~ Prelude To Morning ~

by

Katrina Farabaugh

Petworth House, Sussex

April, 1816

A branch sliced into the skin of his cheek making him hiss as he recklessly plunged into Petworth Park not giving a thought to his ball attire. The moon, to his dismay, decided to hide at that moment and, without its light, inside the canopy of trees was as pitch. Swallowing a curse, he slowed his pace. His ears strained to hear his quarry ahead. Not hearing anything but his own labored breathing, he paused by a thin laurel tree.

“Damn, I lost him.” He cursed as he leaned against the tree trunk, so much for catching this thief. He closed his eyes. He’d wait here until Philip caught up with him. Wearily, he slowly turned his head in the direction of the manor house some one-hundred feet from the park and opened his eyes. The lights of the manor house shone in the darkness. Catherine waited in the ballroom for their formal introduction. Sighing, he slumped down; he was out of practice, he thought, as he put a hand to his stinging cheek. During the war, he would have easily caught this scoundrel but, the war was over now and he... well, he was not same man. That last assignment in France... it changed him. He had walked into a trap and lost several of his best agents. He cringed at the memory. He had failed them and, even though he had captured the traitor, a man going by the code name of le Chat, he was still sent home--not in disgrace, he had been reassured, but because it was time to take over his father’s title and estates. So here he was about to meet his father’s choice for a bride, one with an impeccable lineage and poise. He slumped further down the tree trunk.

Shing. He heard the sound long before he felt the coldness of the blades through his navy blue frock coat and waistcoat. Several blades were at his chest and a sharp sting was at his throat.

“Pauvre, chéri,” a female voice purred from behind him close to his ear. He stiffened instinctively at the French accent. “Non, non, chérie. Do not move or le Chat will be forced to mar such a strong, manly throat. That would, indeed, be a dreadful sin.”

“Le Chat?” Reese felt a cold shiver go down his spine. This could not be the le Chat. He was dead. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, mais non, chéri. I will ask the questions as I have, how do say, the upper hand, no?” The velvet voice purred again with a trace of laughter in it. In order for his assailant to hold the blades at his chest and throat, she had her arms around the thin laurel tree. He was pinned against it, held by just the sharp blades. “So mon ami, to whom does le Chat owe the pleasure of caressing with her blade?” With that the blade at his throat brushed softly against his skin.

“I am Lord Trendon,” he said gruffly, willing himself not to swallow, hoping his name and reputation would scare this imposter. He turned escape plans quickly over in his mind. Philip should be stomping through the grove at any moment now. All he needed to do was stall for time. At this thought, he did swallow, and the blade at his throat moved up and down with his Adam’s apple. “You can not be le Chat. He was captured and hanged in France over a year ago.”

There was a soft chuckle. “So say the rumors, eh? I am very much the Cat, mon ami.” She brushed a light tattoo over his ribcage with the blades. “So tell me, Lord Trendon, why do you chase after the Cat like a hound?”

Reese Soleby, fourth Viscount of Trendon, started at the question. This was his thief--a woman. The blade at his throat dug into the skin slightly, drawing a drop of blood. He hissed out a breath at the pain. He had been given a note upon his arrival at the ball that evening. It had cryptically stated that he would find something of value if he was to go to the apartment rooms of Lady Foxham, his aunt. Thinking it a joke of some sort, he excused himself from his party, grabbed Philip Burbridge, seventh Earl of Melnay, and went in search of Lady Foxham’s rooms. It took them two wrong rooms before they found the correct one, after being told the direction by one of the above-stairs maids. Upon entering the darkened room, they saw a dark figure frantically going through the wardrobe, throwing clothes and personal belongings everywhere. The figure turned, its arms full with clothing.

“Stop, thief.” Philip yelled a bit more dramatically than Reese would have liked. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” He had grinned sheepishly.

The figure then threw the clothes straight at them and ran for the window. Reese caught several of the garments before they hit him, however, Philip had not been so fortunate and several pieces covered his face and head. Throwing his garments to the floor, Reese had took off after the thief. When he got to the window, the figure was gone. Reese looked down; they were on the second floor, where the devil did he go? Movement in the darkness caught his attention; a figure headed for the park. He jumped, lucky bastard. He’ll be easily caught now; that fall surely broke his legs or, at the least, caused him an injury that would slow him down.

“He jumped, Philip. Come on, we’ll catch him in the park,” Reese shouted as he ran past his struggling friend, who had an arm of some garment stuck on his head. Philip mumbled something, but Reese was too intent on catching up with the fugitive to stop. So he had run out of the ball and into the park in pursuit of... a woman. The blade at his throat dug a little deeper, and the pain brought him back to the moment.

“Who are you?” he demanded again through clenched teeth.

“My question first, mon ami. You do not want le Chat to become impatient.” The blades at his chest clicked menacingly.

“I was given a note explaining that I would find something of interest in my aunt’s apartments.” Reese moved his arm very slowly and carefully to the right so as to not make the movement noticeable to his assailant.

The Cat ran the blade at his throat up and down almost thoughtfully.

“Lady Foxham is your aunt, chéri? My apologies then, but I was not stealing from her,” the Cat whispered seductively close to his ear. The sensation drew a shiver down his spine. “I was recovering an item that was stolen and I was told your lady aunt would possess it.”

“Are you accusing my eighty-three-year-old aunt of stealing from you?” Reese was so outraged at the suggestion that escape was momentarily forgotten. Yes, it was true that Aunt Lydia was still spry, but to steal! The thought was incredible.

“Non, chéri do not despair. She did not steal it knowingly. It would have been passed to her without her knowledge. She would have not known she even possessed it. That was why I was going through her clothing,” the Cat’s rich, soothing voice said softly.

“Someone placed it in her clothing?” Reese said incredulously. “I find that story rather difficult to believe. Why would she not find it later?”

“Ah, we are dealing with an enemy as cunning as a fox, n’est-ce pas? It was he who told you where to find me. He passed me the wrong information so you would catch me, but his stratagem fails; le Chat never gets caught.”

Her laughter tickled his ear. The blades at his chest ran down his side, affecting his senses.

“What was it that was stolen from you?” he asked hoarsely, concentrating on the feel of the blade at his throat. He would not let this... this... mere woman affect him.

“It is a signet ring; a ring that had been passed down from father to son for generations. However, it was not stolen from me, chéri. I am just to retrieve the ring.” The Cat laughed gently. That laughter again affected him in ways he refused to admit to.

“I’ve answered all your questions, le Chat,” he said furiously; he ignored the other questions floating in his mind. “Now you can answer one of mine. Who the hell are you?” He started again to inch his hand around the tree trunk. He had had enough of this farce; it was time to end it.

The Cat tsked. The chest blades dipped lower. She toyed with him as a cat would with a mouse or bird.

“Ah, chéri amour. I am your prelude to morning, your rising sun. Our paths are crossed now; you can never be free of me,” she whispered caressingly into his throat, her breath warming his skin.

He closed his eyes at the images that came to mind at her words.

Suddenly a shrill whistle broke the tension. Philip! Reese looked toward the sound, causing the blade at his throat to cut deeper, and felt a steady stream of blood drip down his neck.