by Henke, Shirl
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.” He slowly ambled over to a small sofa covered in faded chintz, taking a seat directly across from her.
His knees almost touched her skirts. She fought the urge to gather them up like armor against the masculine invasion of his presence and waited for him to speak his piece.
“I missed you at luncheon. Since you failed to take breakfast either, I worried that you might be falling ill.”
“I never breakfast, except for taking a cup of tea.”
He shook his head in mock reproach. “That's bad for a body. Back home, folks take breakfast quite seriously. Fried ham, grits, eggs. From what I've seen since arriving here, Englishmen take it even further—kippers and pastries, all sorts of fowl and even red meat along with the eggs.”
“English men—not women. If I ate like that I'd weigh more than the Queen.” At once Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh. “I simply cannot believe I said that!”
“Lese majesté.” He tsked, shaking his head as he grinned at her like a fool. “But be careful. I doubt her majesty would forgive you.” His chuckles blended with hers, then subsided. “I was hoping we could speak before it's time to go to Pelham Manor.” He was in deadly earnest now as he continued, “It's quite apparent that someone wants to kill you. I'd hoped being away from the city would provide protection, but it appears quite the opposite. Which brings up the matter of—”
“The coincidence that Geoffrey Winters is in residence?” she supplied.
“I had wondered if your interference with his courtship of your daughter might have made him your enemy.”
She had to smile at that. “I very much doubt that, Major. Mr. Winters is an utter coward as well as a cad.”
“That would not preclude his hiring someone else to do the deed,” he countered.
“In my opinion, merely taking the risk of hiring someone would be beyond his capacity. Besides, what would it serve him now that he's saddled with Falconridge's daughter?”
“I recall the insulting offer he made to your daughter at Ascot. He might feel you had influenced her to act as she did.”
“He's petty, but even if he had the courage to seek revenge, I suspect he'd be inclined to attack Lori, not me.” She considered that troubling thought, then dismissed it. “No, I simply don't believe he could be a threat.”
“I'm inclined to agree, but I'll take his measure again when we attend his little tea party.” He paused. “Will Miss Auburn be troubled by seeing Winters and his wife?”
“I might have thought so before the incident at Ascot, but now, no. I rather imagine it will be his wife who will find the situation untenable. I can't imagine whatever possessed them to invite us.” Miranda's expression was decidedly vexed.
“Winters' friendship with Belford, for one thing. And, glutton for punishment that the young fool is, perhaps he intends another go at insulting your daughter. I'll deal with him if he does anything amiss. Or, if she prefers not to attend, that will be no problem either.”
“Lori's well and truly over her infatuation.” Miranda forced herself to smile and look him in the eye as she said, “I believe you have much to do with her change of heart.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Don't give me too much credit. The girl has inherited much of your common sense. All she needs is time to grow into it.” How the devil could he explain the further complication he'd come to discuss? He plunged ahead, since he was already treading over a field laid with explosives each time he talked with her. “The Winters indicated in their invitation that they have a weekend guest,”
“Yes, I recall Mr. Belford mentioning something to that effect.”
“It's Reba Wilcox.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes, oh, dear,” he echoed dryly. “Dear Geoffrey may not have the nerve to hire a poacher to kill you, but my dear countrywoman wouldn't hesitate for a moment, I can assure you. As to what her motive might be, I can't begin to guess.”
“Perhaps she wanted to kill you because you've spurned her,” she ventured.
Brand scoffed. “Spoiled and self-centered as she is, Reba wouldn't risk trying to kill me just because I snubbed her. Besides, the other attempts have clearly been on your life, not mine. All of this is related, and I mean to find out how.”
“And you want to go on...reconnaissance, Major.” Miranda considered the dangerous tangle and nodded. “Yes, I believe tea will be most interesting.”
