by Henke, Shirl
The threat hung between them. She could withdraw her offer of a marriage with her daughter and he would be ruined.
Chapter Seven
The baron said nothing for a moment and Miranda feared she'd overplayed her hand. Last night's brush with death must have addled her wits. She'd never in her life used such language as the vulgar words she'd spoken during their exchange. In spite of Lori's upset, the gentleman had risked his life to rescue them. But before she could offer an apology, he spoke.
“I can imagine how a young girl would react to what happened—to what I did. I offer my deepest apologies to you both, ma'am,” he said stiffly.
“You would understand, wouldn't you?” Miranda's voice softened. “Your sister must have been younger than my daughter during the American war.”
“Barbie survived. Southern women had no alternative. And that was long ago and quite frankly none of your business.” He echoed her words with the faintest of smiles curving his lips.
Miranda felt the deftly delivered setdown. In spite of it, she could not help noticing the way his mouth was sculpted so beautifully when he smiled. But when he was angry...the cold, killing rage of last night flashed before her eyes once again, and she wondered if she was making a mistake. Would it be better to break off this courtship before it went any further? He seemed to guess her thoughts.
“If you no longer see me as suitable husband material, I quite understand, Mrs. Auburn,” he said, starting to rise.
He was a proud man, and she had summoned him here to humble him. After he'd saved her daughter's life. What was wrong with her? “No, wait, please, Lord Rushcroft. I...I did not mean to pry, nor to insult you. You are right. Lori and I owe you our lives and I owe you an apology.”
“Handsomely done, ma'am.”
He nodded, still standing with that rakish hat in his hand, which was now discreetly gloved. She could imagine the swollen knuckles hidden by black leather. Injuries he'd received because of them. “Why do you think we were chosen for...whatever those awful men intended to do with us?”
Brand shook his head. “I have no idea. Do you have business enemies who might have reason to want you dead?”
“One or two over the years,” she replied dryly. “But no one dangerous or desperate enough to hire someone to kill me. Of that I'm positive...in spite of my formidable reputation, about which I'm certain you've heard.”
He paused for a moment, debating whether to say anything. Then he plunged ahead. “I don't know if this has any bearing on last night, but someone tried to burn down my mews.”
Miranda gasped, knowing what his horses meant to him. “Was it serious?”
“Could've killed Reiver and several other fine horses, but thank heavens my groom foiled the attempt before things went that far. It was certainly not like last night...”
“Yet?” Miranda prompted.
“Geoffrey Winters bet heavily on a horse that wouldn't stand a chance unless Reiver was out of the race.”
Miranda looked as if she'd just tasted something rancid.
Brand went on. “It could be nothing, but he hasn't the quid—I believe that is your English expression—to place a thousand-pound bet A shady character my trainer knew from his old days in racing was involved. Dustin O'Connell.” At her blank look, he remembered she knew nothing of the racing circuit.
“And you believe this Mr. O'Connell gave the money to Pelham's boy?”
“That's what Sin is looking into now.”
“You rely on Mr. St. John quite a bit, don't you?”
He grinned. “He's a most reliable man...and my best friend.”
“You do break all the rules, do you not, Major?” she asked, returning his smile broadly this time.
“Every chance I get, ma'am.”
Miranda breathed a sigh of relief. She was not making a mistake, and her imperious summons had not botched her hopes for the baron and Lori. “My daughter and I shall look forward to this weekend...that is, if your gracious invitation still stands?”
When she tilted her head that way and smiled, she looked almost beautiful, much younger than he'd imagined the first time he met her. If only she'd wear dresses that flattered her and do something softer with all that heavy red hair. He could imagine it floating like a flaming mantle around her shoulders. What the devil had made him think of that! Fixing Lori's golden ringlets firmly in his mind, he replied, “I shall look forward to escorting you to Ascot.”
And he would. But whose company would he enjoy? The lovely daughter's...or her formidable mother's?
* * * *
On his way out of her office, Brand was too preoccupied to pay particular attention to the somber fellow who had been in conference with Mrs. Auburn earlier. He was once again pacing agitatedly in the outer office. Timmons immediately ushered him inside after seeing the baron to the door.
“Mr. Aimesley, I thought you were on your way to the docks. Is something amiss?” Miranda asked.
Kent Aimesley was tall and cadaverously thin with wispy brown hair and pale, lashless eyes. His body had been robbed of the vigor of youth by a bout of consumption that nearly took his life when he was twenty-two. Years of toiling for Will Auburn, working his way up from mere clerk to chief factor for the vast Auburn holdings, showed in the careworn lines of his face. Although he was only two years older than Miranda, he looked nearer fifty than forty. He was thirty-eight
“In all my rush, I neglected to have you sign the bids for the railway equipment.” He rummaged through a sheaf of documents extracted from the well-worn leather case opened on the edge of her desk.
After Will had hired him, Miranda had become somewhat uncomfortable with Kent Aimesley. But in those early days she'd been a young mother who had nothing to do with the operation of her husband's foundry and other diversified interests. Since taking over the businesses, however, she had become acutely aware of Aimesley's feelings for her—feelings she no longer returned.
