by Henke, Shirl
“Pray, enlighten me,” he said, throwing her words back at her.
He stood stiff as a board, rigid with anger. How could she blame him? He was a proud man who had lost everything in America and now stood to lose again after crossing an ocean in search of a second chance. She moistened her lips nervously, feeling his eyes on her. She met them and said, “You are precisely the kind of man I want for Lorilee.”
“One with a title? If that's all you require to sell your child, there are a surfeit of impoverished peers.” She flinched, and he almost wished he had not said it.
“I don't care a fig about your damnable title, Major!”
His eyebrows rose expressively but he said nothing, merely stood like some restless jungle cat, waiting for her to continue.
“I am not looking for an entree to the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. My money has already gained me that. I have no interest in Society.”
“But your daughter does?” He was beginning to see the picture of a spoiled little rich girl and he did not like it.
“My daughter fancies herself in love with a man who wants only her money.”
“So you offer her to another man in exchange for money. The logic of that escapes me.”
“I know Geoffrey Winters. He will hurt Lori. I do not believe you would.”
Again, he raised his eyebrows. “And why is that? What do you know about me other than that I fought on the losing side of the war, have a bankrupt barony, and my American antecedents were slaveholders?”
“Actually, quite a bit. I've had your personal life and family background as well as your financial situation investigated.”
“Really.” She met his eyes steadily, although he knew it could not be easy for her to do it.
“Yes. Before the war you were forced to take over your family estates when your father became ill. As a boy scarce out of knee britches you made a vast plantation prosper. You—”
“I had help.”
“Yes, Mr. Gideon Hercules St. John,” she said, glancing down to read his name from the report. “Quite interesting. He's here in London with you. He was your mentor after your father became incapacitated.” How well Miranda could understand such a bond. “His mother was Jamaican, father an English expatriate in the islands who sent him to England to be educated, in spite of his being born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Don't forget his mother was black Jamaican. That didn't set any better here than it did on the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Point taken, my lord. The English may in principle wish those of other races to be free, but we do not readily admit them to our society any more than do Americans. But that is a separate issue.”
“You're the one who had Sin investigated.” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Only because of your unique relationship with him. I believe it reveals a great deal about your character.”
A slow smile spread across his face, mocking her. “Good or bad?” She was an abolitionist, no doubt about it. He already knew the answer, but it angered him that this woman dared to sit in judgment on something as sacred and personal as his friendship with Sin. It was an invasion of his private life. And of his friend's as well.
“I want a man of strong moral character, a man who is not concerned about what Society says, only what he believes is right.”
So prim and self-righteous. “As long as what he believes is right agrees with what you believe is right.”
“Quite well put,” she replied honestly. “When I received your application for the loan, I had already been considering you along with several other gentlemen, but none of them measured up.”
“And I do? If I didn't feel like a stallion at a stock auction, I imagine I should be honored. But what does your daughter have to say about the matter?” He watched her flush slightly at his vulgarity, surprised she didn't rise to the bait. But then she suppressed a sigh, enabling him to draw his own conclusions before she answered.
“She is infatuated with Pelham's son and has refused all other suitors. You must understand that I did not start out to arrange a marriage for her—although that is certainly not an inappropriate thing to do. My own marriage was such, and it worked out quite amicably.”
“But she wants a love match. Even if I were willing to go along with your business proposal, I'd never force a woman to marry against her will,” he said angrily.
“That is precisely the quality I have been looking for, don't you see?”
“Nothing about this makes sense to me,” Brand admitted. “If she fancies herself in love with another man, there is nothing either of us can do about it.”
“You're mistaken. You could make her see that Winters is a callow boy. I did not ask you to explain your plans for the Rushcroft seat because I was too lazy to read your application papers, I assure you.”
“You wanted to see if I was desperate enough for the money to accept your proposal.”
“Just the opposite. I feared your reaction might be as it was. But what I have learned is that you have a sense of honor and of industry. Your passion for the land and what you want to do with it came to life when you spoke—in ways that mere words put to paper could never convey. You'd never waste my daughter's inheritance on debauchery or gamble it away.”
“Are you certain of that? You were quite concerned about my racing Reiver.” A little of his anger began to dissipate.
She shook her head. “No, Major, you would be a prudent financial manager. And, equally as important, you could win over my daughter.”
“Permit me to doubt that, ma'am,” Brand said dryly as visions of his former fiancée flitted through his mind. “I'm a horse breeder, not a courtier. A scar-faced soldier is hardly the stuff of a young girl's romantic dreams.”
Miranda studied him frankly, and a frisson of heat danced down her spine. Forcing herself to ignore the disquieting sensation, she said blandly in her best negotiator's voice, “The scar is scarcely a disfigurement. And you're older, sensible enough to guide a girl of Lorilee's impulsive and generous inclinations. You must be aware of your good looks. Half the women in London are swooning over them. They call you the Rebel Baron.”
Brand scoffed. “I never put much stock in what gossips print in newspapers.”