* * * *
Unlike Brand's shabby manor house and neglected grounds, the earl's family seat was in pristine condition. Geoffrey Winters and his mousy little dumpling of a wife stood beneath the towering twelve-foot crystal chandelier in the entry foyer, both wearing false smiles of welcome for Abigail Warring, Lorilee and Miranda Auburn and the Rebel Baron.
Geoffrey's only genuine enthusiasm appeared in his greeting of Jon Belford. Old gambling and drinking companions since their rugby days, the two went into back-slapping orgies of reminiscence as Mrs. Winters primly ushered her unwanted guests into an immense sitting room where a row of servants filed in, each carrying a sterling tea tray laden with enough pastries, marmalades and watercress sandwiches to weigh down a good-sized dray horse.
“Mrs. Wilcox will be along shortly. She's only just returned from a ride with Mr. Winters. Please excuse her tardiness,” the hostess informed the women as they took their seats in a small circle of Louis XV chairs. Her tone of voice indicated she would prefer the widow remain tardy for the duration of the weekend.
She poured from a silver teapot heavy enough to make her wrist ache, Miranda was certain. Her thin lips—the only thing about her that was—pursed in concentration as she offered delicate Sevres cups to the three women. It was quite clear that she had been coerced into this farce. Although Abbie was oblivious to the undercurrents, both Miranda and Lori felt a twinge of pity for her as she watched her husband usher the men across the cavernous chamber to a cabinet filled with ports, clarets and sherries.
“Mr. Winters always prefers a bit of wine to tea in the afternoons,” Varinia said with obvious disapproval she dared not voice.
Miranda knew the man was well on his way to becoming an utter sot in addition to his other unfortunate vices. Smiling, she shifted the conversation to a neutral topic. “Your husband's family seat is lovely. I've never been in this part of Surrey. It's quite a beautiful spot. Unspoiled by industry and its attendant ills.”
“But industry and all those little ole attendant ills are what's made you a rich woman, Widow Auburn,” a drawling voice purred from behind them.
Miranda turned to the speaker. Reba Wilcox was dressed in brilliant robin’s-egg-blue mull, tissue thin with scarcely a hint of undergarments to cover her lush charms. Ignoring the insult, Miranda remarked, “I understand you, too, have lost your husband...quite recently,” she said, allowing her gaze to boldly rake the American hussy's highly unsuitable attire.
Both Lori and Abbie stared in open shock before regaining their composure, but, being debutantes conditioned to defer to their elders, neither said a word.
Most married women at London galas would think twice before wearing such a daring gown. For tea in the country, it was outrageously inappropriate. Every person in the room knew it. Mrs. Winters stiffened, nodding icily to her houseguest as she started to make introductions to the Auburns and Abbie.
Miranda gently interjected, “My daughter and I have already met the widow.”
Mrs. Winters duly noted that Mrs. Auburn had not said they'd had the pleasure of meeting the widow. She gave Miranda a tight little smile as Geoffrey Winters rushed to Reba Wilcox's side with oily solicitude. Much to Abbie' s distress, Jon did likewise, fairly drooling over her hand as he was presented to her.
“I believe you two are friends...from back in America,” Geoffrey said as Brand sauntered over to make his obligatory bow.
He knew Miranda was watching him as he replied, “Yes, the Widow Wilcox and I are well acquainted. However, I wouldn't say
we've ever been friends.”
Reba put a dainty lace-gloved hand to her breast and made a moue. “How unkind of you, Brand. After all, we practically married.”
When Lorilee gasped, the triumph lighting Reba's eyes reminded Brand of a fox bounding away from the coop with a chicken in its mouth. His smile matched hers as he answered, “And the Yankees put me in prison, but I escaped both fates.”
Little did Reba know that Lorilee's heart was not fixed upon him. The revelation of their previous engagement would shock her but not hurt her. Miranda knew of his past with Reba. The devil of it was, he had no idea at all if it bothered her.
And he knew damn well that her opinion mattered to him. A great deal more than he would have ever imagined.
