if you please. And, Your Grace—don’t try to be a hero. My silent friend there would like nothing better than to shoot you where you stand.”
The duke smiled and slowly bent to pick up the bag. He heard the large man shift slightly in his saddle, and knew that both guns were trained on him. As he began to empty his pockets, he casually remarked, “I count my life worth more than a few trinkets—tell your silent friend to relax.”
A soft chuckle came from the Cat. “I felt sure that you were a reasonable man.” She watched as he deposited his money and jewelry into the pouch, and then held out one black-gloved hand. Carefully, the duke tossed the pouch to her, and watched it disappear beneath her cloak.
At that moment, the moon came out from behind the clouds, and he felt curiously light-headed as he saw clearly the strange wildness in the Cat’s vivid eyes. He was conscious of his heart thudding in his chest, and had to force himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
“You have friends in the War Office, do you not?”
“Yes.”
She smiled coldly. “Tell your friends to look within their ranks for the spy. That is where he’ll be—unless I find him first.” With that, she wheeled her horse and disappeared into the forest, her henchman at her heels.
Spencer stared after her, his mind bemused by her eyes and by her words.
“Your Grace?” The coachman sounded hesitant. “I beg pardon, Your Grace, but it all happened so fast.” He fought to control the suddenly restless horses, glancing worriedly at the silent duke.
The duke stirred slightly. “Never mind, Owens. There was nothing you could have done.”
“It were the queerest thing,” Owens muttered. “That black devil jumped out of the woods with nary a sound. Stood right in our path, he did, with fire in his eyes. The grays stopped like they’d run into a wall—an’ stood there as calm as you please. It weren’t natural. Your Grace, them standing so quietlike when they’re generally wild as be-damned. That black devil bewitched ’em; or that female on his back did.”
Spencer prepared to climb into the coach, a faint smile on his face. “So you think they were bewitched, do you? I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you that there was nothing unreal or unnatural about either the girl or the horse.” He wondered absently if he believed his own words.
Staunchly, Owens responded, “Talk till doomsday, Your Grace, I still say the pair of ’em weren’t spawned on this earth. Demons, that’s what they were. Why, that black devil did just what she wanted him to—and she never picked up the reins.”
“Which only proves that she is an excellent horsewoman.”
“Proves she’s a witch—and that black devil’s her familiar.”
Spencer sighed. “I can see that your mind is made up. Let us be on our way—before you conjure up Satan himself.” He climbed into the coach, leaving Owens to stare about nervously.
Owens allowed the fretful horses to continue on their way. The duke could think what he liked—Owens could recognize a demon when one appeared beneath his very nose. He shivered as he recalled the red glare in the horse’s eyes, and the wild glitter in the eyes of the woman. With another nervous glance at the dark, silent woods, Owens urged the team on.
The huge black stallion galloped swiftly through the forest, weaving easily between the trees as he responded to the light hand on his reins. After nearly an hour’s ride, he reluctantly obeyed a signal to halt. They stood at the edge of the forest as the woman on his back listened tensely for any sound of pursuit. After a moment, she urged the horse toward a small inn just across the road from the woods.
The two riders dismounted at the rear of the inn. The large man reached for the stallion’s reins, dodging a lashing foreleg. “Here,” he grunted, “I’ll take ’im—you go on inside. Have a care—there may be strangers about.” He led the horses off into the darkness.
The woman slipped silently through the back door of the inn. The door opened into a kitchen, where an older woman sat at a table, her face turned anxiously toward the door. Her eyes softened as she saw the black-clad figure. With a relieved sigh, she rose and turned up the lamp on the table. “There you are, dearie! Had me worried—you’ve been gone for hours.”
The Cat drew off her hood, and then her cloak, revealing a slender young woman with raven hair and strange golden eyes. Smiling, she said, “There’s no need to worry about us, Annie—we came off without a scratch! John’s putting the horses away.”