“Nor do I. That's why I had you investigated so thoroughly. You must admit, when you came to my bank for a loan, it did seem a fated coincidence.”
Brand smiled sardonically. “No, ma'am. Yours was the only bank in London that hadn't already turned me down, but I expect you know that, too.”
Miranda nodded. “My daughter is quite a lovely young woman. She'll turn eighteen in a fortnight. This is her first season,” she said as she picked up a photograph from her desk and extended it to him.
He took it from her as if it were a live viper, holding it at arm's length as he studied the youthful, smiling girl. She was utterly beautiful. Just like Reba. “I can see why she'd have many suitors. She'll find someone she wants if you're patient.”
“My patience is infinite, my lord. However, being eighteen, Lorilee's is not. She's being manipulated by an utterly ruthless scoundrel who has already proven he'll stop at nothing to compromise her. I cannot take that chance. If you will not court her, I shall have to find another who will.”
Her words were clipped, yet he could sense tension underlying them. Miranda Auburn was hardly a woman he would call maternal, but he was willing to concede she cared for her daughter's happiness. “And if I don't court her, will you still consider my loan?”
“No,” she replied flatly. Gray and gold eyes locked. She was calling his bluff, and they both knew it. What would he do? Miranda held her breath, wanting to sweeten the bargain by explaining the very generous dowry she would provide for Lori. It was far more than he had requested to borrow. She wanted the manor and city houses restored as well as the lands, since Lori would be in residence. But her instincts warned her that if she made any further efforts that he might construe as bribes, he'd turn and stal
k out. She held her piece.
Brand weighed his options. All were wretched. He and Sin could make a run for home, or more easily, France; but he would not put it past this enigmatic woman to send the Peelers after them to confiscate their horses. He turned the matter around in his mind, growing more frustrated with every passing second. And she, the icy queen of industry, stood waiting without so much as a twitch. He could see how she'd managed to run her late husband's many holdings.
She probably eats bollocks for breakfast. “I won't agree to court your daughter yet, but I will agree to meet her. If she's willing.”
“I'm certain she will be.” Miranda tried very hard not to gloat.
Chapter Four
Miranda was certain of no such thing. For all she knew, Lori would lock herself in her room and sob her heart out until her face was so red and puffy Tilda would be required to soak it with ice cloths to reduce the swelling. On the long carriage ride home from the City to the enormous house Will had built in Kensington Gardens, Miranda was preoccupied with how to broach the subject of a new suitor with her daughter. Lori would immediately infer that this was an arrangement between the baron and her mother.
How could she convince an idealistic young woman filled with dreams of true love that Geoffrey Winters was a fraud and that a man such as the baron was far more honest about his motives? Caruthers was young enough and quite handsome, a quixotic figure of romance who should appeal to Lorilee, indeed had already appealed to a great many other young debutantes. He had them all aflutter.
Just then her driver opened the box and called down to her, apologizing because they were stalled in a traffic snarl involving an overturned fodder cart and a racing gig that had collided with it. That shifted her thoughts to Major Caruthers' business acumen. He was right on the mark about the need for prime carriage horses. The man had definite potential.
Now all she had to do was convince Lori to abandon Pelham's wastrel son.
The situation resolved itself far more easily than Miranda could have imagined. She had no sooner set foot inside the entry hall of their three-story home than Lorilee came rushing down the long flight of stairs with such haste that Miranda feared she might take a tumble. Without uttering a word, she flung herself into her mother's arms, quaking like a leaf in a summer storm. Miranda steered her toward the closest sitting room and closed the doors behind them.
“What is it, dearheart? What has happened to you?” she asked, leading Lori over to take a seat on a Rococo Revival settee facing the mantel. Miranda did not like the pallor of her daughter's normally rosy cheeks, nor the wooden stillness in this young woman who was always filled with life.
Lori kept her head bent downward as she replied in a whisper so low Miranda had to strain to make out the words. “You were right about Mr. Winters, Mother.” She twisted her handkerchief in two small white hands, wringing it until the lace edging ripped, but still not looking up. Nor did she weep.
Mr. Winters. My, what has that bounder done? Miranda had known her soft-hearted daughter to cry uncontrollably over a stray puppy run over by a dray wagon, even over the young tweenie she'd been forced to discharge for pinching silverware last month. Now Lorilee sat with her back rigidly straight, her head bowed, silent as a Greek statue.
“How did you find out that my judgment of him was correct?” she asked gently.
“At Murcheson's musicale this afternoon I was in the ladies' retiring room when I overheard Gretchen Lieder and Thea Murcheson discussing him.”
Miranda nodded. Mrs. Lieder and that ancient Murcheson baggage were the worst gossips in all of England, but they knew everything that went on in Society. She waited patiently as Lori gathered herself to continue. Already she could feel a killing anger at Winters boiling through her veins. The rotter had hurt her daughter!
“The Earl of Falconridge's daughter Varinia has been compromised by him and they are to be wed by special license within the week. The scandal is spreading across London. The earl at first wanted to call him out, but his countess prevailed upon him to allow the marriage instead. Mr. Winters expected a large dowry. The earl refused. Instead, he has provided them with a very modest allowance. If Mr. Winters does not mend his ways, he will be banished to America to work in the offices of a shipping firm owned by the earl's family.”
