Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  Once when Lori was a baby, Miranda had attended the races with her husband and some business associates. She thought the exorbitant bets placed between members of the nobility were quite appalling. And now this man wanted her to lend him money—her and Will's very hard-earned money—so he could cavort at racetracks!

  She felt a sudden flood of righteous indignation that smacked of the Queen's puritanical philosophy, and grimaced. This was business. The morality of gambling had nothing whatever to do with it. If the stud farm Major Brandon Caruthers proposed could produce the income he projected, she should approve the loan.

  But Miranda had another idea in mind—if the Rebel Baron came up to her exacting standards. She walked briskly to the heavy walnut door and summoned her secretary, Herbert Timmons. “I have an investigation that requires the utmost discretion, Mr. Timmons. Here is what I wish you to do...”

  * * * *

  “Who the hell does this woman think she is? Queen Victoria herself?” Brand fulminated as he glared at the letter in his hand, then passed it to Sin as if it were a live snake.

  Quickly perusing it, Sin chuckled. “It would appear to be a royal summons indeed—in this case, the royalty being not of the peerage but rather the industrial elite. The Widow Auburn not only owns controlling interest in the bank from which you have requested a loan, but a shipyard, an iron foundry and so many other ventures, I fail to recall them all.”

  “Unnatural female. As bad as those crazy Yankee women demanding they be allowed to vote.”

  “I hate to inform you, old chap,” Sin said with a chuckle, “but they're making the same demands here in England.”

  Brand shuddered. “Women should stay home and tend to their families. Leave the running of government—and industry—to men.”

  “You and Her Majesty are in complete accord on that issue.” Sin's voice had taken on a decided hint of irony. “You were turned down by every other bank in London. At least the Widow Auburn deigns to grant you an interview Tuesday next.”

  Brand muttered a vile oath and paced across the narrow carpet runner, now quite threadbare, that was one of the few remaining adornments of the Caruthers city house. Every painting, sculpture and piece of furniture that could be sold had been, leaving the library in which they sat devoid of all but a pair of scuffed, creaking leather chairs in front of the fireplace and moth-eaten velvet drapes in a hideous shade of puce. Even the built-in mahogany bookcases lining the walls had been denuded of their contents, save for a few cheap editions of popular fiction Mortimer had been unable to sell.

  “You'd best go, hat in hand, and charm the lady, son,” St. John said, ignoring the baron's restless pacing. Although disappointed that Brand's windfall had proven chimerical, Sin was not surprised. He had spent enough time in Britain to know the vices of the aristocracy. His own father, second son of a squire from Kent, had escaped by fleeing to Jamaica one step ahead of his creditors.

  Brand poured himself a generous portion of brandy, which he detested. “Damnable island. A man can't even buy bourbon here.” He tossed down the alcoholic libation like medicine, then said with resignation, “Here's to charming an old woman. I bet she's a veritable hag.”

  Chapter Three

  Miranda took a swallow from the glass of water and replaced it on the massive, ugly Gothic Revival table across from her high mahogany desk. Although she detested the ornate heavy furnishings with which her late husband had filled his office, she had kept them. They imparted an aura of masculine power, and she had learned to make herself comfortable within it. Right now she needed all the courage she could muster if she was going to lay her bold proposal before Lord Rushcroft...Major Caruthers.

  Dared she do it? It smacked so closely of the arrangement her father and husband had made eighteen years ago. No, it is nothing like that. I only want Lori's happiness. Was her logic faulty, motivated by her fear of Geoffrey Winters? While her daughter had been out riding with Abbie, Pelham's boy had arranged “accidental” encounters twice in Hyde Park, all within the space of a week. He had managed to sit next to her at the Southingtons' musicale on Friday afternoon and danced twice with her at the Hortons' ball Sunday night. The last event had really started tongues wagging. One more waltz and they would be all but engaged. Or Lori would be ruined.

