by Henke, Shirl
Mrs. Winters was plain as a wren with mousy tan hair and a plump face. Her narrow, shrewd eyes missed little. Lori turned her back when Geoffrey looked over toward her and dared to nod as if they were casual acquaintances. Then while everyone's attention was fixed on Her Majesty's procession to the royal box, Lori was handed a note by one of Mountjoy's footmen.
Opening it, Lori suppressed a gasp of indignation, feeling Geoffrey Winters's eyes upon her. It was written in his hand, offering her the exalted honor of becoming his mistress!
“What is it, dearheart?” Miranda asked, leaning over to her daughter to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
Without a word, Lori showed the missive to her mother, noting with satisfaction the way Winters blanched. Could he have been that sure of her? That arrogant? That stupid! Before Miranda could say a word, Lori snatched the note back and stood up.
“Now, Lorilee, do not do anything—”
Before her mother's words of caution could delay her, she made her way calmly to the velvet-trimmed railing dividing their box from Falconridge's. Leaning over, she waved to Mrs. Winters and said in a clear voice, “Your husband sent this to me by mistake, I'm quite certain. Perhaps you need to straighten out the misunderstanding?”
Almost grudgingly, the earl's daughter motioned for one of her servants to fetch the missive from Lori. Meanwhile, her husband quickly made his way from the box, red-faced and muttering curses beneath his breath.
Smiling beatifically, Lorilee Auburn returned to her seat.
“That wasn't quite in the spirit of charity...but it's precisely what I would've done,” Miranda said with a chuckle.
“I hope she has her father cut off every farthing to the rotter,” Lori said with a grim smile.
Miranda was relieved. Her daughter was well and truly done with that bounder.
Brand, too, had observed the sequence of events and put two and two together. It might do to keep a very close eye on young Winters.
Several boxes down, Reba Wilcox watched the exchange with interest. Young Winters would always be a skirt-chaser. But more interesting yet was the way Brand treated his young lady fair. He was polite and deferential, but Reba remembered how different it had been when he'd courted her. Why, he was paying more attention to the mother than the daughter! And Mrs. Auburn was aware of him in a way no prospective mother-in-law should be.
A slow smile spread across Reba's face. Surely it couldn't be...but she believed it was true. The girl bored him, which didn't surprise her. Nor did it seem unreasonable that the rich widow would be smitten by his charms. Those circumstances would work perfectly into her plans if she played her cards with care. Unlike Geoffrey Winters, Reba was a very good gambler…
‘Isn't that your countrywoman, Mrs. Wilcox?” Miranda asked Brand when Reba's vivid red dress caught her eye.
“Leave it to Reba to end up next to the royal box. She always picked winners,” he said with cynical amusement.
“You were more than friends back in Kentucky, were you not?”
He gave her a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “You know we were engaged to be married...before the small inconvenience of the war intervened. Reba doesn't like to be inconvenienced.”
What Miranda really wanted to know was whether he'd ever bedded the witch, but there was no way on earth propriety would allow her to ask that! She was shocked she even dared to think it, much less imagine the two of them in a torrid embrace. Miranda had never been jealous in her life. The emotion took her utterly by surprise. Why, oh why, had she ever brought up the subject of that hateful woman? Before her wayward tongue could stop, she found herself saying, “I can scarcely credit Lady Ashworth inviting her here. After all, she's been widowed less than a year.”
“And dressed in red,” he added, knowing how it offended Miranda's sense of decorum.
“Ah, but with that touch of black lace to signify how much she mourns her loss.”
He grinned at her. “Naughty lady, sheathe those claws.”
She resisted returning the smile, appalled by her own lack of charity, not to mention other more grievous sins. “I fear I must warn you, Major, that my daughter shares my vindictive nature.” She knew he'd relish the set-down Lori had given Winters, so she described it in detail. After all, it was her role to promote the happiness of her child, not steal it away.
As if she could divert the attention of an eligible young peer such as Caruthers from a beauty like Lori!