Miranda could not resist an inward smile. Ah, the splendid irony of it. She would have laughed aloud but for her daughter's distress. “I have had business dealings with Cameron Beaumont. Given the chance, he will work Geoffrey Winters very hard indeed.”
“All he wanted was my money, and...all the while he was courting me, he was still...searching for a wealthy woman of his own class.” Lori's eyes finally began to swim with tears, but she met her mother's gaze, refusing to break down.
She's growing up. Miranda hated the brutal blows that all too often accompanied maturity, but it was for the best. What if his scheme to entrap Varinia Beaumont had snared Lorilee instead? What if her beloved daughter had been the one to be compromised and forced to wed a man who had used her thus?
“I know this must be very painful,” Miranda began carefully, feeling as if she had spent the entire day walking over eggshells. First the prickly baron, now her wounded daughter. She took Lori's hands in hers, massaging the tight little fists until they released their death-lock on the shredded handkerchief. “Geoffrey Winters is young and callow, too wrapped up in his own selfish schemes to see your worth. That is no reflection on you, my dear. You're beautiful, intelligent and warmhearted, all any gentleman of breeding could wish in a wife. Only think of how many suitors you've already turned away—and how many,” she hastened to add, “you have yet to meet.”
“But Geoff—Mr. Winters,” she coldly corrected herself, “was the only one whom I fancied. And now he has turned out to be just like all the rest. Men are only interested in my money, not in me.”
“You know that's not true. Several of the young swains you spurned were rich as Croesus. Ralph Condon certainly did not need your money, nor did Leander Fleming.” Both were heirs of wealthy industrialists, albeit, Miranda was forced to admit, rather dull sticks. Perhaps a rakish charmer such as the Rebel Baron would prove just the tonic for Lori. But not so soon. She would require time to lick her wounds.
Miranda remembered how bitterly disillusionment could hurt. And she'd been given less than a week to accept Will Auburn's marriage proposal...
“I want to marry for love, not make a business merger, Mother.” Upon seeing the tiny flinch Miranda quickly hid, Lori was instantly contrite. “I'm sorry. That was most unkind of me. I know that you and Father—”
“I regret that you did not have enough time to appreciate what a fine man William Auburn was,” Miranda said softly. “But I promise you will find a man far closer to your age who will cherish you just as he did me.”
“Perhaps,” Lorilee replied in a despondent voice, gripping her mother's hands as if they were a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.
* * * *
Sin was busily humming his second chorus of “Froggie Went A Courtin' ” when Brand threw the boot he'd been polishing at his friend's head. Unrepentant, Sin merely ducked, then returned to mending the halter he'd been working on for the past quarter hour as Brand prepared for his first meeting with Miss Lorilee Auburn, heiress.
“I know you don't approve, and I can't say I'm the least bit enamored of the scheme myself, but it's the only way we can survive, dammit,” Brand snapped, attacking the other boot with enough zeal to rub the fine leather to the thickness of gauze.
“No estate is worth leg-shackling, old chap.” St. John shuddered. “I've avoided connubial bliss for well in excess of five decades and have never regretted the decision. Need I remind you of the mistake you nearly made with Reba Wilcox?”
“I'm not signing any marriage lines just yet Only going to meet the young lady...who, if her likeness was any indicator, is very beautiful.”
Sin grunted, putting down the tack. “And what if she has the
disposition of a treed bobcat? Or the brain of a possum? I say we take the horses and make a run for it.”
“There's nowhere to run, Sin,” he replied wearily. “If Miss Auburn does not find me appealing, then I'll have no recourse but to approach her mother for the loan once again. The widow has shrewd business sense. I'll give the devil her due. She made no attempt to hide her interest in my plans for Rushcroft Hall.”
“You really feel a tie to this old ruin, don't you?” Sin asked rhetorically. Brand had walked the land with a gleam of hope in his eyes. After the loss of River Trails, St. John had feared that hope was gone forever.
Brand laughed self-consciously and resumed polishing the boot. “Perhaps it's bred into Caruthers men to covet land. Or maybe it's because I was born on English soil.”
“Pure happenstance, that. If your parents had not been returning from their grand tour of the Continent when your mother was ordered abed carrying you, you'd have been born in Kentucky just as your forebears were.”
Brand chuckled. “Father was furious at the inconvenience. It was the opening of racing season back home.”
“A far more important event than your entry into the world,” St. John said with a rich chuckle. “But here you are, sitting in the House of Lords.”
“I'd far prefer a business arrangement to a marriage alliance, believe me,” Brand said grimly as he thought of the interview coming up that afternoon.
Sin's eyes swept over Brand's elegant features and tall, lean body. “Give me leave to doubt the girl will spurn you. Need I remind you the ladies of London Town are fairly swooning over the Rebel Baron? Why should this chit be any different from the rest? She's from a family in trade, and you're a peer.”