  She could send her daughter to Liverpool to visit Will's distant cousins, but that seemed cruel in the midst of Lori's first London season. And who was to say Geoffrey Winters would not sneak across country after her, with dire consequences? The boy seemed bent on making trouble in spite of her clear warnings to him regarding his suit.

  No, this was a better solution—if she and the baron could agree on terms. Summoning her courage, she rang for Timmons to show him into her office.

  In the waiting room, Brand took note of the opulent furnishings. Thick Brussels carpeting in a deep maroon and green floral design covered the floor, accented by the dark green wall covering. The heavy rosewood Gothic Revival desk and chairs dwarfed the anemic, mousy-looking man who rose at the sound of a tinkling bell. Like a lap dog, Brand thought scornfully as the great lady's secretary scurried into her lair, closing the massive walnut door behind him.

  Here he was in the heart of “the City,” as London's central financial district was known. This was his last chance. If this old crone refused his request for a loan, he would toss back his claim to the barony and return to America on the next ship before the tax collectors got wind of his cache of valuable horses and confiscated them. He had tried every means at hand to lift his estate from disaster, but it was impossible without an infusion of cash.

  He and Sin had broken their backs for the past month at Rushcroft Hall, working side by side with his tenant farmers to plant an oat crop. But tariffs no longer protected grains from foreign competition, and cheap grains from the damn Yankees poured into Britain. The profits from the harvest would be so meager that his few remaining tenants faced starvation. Brand had neither the heart nor stomach to take his portion from them.

  But he did have a plan that could rescue them all from perdition. All he needed was money. A great deal of it...

  “Mrs. Auburn will see you, m'lord,” the office mouse said deferentially.

  He might be impoverished but he was still, by God, a bloody baron and he'd act the part to the hilt. Maybe he could bluff this female into doing what none of the male bankers had been willing to do. He strode toward her office as if he owned half of Kentucky and the whole of Surrey.

  And froze in the massive doorway. Brand was barely spared the indignity of having his backside shoved into the office when the secretary closed the door. He had imagined a harridan similar to the portraits of hatchet-faced Yankee suffragettes he'd seen scowling from flyers posted on public buildings from Cincinnati to Saratoga.

  But Miranda Auburn was not an old hag. Far from it. Oh, she was no raving beauty, to be certain, dressed as she was in somber dark gray. The two-piece business suit was fitted crisply to her tall, slender body, although the high neckline and square-cut loose jacket seemed designed to hide any womanly curves. Her hair was pulled severely back into some sort of highly unflattering bun. The color was dark red and might have been quite arresting if the tresses had been arrayed more softly. It was obvious to him that she intentionally denied her femininity. Some gut instinct warned him that that denial meant trouble.

  Always good at assessing people, he tried to decide how to handle her. Her face was more strong than conventionally pretty, but quite striking in spite of its lack of artifice. A pair of perfectly arched eyebrows and thick lashes were a shade darker than her hair. She had high cheekbones and a firmly developed jaw presaging stubbornness. The slightest of smiles indicated straight white teeth and displayed a generous mouth innocent of lip rouge. Eyes a peculiar shade of silver-gray assessed him in return. He could sense the shrewdness in them as she rounded the desk and glided toward him.

  Yes, she's going to be trouble, he thought as he recovered from his surprise and minded his man
ners, bowing smartly.

  “Lord Rushcroft,” she said in a husky, cultured voice. She surprised him by extending her hand for a firm shake rather than allowing him to press a discreet kiss on its gloved back. Brand disliked being a supplicant to anyone, especially a female. He liked it even less that this female approached him as if she were a man.

  And his equal.

  What was he to make of such an unnatural woman? Bestowing his most winsome smile, he replied, “My pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Auburn.”

  “Please have a seat, my lord,” she said crisply, gesturing toward another of those ugly leather chairs, this one placed in front of her monstrous desk. She immediately turned her back on him and walked around the desk, taking her place behind it. An obvious power ploy if he had ever seen one, and every officer serving under General Wheeler's command had.