Annie clucked anxiously. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dearie. That no-good brother of mine should be shot for letting you ride all over the place, dressed like a man and shooting at people!”
“Hush, Annie.” The younger woman sat down at the table, her eyes bright. “You know how John tried to talk me out of this. I won’t have you abusing him. He only rides with me so he can watch over me.”
Annie sat down across from the Cat, her plump face worried. “Missy, why don’t you stop this? It’s too dangerous—and you are little more than a babe.”
The Cat gestured impatiently. “Annie, I’ll stop when I find the talisman ring and not before.”
At that moment, the door opened and the large man came in. He pulled the hood from his head and looked inquiringly at the Cat. “Did the duke have the ring?”
Annie let out a scandalized gasp. “Oh, mercy! You never robbed a duke! John, what were you thinkin’ of?”
John grunted and lowered his considerable weight into a chair. “T’weren’t me that picked the duke—missy did.”
“You should have stopped her, John. ”
John’s weathered face creased in a wry smile. “I never could stop her when she got some fool notion into her head. Trouble with her is, she was never broke to bridle. Wild as be-damned, she is.”
“Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here.” She pulled the leather pouch from her belt and upended it on the table. Aside from a rather large amount of gold coins, only a tie pin and an emerald signet ring rolled from the bag. She smiled wearily. “Well, Spencer doesn’t have it. Or, if he does, he doesn’t carry it with him.”
John gave the Cat a thoughtful glance. “A right knowing one, the duke—unless I miss my guess,” he said slowly. “You’d best stay out of his way, missy.”
The young woman got to her feet, smiling. “I fully intend to stay away from him, John. After all, what chance have I to meet a duke way out here in the country? You know Sir George rarely allows me to attend any of the local balls—and a Season in London is out of the question. It isn’t very likely that I will see His Grace again.” She swung her cloak about her shoulders and picked up the hood. “Put the money and jewelry in a safe place, John.” As he turned to go, John spoke again.
“You’ll see the duke when you take his jewelry back to him.”
She turned back to stare at his expressionless face. “So I will.”
“Be careful, missy. If anybody learns the truth, it’ll be the duke.”
“John, you must be getting old.” She smiled and added, “You worry too much.” With that, she slipped silently from the inn.
Annie stared after her. “John, why didn’t you go with her? It’s an hour’s ride to the manor—she shouldn’t be out there all alone.”
John sat back and regarded his sister with a tolerant smile. “She’d only lose me i
n the woods. She doesn’t like to be followed.”
“But, John—”
“Oh, woman, never mind. Why do you think they call her the Cat? She always lands on her feet.”
The Cat drew her weary mare to a stop and gazed at the dark windows of the large manor house. It was a beautiful old house, dating back several generations. Surrounded by formal gardens, it sprawled gracefully at the edge of a large game preserve. Many generations of Courtenays had lived and died beneath its roof, and the girl felt a surge of rage as she thought of the man who now ruled the manor with a despotic hand.
With a smothered and very unladylike curse, she urged her horse toward the stables, vowing silently to throw Sir George out the moment she turned twenty-one. Her father had left the house, along with the majority of his fortune, to his only daughter. Unfortunately, he had chosen his neighbor—Sir George Ross—to be her trustee. A scant two years after her husband’s death, Mrs. Courtenay had become Lady Ross. Sir George had it all now. For another year.
Once inside the stables, the girl quietly rubbed the mare down, erasing all traces of the midnight ride. With a silence born of long practice, she made her way through the gardens to the house. Warily, she moved to the west wing, where a large tree grew beneath her bedroom window. In moments, she had climbed the tree as easily as a boy. She slipped through the open window and carefully closed it behind her. Only then did she heave an unconscious sigh of relief.
She drew off the black hood and flung it onto the bed, her movements swift and restless. She lit the lamp on the bedstand before picking it up and carrying it to the dressing table. For a long moment she stared fixedly into the gilded mirror above the table.