He had always been more than discreet, and only well after her period of mourning for Will had he made an overture to her. She had explained that he was a good friend and valued employee upon whose expertise she relied, but that was all he could ever be to her. He had acceded to her wishes with the utmost grace.
But he had never married.
Somehow, Miranda had always felt guilty about it. Perhaps because of this, she had asked him to go to the United States to investigate investments in railway building. With the triumph of the Union forces during the war there, the promise of westward expansion had become a lucrative reality. And Kent Aimesley had become her right hand, making the arduous journey from Philadelphia to London and back regularly.
‘‘Everything is in order with our offer of capital for the Union Pacific...the shipping of iron tonnage is here...manifests for the two steamers out of Liverpool,” he murmured to himself as he deftly double-checked documents until he was satisfied all were in order and only the one bid for railcars and locomotives remained incomplete.
Miranda took the bid from him and signed her name after scanning it again. “How ever did we both miss such an obvious thing?” she asked with a smile as she handed it back.
“This is the largest American business venture you have ever undertaken, Mrs. Auburn,” Will replied in his deliberate manner, “lf the directors of Union Pacific accept our offer, we stand to make an incredible return on shipping the iron alone, not to mention the long-term profits from being major stockholders. Small wonder, with so much to consider, that you overlooked one signature. However, that does not excuse me.”
“You caught the mistake, and for that I thank you. It would scarcely do to arrive at Dr. Durant's office with papers I had neglected to sign. I'm quite certain these American entrepreneurs would have their opinions about a woman dabbling in business confirmed.”
“Only because they do not know you, Mrs. Auburn,” Aimesley said as he tucked the document into his case. He hesitated for a moment, clutching the old leather to his chest as if prepared to w
ard off a blow.
“What is it, Mr. Aimesley?” she asked with apprehension. This was not like him at all.
“If...if you will forgive my presumption...that is, I saw that Rebel Baron as I was leaving earlier and...”
Miranda stiffened but said nothing, waiting him out.
“Well,” he stammered, red-faced now. “That is, I hope you aren't considering a business investment with a former secessionist, even if he has become a member of the peerage.” He pursed his lips and stood as if fully expecting a tongue-lashing for his presumption.
She held her temper, reminding herself that although any interest in her and Lori's personal lives would be most improper, he was only making an inquiry about business matters and that was within bounds. “No, Mr. Aimesley, I am not entering into any horse-racing ventures, if that is your concern.”
Her reply was to the point, if not altogether truthful. Ultimately, she would be turning over everything she and Will—and Kent Aimesley—had worked for to Brandon Caruthers. But she was not investing in his horses...precisely.
Aimesley nodded with hooded eyes which revealed nothing. After he was gone and she sat alone in the big ugly room where she had spent so many hours of her life over the past fifteen years, Miranda wondered if he knew something about Brandon Caruthers's life in America that her investigators had missed. She had come to understand, even pardon, the carnage at the opera. But what of the nasty encounter with Reba Wilcox at the musicale?
Would the baron marry Lori and then make the voluptuous American widow his mistress? Lord knew, most of the peerage had such liaisons. No, everything she'd learned about him, including the way he had fended off Mrs. Wilcox, indicated that he was a man of honor. But Reba Wilcox possessed not a shred of honor. Of that she was certain and the knowledge troubled her.
* * * *
The following morning, Miranda took the opportunity to sleep later, a luxury she seldom allowed herself. Just before nine she awakened and rang for morning tea. When Tilda came in, bearing the tray along with the day's post, the mistress of the house was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair briskly.
“Here, let me do that. You always get it tangled,” the maid said, adding, “It would do no harm for you to eat two or three of those scones Cook just baked while I'm working on this hair. You're too thin and you work too hard. Hoped you'd sleep until at least ten.”
Tilda's bossy manner was endearing to Miranda. The prickly Indian woman was far more confidante than servant. “I never sleep to ten and you know it,” she replied, humming with pleasure as Tilda ran the heavy ivory-inlaid brush through her waist-length hair, massaging her scalp expertly.
“You have such lovely hair,” Tilda said.
“It's red,” Miranda replied flatly.
“And what's that supposed to mean? Golden blond isn't the only lovely color the good Lord created to grace a woman's scalp. All you need do is let me fix it the way I do Miss Lorilee' s—”
“I'm scarcely a girl in the bloom of youth. Just braid it and put it up as usual so it's out of my way.”
“It's too heavy to be worn that way. It's why you get those headaches of yours, mark me.”
“Very well, leave it down until after I go through the mail,” Miranda relented, tearing into the pile of letters beside her breakfast tray. She sipped tea with lemon but ignored the rich scones and raspberry jam.
As Tilda began laying out her mistress's clothing for the morning and seeing to the drawing of her bath, she fussed aloud about stubborn women who didn't know what was best for their own health. Miranda ignored her and concentrated on her reading. After a couple of invitations to various soirees which Lori might enjoy and she would endure, an envelope with the Rushcroft crest caught her attention.
Frowning, she asked, “When did this arrive?”