* * * *
They spent the afternoon watching the races and cheering for the horses in Mountjoy's stables and other favorites upon whom the gentlemen had placed bets. Many racing enthusiasts among the aristocracy spoke with the baron about his now famous Midnight Reiver and when they might purchase his stud services, as well as discussing which of his get would be entered in next year's races at Ascot.
By evening, everyone was hoarse, sunburned and quite exhausted as they returned to the railway station. The Belfords, who had come from their country seat, were now returning to London and invited the Auburns and the baron to join them in their car. Sin, who had spent the preceding day around the track, rode in the servants' car with the aloof Tilda. Brand watched the two of them disappear down the narrow corridor and smiled to himself. Although slender, she was strong and wiry, nearly a foot taller than the diminutive former jockey. “A challenge for Sin indeed,” he murmured to himself as he entered the Belfords' ostentatious accommodations for what he knew would prove an interminably boring ride to London.
In the servants' car things were far from dull.
Tilda Shankar watched the baron's dandyish little horse trainer approach her the way she would view an invasion of army ants.
Sin bowed before Tilda with a rakish elegance that would have made his English father proud, sweeping his bowler hat to his chest with a flourish. “Gideon Hercules St. John, at your service. I am Lord Rushcroft's trainer and stable master. May I have the honor of taking that seat?” He motioned to the seat adjacent to her. There were quite a few unoccupied in the car.
“I am aware of your position, Mr. St. John. It is, after all, far shorter than mine.” She turned her head and gazed out the window, dismissing him.
“In terms of nearness to the heavens, I would most certainly agree, but here on earth…” He shrugged. “You are a ladies maid and I an entrepreneur who has won great prizes. My size has been a considerable advantage over the years...in more ways than you have yet to imagine.”
Tilda arched her spine in affront and fixed him with a steely glare. “For all your fancy airs, you are a vulgar rascal without proper regard for a lady.”
“Show me a lady and I'll show proper regard.”
“You are rude as well as bawdy!”
“You were the one who was first rude. But no matter,” he said, taking the seat anyway, “for I prefer my women like my horses, with spirit.”
“If your head stood as high as your opinion of yourself, you would be seven feet tall! How dare you, you gnattish creature, to presume that I'd ever take up with racing riffraff?” She looked around the car, but no one appeared to be paying any mind to her angry outburst
“You took my meaning clearly enough, did you not? That's how I dare.” He grinned at her, revealing a set of dazzling perfect teeth.
Tilda scooted against the window. He made no move to crowd her but left the space between them on the seat. “Go away,” she gritted out.
“And deprive you of information vital for the safety of our employers? That would be remiss of us both. We should work in tandem, I think.”
She harrumphed at the last bawdy remark, but turned to him, curious in spite of her temper. “What information?” she asked with a suspicious glint in her eyes.
“Someone intends harm to Mrs. Auburn.”
“Nonsense. She merely had a carriage accident.”
“Oh, and what of the attempted robbery at the opera?” She looked around to see if anyone was near enough to overhear them. Satisfied of their privacy, she t
urned back to him. “Very well. What do you know about it? And no more nonsense about my becoming your...woman.”
As he began explaining, he knew he had her...in more ways than one.
* * * *
On the ride back to the city, Lori knew that her mother was watching her as she babbled on about the ladies' hats at Ascot and how grand the carriages had been and all the other frivolous matters with which young girls unwittingly tortured their suitors. Her chatter was, however, quite deliberate. She showed little interest in discussing the horses that had run. She intended the baron to realize how hopelessly mismatched they were. But not before he also realized how well matched he and her mother were.
This would have been far easier if her mother did not know her quite so well. Miranda was suspicious about why Lori had suddenly overcome her natural reticence and become so garrulous. There was also the danger that if she overplayed her hand, Lord Rushcroft might just cry off in disgust. She needed to discuss how to handle this with Tilda as soon as possible.