  Brand smiled, waiting until she was seated before sinking into the devouring depths of the hellish chair facing her. “Since you arranged this appointment, Mrs. Auburn, I assume you have had the time to consider my proposal,” he said in his most disarmingly genial voice.

  Miranda was struck by his grace once again, the self-assurance with which he moved. But there had been something hesitant, which he had covered very smoothly, when he'd first entered her office. No doubt he'd been led to expect an ancient ogre. She would have allowed herself an inward smile if not for the seriousness of this meeting.

  That sense of leashed danger buried deep inside him was hidden by a smile that could melt a glacier. She had been unable to discern the color of his eyes before, only their hardness. Now she could see they were gold and black...tiger's eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered if hers was a wise plan.

  “I hope your decision will be in my favor, ma'am.”

  And his voice—she had not been prepared for the low, rich timbre of it, or for the slow, drawling accent which held none of the affectation of the English aristocracy. The odd lilt was quite at variance with the speech of other Americans she'd dealt with. Of course, they weren't from the Southern states, she reminded herself.

  He's trying to charm me. “I have given a great deal of thought to your rather detailed proposal for the improvements you envision on your estate,” she began very carefully. Best to tread slowly and take his measure further. “You intend to turn Rushcroft Hall into a...stud farm,” she said, glancing down at the papers in front of her, something she normally never had to do after preparing for an interview.

  “That is my plan. It's prime grassland, and I've brought with me the finest thoroughbred racehorse and brood stock in Kentucky.”

  She knew that he was not boasting, merely stating a fact. “You also intend to race this Midnight Reiver, is that not so?”

  “Yes, I do. In fact, Reiver's already won several purses at Epsom and Sandown,” he said with pride.

  “It would seem a rather risky venture, basing all your hopes for the future on winnings from such a capricious sport. What if your horse loses?” she asked, playing devil's advocate just to see how he'd respond.

  As Sin would say, “Just bloody lovely.” She's a damn straight-corseted Puritan. Brand smiled over his disgust “Reiver seldom loses, ma'am.”

  “Reiver—what an odd name. Is it American?”

  “It wouldn't appeal to a fine, upstanding Englishwoman such as you, Mrs. Auburn,” he said with a slow grin. “The origin of the word isn't American. It's Scots, and it means a member of a raiding party who swoops down from the hills to steal whatever isn't nailed down, then vanishes like a lightning strike.”

  His smile was infectious and infuriating at the same time. She could sense the defiance behind it. He hates having to ask anyone for help. This foreigner with the molasses accent affected her in ways no other man with whom she'd transacted business ever had. Of course, she'd never considered making to any of them the offer that she might make to the Rebel Baron. That was the difference—the only difference, she hastened to assure herself before continuing, “I'm not at all certain the image of thievery is one you should mention while discussing business with a banker.”

  The bit of dry wit took him by surprise. So the lady has a sense of humor. Perhaps all is not lost. “I'm not so certain, given the character of some American bankers I had the misfortune to deal with. Still, reiving isn't in my plans for Rushcroft Hall. Neither is merely winning races at the tracks.”

  “Pray enlighten me.” She steepled long, tapered fingertips together and gazed at him with those cool silver eyes.

  He knew damn well she'd read his very detailed explanation in the application. Was the woman toying with him? The urge to get up and walk out swept over him again, but he quashed it. “As I wrote in the proposal”—he gestured at the neat stack of papers before her—“I intend to breed and sell horses. I'll begin with the racing stock I have now. Winning at the tracks around London has already attracted several potential customers for Reiver's colts. In the long run, that's a great deal more important than the purses we collect.”

  “But much as the British aristocracy is horse mad—and it surely is—there is hardly demand for thoroughbreds to justify such a large loan” she countered.