“Just before you rang. Hand-delivered by a young American lad.”
“Since you never deign to speak with footmen, how would you know he was American?” Miranda asked, amused.
“I have eyes. He was black as a spade in a deck of playing cards,” she harrumphed.
“Mathias,” Miranda murmured to herself. The baron had mentioned the young jockey fondly. She read an invitation from the baron for a ride in Hyde Park at one that afternoon. He was going to make certain his stallion's injury was healed and wondered if Miss Auburn and she would do him the honor of accompanying him. “Is Lori up?” she asked Tilda.
“Still abed with her nose in one of those Sir Walter Scott romances,” Tilda said with disapproval. She had been raised on the classics and considered popular fiction a waste of time.
Miranda chuckled tolerantly. “Please ask her to come here.”
Lorilee was less than enthusiastic about the invitation but smiled dutifully and agreed that it was indeed a lovely day for a ride. She quickly left her mother's room, saying she would have to select a riding habit, an excuse that she knew Miranda would believe. Though it was a warm June day and the sun beckoned everyone outdoors, and though she loved riding her mare along Rotten Row to see and be seen, she did not look forward to the prospect of spending time with Brandon Caruthers.
If only she could find a way to explain her feelings without seeming childish or ungrateful. The baron had saved their lives at no small risk to himself, she reminded herself. But his violent actions left her shaken. So did his bizarre reaction to Marmalade and the kittens, not to mention the encounter with that dreadful American woman.
Perhaps what bothered her most of all was the way she felt left out of the conversation whenever he and her mother talked, no matter how much they tried to include her. She felt too young, too poorly educated, too...unsophisticated, she supposed. Why, even compared to the flirtatious widow, who was quite ill-mannered, Lori felt socially inept. How easily Baron Rushcroft and her mother had handled the brazen woman. All she could do was stand like a stump and gape.
She had never felt such discomfort with other younger suitors. She dismissed Geoffrey Winters from her mind, recalling many other eager young men who had attempted to woo her. Although none took her fancy, neither had they made her feel in any way wanting, as did the baron.
Lorilee knew he was considered one of the catches of the season, a mysterious and dashing cavalier whose Southern cause had been lost in a desperate conflict. Many of the debutantes swooned over the romance of it all. Newspapers were filled with stories about the Rebel Baron. Gentlemen who were racing enthusiasts spoke of his marvelous blooded stock and how often his small stables took large purses.
Now he was hailed as a hero for foiling an attempted robbery and possible kidnapping. No, she would have to go riding this afternoon and attend the Ascot with him. And pray as the summer wore on that it would become clear to the baron and, more importantly, to her mother that they did not suit. And, too, if she was seen with such a celebrity, there would be more opportunities for her to find that young man of her dreams.
Out of the blue, a thought occurred to her. The baron needed a wealthy wife to redeem his family estates from the ill repair into which they had fallen. What if she could find such a candidate for him? One older and more sophisticated than herself. That would solve both their dilemmas.
With that plan fixed firmly in her mind, Lori smiled to herself and went to her clothes cabinets to select a riding habit.
* * * *
“She has a good seat,” Brand said to Miranda as they watched Lorilee jump a low hedge with considerable grace, then turn her little buttermilk-colored mare back toward them. “Are you certain you don't want to learn to ride? It's simple and fun.”
Miranda shook her head. She had driven Lori's slipper Victoria to the park. “I have mastered the ribbons for one horse, safely situated inside a well-sprung carriage. That will suffice for the social graces of horsemanship as far as I'm concerned.” She could tell he was incredulous by the look he gave her.
“How is it you never rode? Your family obviously stinted nothing on the rest of your education.”
“Spoken like a true Puritan. Are you certain you're Church of England, not a Calvinist?” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.
When he smiled at her that way, something inside her turned over, something warm and vaguely frightening. Still, she could not resist returning his smile. “We are staunchly Establishment. As to riding, perhaps I'm afraid of taking a fall.”
“You're not afraid of anything,” he replied, his expression suddenly grave. “I remember how you behaved at the theater. So calm and resourceful.”
His eyes made Miranda flush like a girl Lori's age before she looked away. “I've told you how frightened I was...” She hesitated then, wanting to share with him a bit of her past. He would be part of their family one day. But no, not yet. She was not ready. Perhaps she never would be. Only Tilda knew the whole of it.
“Something happened to your family.” He held up his hand. “I know, it's none of my business...only it is if we're to be kin one day.”
It was as if he could read her mind, she thought, not for the first time. But there was genuine concern, not idle curiosity, in his voice. Haltingly she said, “My father had a prosperous business until the financial crash in the forties. Then he had to struggle to hold the foundry together.”
Brand wondered what Miranda Auburn had been forced to give up when she was poised on the brink of womanhood. From what he'd gathered, Will Auburn could not have been a young man when he wed her, for he was well into his sixties when he died and they'd been married for less than five years.
Together they watched as Lorilee reined in her mare and spoke with two other young women, obviously friends of hers. Then Brand broke the silence. “You were forced to marry for money, too, weren't you?”