Chapter Thirteen
The afternoon went downhill from there, with Reba holding court while Geoffrey and Jon acted like a brace of slobbering hounds. Abbie Warring and Varinia Winters were scandalized by the lovely blonde's behavior and their men's reaction to it, but if Geoffrey hoped that it would arouse jealousy in Lorilee Auburn, he was doomed to disappointment. Miranda had never been prouder of her daughter. Lori ignored the ill-bred American's pointed barbs with an innocent charm that amused her mother and the baron.
Miranda was also pleased to note that Brand seemed impervious to Reba Wilcox's blandishments. And that his very indifference fueled the beauteous widow's determination to flirt with him. The only troubling matter was, oddly enough, that Lori seemed not to care about her suitor being stalked by such a creature. Now that Miranda thought of it, her daughter's behavior of late had been oddly inconsistent on a variety of occasions.
Never had she seen the girl act like such a flibbertigibbet, gushing vacuously about fashions and social events as she had done at Ascot. Perhaps it was the fault of time spent with Abigail Warring, but somehow Miranda doubted it. On the train ride to the country Lori had chattered with her friend about what they would wear to the Wayfields' ball, but today she was serenely level-headed while Abbie fumed with petulant jealousy.
Lori had always been horse-mad; but now that she was being courted by a man who was renowned for his racehorses, she never broached the topic. Whenever he spoke of his new foals and plans to turn his estate into a breeding farm for fine thoroughbreds as well as carriage horses, she showed only polite interest in the project, which Miranda knew was dear to his heart.
What is going on between them? Or, what was not? But surely after that romantic scene in the garden that Miranda had witnessed, Lori must have a tendresse for the baron. Of course, as far as he was concerned, Brandon Caruthers had not appeared overly attentive to Lori for the past few days either. If anything, his gaze seemed to fasten on her more often than her daughter. She assured herself it was only her imagination. It was also her imagination that made her envision ripping every last strand of golden blond hair from the Widow Wilcox's head.
“I understand you intend to enter the Ascot next year. A mare. Show those Englishmen what a Kentucky female can do,” Reba drawled. “We're famous for our winning ways, after all.” She stood closer to Brand than was socially acceptable, but then, neither was the glass of sherry she sipped the proper thing for a lady at teatime.
The gentlemen chortled at her not overly subtle double entendre—all but the baron. Picking up his neglected glass of port from a side table, he gazed at the hussy with cynical amusement glistening in his eyes. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Wilcox, I can assure you, I already know precisely what Kentucky females are capable of doing.” With that, he raised the glass and polished off its contents, then set it down with a decisive clink and walked over to where Abbie sat forlornly near the piano.
“Would you favor us with some music, Miss Warring? I understand from Miss Auburn that you play quite well,” he said with a charming smile.
Abbie' s cheeks pinkened and she dipped her head, flustered by the baron's compliment. Murmuring assent, she took her seat and began to pluck out a lively Chopin piece. He sauntered over to the settee and sat beside Miranda.
“Well done, Major,” she said softly. Lori stood nearby, tapping her toe to the music, utterly unconcerned that her mother, not she, had been approached by her suitor.
“It was the only thing I could think to do to silence Reba...short of strangling her.”
Miranda stifled a laugh. “You don't think she'd relish joining her dear Earl in the hereafter?”
“Not likely. She's afraid of fire.”
“Ah, but I detect that you believe it's where she's bound anyway.”
“No doubt in my mind, but she doesn't think that far ahead. The widow has plans for the here and now.”
“They would certainly appear to involve you,” she shot back more tartly than she had intended. Goodness, she was the one sounding jealous instead of Lori!
Brand chuckled. “She'd like nothing more than to become a baroness, or better yet a countess. Miss Warring had best look to Belford. The young fool's besotted.”
“The Duke of Cumberland has an unwed heir. Mrs. Wilcox could aim even higher,” Miranda said wryly.
