Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  “An American peer. An utter barbarian according to some lights,” Brand said, unconsciously rubbing the narrow white scar on his cheek—and marking it with a smear of bootblack.

  “Keep applying that and you'll be in no danger of attracting the young miss—nor will you get your bank loan,” St. John said wryly.

  Caruthers looked over to the opposite wall where the room's sole mirror hung, one so chipped and ancient as to be unsalable. He applied a matching streak of bootblack to his other cheek. “Perhaps I can frighten Miss Lorilee Auburn away and then deal with her mother. What say?”

  Sin grinned, happy to see his friend's old sense of humor reassert itself. When he'd returned from the solicitor's office, Brand had been in a killing rage, his pride so affronted he'd all but called the man out. But oddly, after receiving a similar suggestion from this formidable widow at the bank, he had simply ridden back to his ancestral land and resumed planning for the future. One way or the other, Brandon Caruthers intended to hold on to what was his.

  If that included taking a simpering slip of a girl to wife, would he be able to go through with it? St. John had known Reba Cunningham was a dreadful choice. He doubted the Englishwoman would be any better. Of course, he was a confirmed misogynist who felt it his duty to find some way for Brand to escape this marriage trap. He stroked his chin, considering options___

  * * * *

  “You've done splendidly.” Miranda squeezed her daughter's hand as she inspected Tilda's handiwork. The handsome older woman fussed with last-minute touches to Lori's golden ringlets.

  “Thank you, Tilda,” Lori said with a tremulous smile. She turned this way and that, inspecting her new sprigged muslin gown, trying to take her mind off the prospect of meeting the dashing American. She was a bundle of nerves. Would he find her attractive? More importantly, would she find him attractive? She scarcely remembered him from their brief collision at the Moreland ball.

  Her mother had explained that the baron required money with which to restore his estate—money that would come from Lori's inheritance. Not precisely the stuff of dreams. But Lorilee was becoming resigned to what she knew most other women of her station accepted. A marriage alliance between families. Her only consolation was that if she detested him, her mother would not force her into the match.

  “Don't fret. You look quite perfect, dearheart,” Miranda reassured the nervous girl. She had given her daughter nearly a month to recover after her deliverance from Winters before even broaching the subject of Lord Rushcroft. After a round of outings to musicales, balls, regattas and other social events, Lori showed no particular interest in any young man. Overall, that was a good thing, for many of them were every bit as irresponsible and mercenary as Pelham' s boy.

  Perhaps Lori was at last putting aside girlish dreams and could evaluate a man's ultimate worthiness more maturely. Miranda devoutly hoped so. Not only would Caruthers not squander Lori's inheritance, but he would also provide the social recognition that her insecure and often slighted daughter so dearly wished. As a baroness, she would be presented to Queen Victoria.

  Let Abigail Warring choke on that! Miranda thought with a sudden surge of vitriol. Lori would have a dashingly handsome peer for husband while Abby would be saddled with Varley's ogre of a son. Although son to an earl, the young Mr. Winters picked his nose. Miranda suppressed a chuckle of triumph and said, “I do believe I hear the baron arriving.”

  Lori could not resist peeking out the window at the street below, where the sound of hoof beats clattered to a halt in front of the iron gate enclosing their small front yard. A groom took the reins of a magnificent bay gelding as the rider dismounted with casual ease. “He's taller than I remembered,” she said breathlessly, straining to see his face, which was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat not at all in fashion.

  Looking over Lori's shoulder, Miranda noted the same thing, but could not help thinking the plumed headgear suited him. “A veritable cavalier,” she murmured dryly.

  “You did say he was a soldier for the Confederates. I suppose that is part of their uniform,” Lori remarked uncertainly.

  “And the frock coat? Somehow I doubt it, considering it's cut in the latest fashion. Fresh from Bond Street or I miss my guess.” Miranda knew he'd won a sizable purse at Epsom two weeks ago and surmised he'd invested in some new clothing, but she did not feel it prudent to share that bit of information with her daughter. ‘‘Come, let me introduce you to the baron.”