  “Once I have my breeding program established and barns, stables and fencing in place, fields planted for fodder and men trained to harvest and dry it, then I'll be ready to branch out, to purchase new breeding stock. How many carriages cross over London Bridge every day?”

  Miranda blinked at the unexpected question. ‘‘Quite a few, I would hazard.”

  “Nearly thirty thousand. Every jumped-up bookkeeper and tradesman aspires to join the ‘carriage class’ and stable his own horse or team of horses, whatever he can afford. Then there is the matter of draft animals for drayage and agriculture. I've investigated the costs of purchasing Scots and Flemish stock. A prime team of Clydes can command a handsome price.”

  Miranda nodded. She'd been stalling, taking his measure as he spoke. The light that burned brightly in his eyes now indicated the passion he felt for his plans. With sufficient capital behind him, she was certain he'd succeed. When she had shaken his hand, it felt firm and strong. He was no idler who hired others to do his work for him. Another good sign.

  “In all of this, you've not written or spoken of the Caruthers family home. Surely as the new baron, you would like your seat refurbished. I'm given to understand it was one of the loveliest manor houses in Surrey.”

  Visions of River Trails' burned-out shell flashed into his mind for an instant, overlaid with images of crumbling neglect at Rushcroft Hall. “Eventually, I would enjoy having a gracious home once more, but that is a luxury I'll forgo for the present,” he replied guardedly.

  “Most gentlemen of your class would think possessing a splendid manor house—and city house—the most pressing needs.”

  “I am not most gentlemen,” Brand replied levelly. “Holding balls and galas never held much appeal for me.”

  “But you do take pride in your family heritage.”

  “I took great pride in the Kentucky land that had been held by my family for generations. By English standards, four generations may seem a laughable span, but in Kentucky, it is a very long time. My great-grandfather cleared the land and planted the first crops himself.”

  “But he used slaves.”

  Ah, now we get to it, he thought with a grim smile. “He did. But as I suspect a well-informed woman of business such as you knows, slavery's been abolished in America.”

  “You have never owned a slave,” she stated, glancing down at the papers on her desk, sorting through a report which had nothing to do with his finances...and everything to do with whether or not she made him her offer.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, ma'am, knowing everything about me while I know nothing about you. And yet I'm the wily foreign adventurer and you're the widow lady. Shouldn't it be the other way about?”

  Miranda felt a smile tug at her lips and permitted it. “Touché, my lord. Perhaps it is time to explain my position
.” She took a deep breath for courage, happy that Tilda had not laced her at all tightly this morning. “You are in need of a large amount of money to rebuild your ancestral estate and restore it to profitability. I am in need of a husband for my daughter.” Baldly put, but there it was. She studied his reaction as she added, “I believe we might discuss a mutually satisfactory way for both of us to achieve our goals.”

  Brand sat frozen in the clutches of the damnable leather monstrosity of a chair, too amazed to bolt to his feet and storm out of the room. This was the very last contingency he could have imagined. “Seeing as how I lost everything in the war, then came here to find myself with an empty title, you believe I can be bought.” In spite of his lazy drawl, icicles dripped from every word.

  “Not you.”

  “But my title?” he snapped.

  As he stood up, preparing to leave, she hastened to add, “It was not my intention to insult you.”

  “It may not have been your intention, ma'am, but you surely did. My solicitor has already made the suggestion that I wed a wealthy heiress to recoup the Caruthers family fortune. I told him to go to the devil. My mother would rise up in her grave if I said the same to a lady, but I believe our business is concluded.”

  “Wait, please, Lord Rushcroft. Please allow me to explain,” Miranda said as calmly as she could when his hand reached for the massive brass doorknob.

  There was something in the tone of her voice, a desperation that he'd heard often during the war...when women pleaded for their homes to be spared, for food, or for the lives of their children. What would make a woman like this one plead? He sensed it was not in her nature, any more than it was in his, to beg for anything. She was proud and self-sufficient. And not in the least maternal. Brand turned around, curiosity warring with humiliation.