That very evening, Miranda cooperated by going to her office to review the cables from America that Mr. Aimesley had sent while they were in the country. Still dressed and sitting up in her bed, surrounded by dozens of puffy pillows, Lorilee schemed and waited for Tilda, who entered the room sporting a frown.
“You look as if you've just stepped on something Marm brought in,” she said curiously. “What's wrong?”
Tilda muttered beneath her breath, something about arrogant stablemen not knowing their place as she laid out Lori's night rail and robe.
“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “It's that man who works for the baron, the horse trainer, Mr. St. John, isn't it?” She knew how zealously Tilda cherished her independence, swearing never to marry again since narrowly escaping death by suttee when her elderly husband had died in India. “You rode with him in the servants' car.”
“The longest railway ride of my life,” Tilda said darkly.
“The baron believes him to be the finest horse trainer in all of England or America. And he's exceedingly well educated. I rather hoped you would find him charming,” Lori teased.
Tilda harrumphed and gave an innocent pillow a fluffing that nearly caused it to rupture. “Matchmaking for your mother is quite sufficient, young lady. You don't need to concern yourself with me. If I ever would—and mark me when I stress the conditional tense—consider another marriage, it certainly would not be to an arrogant popinjay such as that one.”
Lori knew when a change of subject was judicious. “Speaking of matchmaking, I think Mother is becoming suspicious of my antics. We need to find a way to keep them together before my magpie imitation drives the poor man to distraction.”
“Or your mother figures out what you're about.” Tilda calmed down and took a seat in a delicate rocker as Lori changed into her nightclothes.
“Perhaps we could hold a dinner party and invite some of the baron's political friends,” the girl called out from behind her dressing screen. “They would talk politics and forget about me.”
“Perhaps. But you must speak to his lordship soon.”
Lori reached for the glass of warm milk Tilda had brought her, a nightly ritual since she'd been a tot. “What do you mean, ‘speak to him’?”
“You need to explain the truth to him and enlist him in our deception so that he can win your mother.”
Lori made a most unladylike noise when milk backed up in her throat and nose. Coughing, she finally got out, “Tell him the truth? You mean that I don't want to marry him but my mother does!”
Tilda rocked calmly. “Just so.”
“B-but...how can I...what will he...oh, dear.” What had been an amusing game of wits suddenly promised to become a very daunting face-off with a man who still half frightened her.
“Yes, ‘oh, dear,’ ” Tilda echoed dryly. “You must do so quickly.” Her amusement with Lori's predicament turned to concern as she thought about the danger to Miranda that that dreadful St. John had outlined for her. “It is imperative that the baron or someone in his employ accompany your mother at all times when she goes out.”
She explained what Sin had told her about the relationship between the incident at the opera, the attempt to burn the baron's mews and the carriage crash. White-faced, Lori sat on the edge of the bed, listening with growing horror. “Lord Rushcroft was certain someone had tried to harm Mother that day in Hyde Park. So was I. Who could be behind this whole monstrous thing?”
“That is what the baron and his stable master are trying to find out. They suspect Geoffrey Winters may be involved,” she added, studying the girl's reaction.
“I would not be in the least surprised,” Lorilee replied coldly.
* * * *
Brand discussed the voting reform proposals being debated in Parliament with Lord Pell and the Honorable Mr. Reed, M.P. They were joined in the Auburn parlor by several other members of Lords and Commons. Two of the gentlemen he had met since arriving in London, but the other three were business associates of the widow's. Liberals outnumbered Conservatives, and the debate was quite lively.
While the men argued, their wives and daughters clustered at the opposite end of the large room, looking through an enormous volume of photographs. Lori, as usual, was the center of attention, giggling and laughing as she described the pictures. Miranda had not yet put in an appearance, owing to an unexpected business emergency. Brand found his attention drifting from the debate as he watched the door for her.
Which would she be tonight? The cool, no-nonsense woman of affairs, or the warm, vivid creature who had bewitched him at Ascot? Guiltily he turned his eyes back to Lori, sitting surrounded by the other women—the youngest of the lot by far. Too young for you. He sighed, knowing it was true.