  Brand stood at the foot of the stairs, ignoring the servant who was holding open a wide oak door into the parlor in favor of observing the two ladies descending the steps. She was as lovely as a siren, he had to admit, but he could sense no air of sophistication to go with her striking beauty. Perhaps that was a mark in her favor. Lord knew, Reba had been aware of her power over men from the time she'd learned to walk.

  Lorilee Auburn's hair was pale gold, her complexion like milk and rose petals. She was slightly shorter than her mother, who was tall for a woman. Her slender figure was accented fetchingly in a day gown of light blue muslin sprigged with darker blue flowers. Most appropriate for a young miss in her first season.

  Every feature from her huge cornflower-blue eyes to her little red bow of a mouth was quite perfect...and perfectly untried. There was nothing...formed about her yet. A woman to mold any way he chose, if that was his pleasure. A vague sense of uneasiness mingled with his anticipation. He'd grown up around complaisant women who employed only soft wiles to influence their men, deferring to them in all matters of importance. But that was the South...half a world away from here.

  This was England, where a woman sat upon the throne. Brand didn't much care for the idea. Were all Englishwomen as strong-willed and self-assured as Her Majesty...and Miranda Auburn? His eyes moved from Lorilee to her mother. There was nothing untried whatever in those cool silver depths. Those eyes belonged to a woman who had seen much of life and was fooled by little of it. And to think he'd once dreaded Alvira Cunningham. Comparing Reba's coy, manipulative mother to this woman was like comparing a tabby cat to a tigress.

  He nodded and smiled at the widow, then returned his attention to her pride and joy, her only child. Lorilee held her skirts like a princess entering a throne room. She bestowed a hesitant smile on him, and again he was struck by how young and insecure she looked.

  Brand felt like a money-grubbing carpetbagger taking advantage of a girl little more than half his age. He knew damn well he was a supplicant before Miss Lorilee's cool and elegant mother. And he did not like it. But nevertheless, he gave them a blindingly white smile and bowed, flourishing his hat as grandly as Colonel John Hunt Morgan himself.

  When the women reached the bottom of the stairs, Miranda immediately took charge, greeting Brand and making introductions. “Lorilee, may I present Brandon Caruthers, Lord Rushcroft.”

  When Brand took her hand, he could feel a faint tremor. After pressing a brief and most properly executed kiss on its back, he raised his head and noted the way her eyes fastened on his scar, then instantly skittered away. Many women found it romantic, but he was certain this one did not, judging from the slight flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. In the dim light of Moreland’s cloak room, she must not have noted it.

  “Your servant, Miss Auburn,” he said with a smile which seemed to warm her the tiniest bit. Turning to her mother, he paused, asking, “Am I allowed to observe the amenities in your home, or would you prefer a handshake?”

  Arching one eyebrow sardonically, Miranda presented her gloved fingers for him to salute. “That is reserved for the world of business, not social calls, Major,” she said wryly. He bowed smartly over her hand. No tremor there, but he'd expected none any more than he did a missish blush.

  The widow turned and glided toward the door held open by a deferential servant who seemed to blend into the oak panels. The room they entered was enormous for a city house and filled with expensive but, to his taste, garish Rococo Revival furniture. If possible, the intricately
carved oak pieces covered in dark blue brocade were even uglier than the more massive Gothic decor in the widow's banking offices.

  It said little for her taste if she'd made the selections. But, overall, he found the taste of the British as boorish as that of the noveau-riche Yankees who'd flooded into the South after the war, buying up gracious homes and refurnishing them like emporiums overflowing with costly bric-a-brac.

  Miranda noticed the way his gaze swept the room. She could sense that he did not like the ostentatious display of wealth. Neither did she. But Will had been so proud of his home that she had done little to change it after his death. “Please, be seated, my lord,” she said, gesturing toward a large chair facing the settee.

  Brand waited for both ladies to sit down before he complied. They took the settee, perching with starchy spines not touching the back cushion, a study in contrasts. Lorilee dressed in youthful pastel, her mother in a dull green day gown which was no more flattering than the gray suit she'd worn at the bank. Lordy, I've seen better-dressed squirrel hunters. He supposed she had no time for fashion with an empire to run.

