Moon Love by Joan Smith

one to pretend she didn’t.
    She said, in a voice as close to nonchalant as she could make it, “You are referring, of course, to who killed poor Mr. Bransom.”
    “No, my feline friend, I am referring to the person who has been in correspondence with Sir George, sending him information regarding the doings here at Easton. The letters came from Bratty Hall, the replies were directed there, which is why I hit on Felix. The only other possible person is your saucy self, Miss Bratty.”
    His intent, penetrating stare never left her face as he spoke. Amy knew he knew. She would just have to admit it and brazen it out in an effort to continue playing her role.
    “Congratulations, milord,” she said. “You have finally figured it out, after I actually told you this very morning that I am acting as the Cougar for the nonce.”
    “You told me?” He paused a moment, frowning, then said, “I beg to differ, Miss Bratty.”
    “I told you. You asked in so many words who the Cougar was. I said, ‘I am. ’ I told you, you just refused to hear. You could not get your insular mind around the notion that a woman could do equally well what you men do.”
    Amy waited for the expected outburst, the announcement that she must desist her work, at once. He sat, worrying his lower lip. After a moment, she continued, “Well, now that it is out in the open, our job will be a little easier. The next item is to discover who Alphonse is working with here in England.”
    He put up a hand as if to ward off a blow. “Not so fast, Miss Bratty. I appreciate your help, and I know Sir George will also want to thank you. You have done your duty, told us what you know. I shall handle the matter from this point.”
    Her disappointment was the greater for being delayed. But she would not beg. That would put her in an inferior position. She would quite simply tell him she was not retiring. “I am happy to be able to assist Sir George, and shall continue to do so, to the best of my ability. Now, about Alphonse’s English connection–”
    “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Miss Bratty.”
    Desperation lent a hard edge to her words and anger lit her eyes. “I understand perfectly well, sir. My mind, I hope, is not deficient. You were willing to work with that ass of a Felix, who wouldn’t know a clue from a clock, because he is a man. But you will not work with me.”
    His lean face colored in frustration. “Yes, but – you’re a lady! “
    “And one does not argue with a lady,” she said, staring hard at him. He just shook his head. “I do have the misfortune to be a lady. What of it? Do I need whiskers, or any other uniquely male accoutrement to do what I have been doing these past weeks? I feel like a female Shylock. Has not a lady eyes? Has not a lady hands, senses, brains?”
    “I presume you have a brain, ma’am, and I beg you will use it. You must know your reputation would be ruined if it were known you were rousting about the countryside with grooms and footmen, dressedas one of them. A lady’s reputation is her most precious possession.”
    “Yes, a fine trick you gentlemen have played on us ! ” she scoffed. “Our ability to do nothing but sit in a corner stitching and simpering is a pearl beyond price. What any man worth his salt would want with such a dolly is beyond my comprehension.
    “I have done worse things than roust about with grooms and footmen, milord, but I shan’t sully your ears by telling you the details. What I can tell you is that I enjoyed those unladylike activities more than sewing. If my reputation is ruined because I want to help England,so be it.” Having finished her rant, she added more quietly, “Not that anyone need know.”
    “You put me in an untenable position, ma’am,” he replied, trying for a reasonable tone. “Your papa doesn’t know what you are doing. Sir George doesn’t know. I am convinced neither would approve. Only I know, and permitting such folly would suggest tacit