What a conundrum his life had become. He had given his word to Miranda Auburn to court her daughter. Made a verbal agreement that would affect the security of hundreds of people who were depending on the new baron. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that peers could not be placed in prison for debt. Perhaps he could make enough on the racing circuit to hold his ancestral estate together. He had met a few men at Ascot who would pay exorbitant stud fees for Reiver.
But that did not solve the dilemma of Miss Auburn. It was his duty to go through with this marriage. Crying off after escorting Lorilee to so many public functions would humiliate an innocent young woman who believed in his honorable intentions. He could not hurt Lorilee. But he couldn't marry her either. It would not be fair to him or her. She must be the one to break off the courtship before they became formally engaged, an event Miranda had indicated she would announce within a few weeks.
But how the devil could he arrange it without devastating an innocent?
Across the room, Lori hid her nervous anxiety behind a facade of bubbling enthusiasm, laughing over pictures her mother had insisted she pose for from the time she was a small child. The note she had labored over so long seemed to burn through the thin silk of her gown. Tonight was the night she had to speak with the baron alone and tell him that she did not wish to marry him...and all the rest.
Even if he did prefer her mother, how the devil could she explain without offending his male vanity?
Just then Miranda entered the room, offering profuse apologies for keeping her guests waiting. She had already done so to the kitchen staff, who were struggling to keep an eight-course meal the proper temperatures after an hour's delay. At once she felt the baron's eyes on her. He stood beneath the massive crystal chandelier, and the light played lovingly in his dark gold hair. Ever the rebel, he still ignored convention, wearing it longer than was fashionable, curling slightly at the snowy collar of his lawn shirt. His face remained clean-shaven in a room filled with beards.
She liked that, just as she liked the way the tailored severity of his black dinner clothes molded to his lean body so perfectly. Most of the gentlemen looked as if they'd slept in their suits, their plump, dumpy bodies swathed in bulky woolens with jeweled stickpins and
cuff links gleaming opulently to proclaim their positions. The only jewels apparent on the baron were two amber eyes that met and held hers for a moment frozen in time.
Brand had his question answered. She was utterly smashing in rich bronze brocade. The gown was cut severely, without the ruffles and furbelows so in vogue for a formal dinner party. But it suited her quite perfectly. The shade provided a striking complement to her coloring, setting off her dark red hair with brilliant highlights. The formidable Tilda must have worked her magic with it, for it was styled in loose curls and looped atop her head, accenting her high cheekbones and softening her determined jaw line. At her neckline and ears, fire opals sparkled in antique settings, bringing out the silvery fire of her eyes.
But in spite of her new outer appearance, he still saw beneath the surface a woman in hiding. Was there the faintest hint of a flush to her cheeks as she averted her gaze from his and made her way across the room to greet the ladies? He reined in his wild imagination and concentrated on how he was going to speak to Miss Auburn, reminding himself that once he'd done so, Miranda would despise him. That would put an end to it...
Whatever it was.
No doubt she would make a formidable enemy. But she also had formidable enemies and someone was trying to kill her. He simply could not leave her before getting to the bottom of that dangerous tangle. This was going to be a long night indeed, he concluded as Miranda announced the pairing-up of ladies with their escorts and the order in which they would proceed into the dining room.
He, of course, was assigned to offer Miss Auburn his arm. Lord Pell, being the ranking peer, was first and Miranda's escort. The widower was seventy if he was a day. Brand watched the old goat's balding head bend close to hers as they chuckled over some joke. What was it about men so much older than she that seemed to draw the confounded woman?
While the servants were clearing the table between the fish course and the main entree, a huge rack of spring lamb and a venison saddle roast accompanied by multitudinous vegetables, Lori fingered the note in her palm, working up the courage to slip it beneath the table to Lord Rushcroft, who was busily engaged in a heated discussion on tariffs with Miranda and Mr. Baggins.