  “Lori, will you pour?” she asked her daughter as a maid deposited an immense tray laden with a silver teapot, Sevres china and the rich, heavy foods so favored for late afternoon repasts in England.

  Obediently the young woman leaned forward and picked up the elegant teapot, filling the first of three cups. Her hands trembled ever so slightly, but she performed with perfect decorum as she'd doubtless been drilled to do by a succession of governesses.

  “Cream or lemon, my lord?” she inquired.

  All so very proper. “Just a touch of sugar, thank you, Miss Auburn,” he replied, wishing fervently for a good strong cup of black coffee. He hated tea. Smiling at her, he searched his memory for what other skills and interests young women of her class might possess. “Do you by any chance paint, Miss Auburn?”

  “Yes, watercolors, but not very well.”

  “Nonsense. Your work is lovely,” Miranda pronounced, encouraging Lori with a smile. “She took a red ribbon at the West End art fair only last month.”

  “What subjects do you favor?” he asked dutifully. This is going to be a long afternoon. He eyed the leaden scones and pallid watercress sandwiches and could already feel their sticky mass congealing in his stomach. Often, while riding through the night on raids with Colonel Morgan, he'd have given a silver dollar for any morsel of food. The irony of his situation now did not escape him.

  In response to his polite inquiry, Lorilee set her teacup aside and replied, “I've always preferred to paint animals. My most recent was of Calico's new litter.”

  “Calico?” he echoed.

  “Yes, our mother cat. She has six of the most playful kittens you could ever imagine. I dote upon them.”

  Her eyes sparkled with more animation than he'd seen yet. Unfortunately, it was over cats. “Have you ever painted horses?”

  “Why, yes, I have.” Lori warmed to her topic, a safe subject with which she was familiar. “I've done several of our carriage horses—one pulling my new Victoria and my favorite of all, Taffy, my mare.”

  “You ride?” Brand took heart.

  “Oh, yes. My friends and I take a turn in Hyde Park most days, weather permitting, of course.”

  “Tell me about your mare,” Brand encouraged.

  Lori was only too happy to oblige, going on about the pretty little buttermilk-colored filly and how much she loved feeding her sugar lumps and apples. Miranda sat back, quietly observing the interchange with satisfaction. The baron seemed to know how to draw out a shy young woman like Lori. She recalled from the dossier on him that he had a younger sister around Lori's age, but nothing was noted regarding the young woman's current status. Miranda assumed Barbara had been wed before the misfortunes of war befell the Caruthers family.

  Just as she was congratulating herself on how swimmingly well their first meeting was progressing, a movement at the corner of her eye distracted her. The heavy oak door of the parlor was opening a small bit. A minuscule squeak accompanied it, and Miranda made a mental note to have the downstairs maid oil the blasted thing.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Six balls of orange, black and white fur flew into the room and launched themselves at various pieces of the furnishings. One raced for the pulled-back velvet draperies while its companion swatted at the sheer curtains across the window, then both began scrambling up them in a race to reach the cornice at the top.

  A third batted at the tassel of the bell pull, while two others sank their little claws into delicate brocade upholstery to reach their goal—the tea service on the table in front of the settee. After a quick dive, one stood drenched in cream from the overturned silver pitcher, while the other attacked the edge of a scone with sharp little teeth.

  The last one deliberately climbed the ottoman beside Brand's chair and used it as a springboard into his lap. While he remained frozen in amazement, the multicolored bit of fluff sank its tiny needlelike claws into places never even whispered about in polite society. He could hardly get out a decent yelp of protest before it was climbing his chest.

  Two pairs of gold eyes stared raptly at one another—the kitten's round with curiosity, Brand's round with sheer horror. Within a heartbeat, the second kitten bounded from the tea service up his chest.

  Miranda scooped up the kitten on the bell pull with one hand, saying, “You've saved me from summoning the tweenie who was so negligent as to let you escape from the kitchen.”

  She'd no more than uttered the words when said servant dashed contritely into the room, undecided whether it was more prudent to curtsy to the mistress first or to begin rounding up the escapees. “I'm that sorry, mum,” the tan-haired girl said in a thick Irish brogue, abbreviating the curtsy in favor of making an unsuccessful grab for a kitten who swept by her feet heading for the fire screen in front of the mantel.

  She and Lorilee were scrambling about the parlor, trying to corral the rest of the kittens, when a loud yowl sounded. An enormous dark yellow tiger-striped cat with well-chewed ears stalked into the room.

  “Oh, Major, my deepest apologies,” Miranda said.

  “Oh, my,” was all Lori could muster, for Marmalade commenced to chase the kittens about the room, overturning vases of flowers and small gilt-framed pictures from tables. One ornate pedestal table toppled when his solid twenty-two-pound bulk gave it a none-too-gentle nudge as he swatted the rump of a fleeing kitten. Then, like one of the fabled “town tamers” from American dime novels, he turned his attention to the large chair occupied by their honored guest and two small, uninvited ones.

  That was when the women realized that the baron had not moved a muscle since the chaos descended. Brandon Caruthers sat stock-still, his neck seemingly elongated and posed at a most peculiar angle, stretching away from the two small orange, black and white felines sniffing at his face.

  Major Brandon Caruthers, fearless raider and much decorated veteran of the Confederate States of America, scourge of General Kilpatrick's Union Cavalry, was terrified of cats.

  Chapter Five

  Not that he had ever admitted it. Unfortunately, Brand knew his day of reckoning had finally arrived when he stared at the grizzled old tom who was eyeing the two kittens perched at his throat as if they would make a tasty luncheon—or he would. The kittens were bad enough, but the dark green eyes of the ancient feline studying him with unblinking interest were enough to make Brand wish he were back in the thick of battle. Surrounded by Yankee cavalry. With their new Spencer repeating rifles.

  Breaking the spell, Miranda calmly scooped up the tom. “Back to the kitchen with you, you impenitent rascal,” she said. As if comprehending Brand's utter humiliation and wishing to compound it, the tom gave her face a big lick and nuzzled her chin, eliciting a rich, throaty laugh. She handed the huge squirming beast to the serving girl, saying, “You've created enough havoc for one afternoon.”

  Then she turned her attention back to the baron
. A wisp of a smile played about her mouth as she pried loose a tiny set of claws from his shirt front. Lori approached his person with considerably more trepidation and pulled the second kitten away, cradling it in her hands as if he intended it harm!

  By this time the butler and two other servants, kitchen help by the looks of them, were all engaged in the feline roundup, which took only moments but seemed like hours to Brand. Then while he struggled to regain his composure, the servants quickly set the room to rights and cleaned up the overturned tea tray. The Irish maid promised to bring a fresh service out immediately as she backed from the room.

  Brand swallowed and tried to take a deep breath without seeming to do so. His smile was a rectus that would have looked at home on a battlefield corpse, but it was the best he could manage. His mind went utterly blank. He blinked, trying valiantly to summon his wits as mother and daughter gazed at him.

  “Oh, I do so apologize, my lord,” Lori said, fingertips pressed to that tiny bow of a mouth. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment...and her eyes alight with a blend of unease and curiosity.

  Miranda waited a beat for him to reply. When nothing was immediately forthcoming, she said smoothly, “Marmalade is quite a devil. I fear he's learned to turn the knob on the kitchen door when the cook isn't paying attention and slip down the hall to my sitting room.” She gestured across the way to a cozy little room with a large bay window piled high with throw pillows.

  He must suffer from a phobia of cats. Miranda was amazed. After reading of the man's battlefield exploits, she'd been convinced he was absolutely fearless. Perhaps it was good to find that even the most invincible warrior possessed one chink in his armor. The proud aristocrat was human. Then again, Lori seemed taken aback by his bizarre behavior, and that was not good.

  “Marmalade would be that great yellow brute?” Brand finally managed, proud that he did not shudder visibly.