“From what I've heard, he's also poxed. Remember, Reba has a fear of being burned,” Brand whispered conspiratorially, waiting to see her reaction. Knowing she would laugh—or hoping she would.
“You are quite awful,” she replied, unable to suppress a chuckle. Then she couldn't resist adding, “I have it on good authority that the young, ah...firebrand is not to be received at court in spite of his illustrious family name.”
“Firebrand? Vulgar puns, Miranda?” He tsked at her with a lazy grin.
Suddenly she realized how much she enjoyed bantering with him. Even his use of her Christian name didn't upset her, although she knew it was not at all proper. Nor was it proper that they discuss socially taboo subjects, subjects she'd never consider speaking of with any female acquaintance, certainly no other man. Of course, he could infuriate her just as easily with his prickly pride and arrogant assumptions. She'd never met his like. It's only because he's American, she assured herself.
“You think she wants only a title, nothing more?” she asked, trying to divert her attention away from him and back to Reba Wilcox.
“Earl owned a good part of Kentucky and his family has banking interests stretching to the eastern seaboard. She has money enough to buy whatever her heart desires now.”
“Except you.” The moment she said the words, Miranda wanted to call them back. They were too personal. And a reminder that she was, in a sense, buying him for Lorilee. She had come to regret her peremptory “business proposition” to him when first they'd met. But he didn't appear to mind when he replied.
“I was young when I first met Reba. A fool. War has a way of making a man see things he never did before. She saved me from the biggest mistake of my life,” he said with a smile.
“Marrying her?” Miranda knew the question was bold.
Brand shuddered just thinking of what hell on earth life with Reba would have been. “She would’ve been upset when I lost River Trails, but I can't even imagine what a shrew she'd have turned into after finding out she'd become a baroness without a sou.”
“How fortunate for you both that she married Mr. Wilcox.”
“Yes, it was. She made her choice...and I'll make mine.”
Before Miranda could think of a reply to that cryptic remark, the music stopped and everyone clapped in perfunctory appreciation of Abbie's recital. Reba took advantage of the shifting attention in the room to slip over to where Miranda and Brand sat, draping herself languidly on a leather chair beside the baron.
“Geoff told me you had some little ole shooting accident at your place this morning,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.
“Someone tried to kill Mrs. Auburn,” Brand replied coldly. “It was no accident.”
Reba's laughter was throaty as she eyed him. “Are you sure you weren't the target? You do have a way of making enemies, Brand, darlin'.”
“Have you, perchance, been wandering about in the wood
, Mrs. Wilcox?” Miranda inquired with a too sweet smile. She felt the baron's admiring gaze at her blunt sally.
Reba stiffened. “Surely you aren't accusing me of shooting at you?” she hissed, straightening up in the chair.
“Your marksmanship would explain why no one was injured,” Brand said.
“Why ever would I try to kill her?` Reba gave Miranda a dismissive glance, then turned back to Brand. “If I still wanted you, I'd have to shoot her pretty child, now wouldn't I?”
A sudden lull in the conversation around the room left her words echoing so everyone heard them. An uncomfortable silence followed as the ladies and gentlemen stood in varying stages of shock and embarrassment.
Brand could sense Miranda's protective instincts for her daughter radiate like the light from a dozen suns. Gently he placed his hand over hers and squeezed it reassuringly, then said, “Mrs. Wilcox was just making an unfortunate jest. Everyone knows she isn't in the least interested in me.”
Since the blatant opposite had been amply exhibited during the afternoon, there were a few coughs and titters. Then Mrs. Winters gamely announced, “There are more scones and marmalade.”
* * * *
“Do you think she hired someone to shoot at you?” Lori asked her mother as soon as they had returned to Rushcroft Hall. They were in Lori's room, selecting gowns for dinner that evening.
“As the widow pointed out, it would make more sense if she tried to harm you, not me,” Miranda said, trying for wry humor but failing. There was a ruthless streak of steely hardness behind the Wilcox hussy's languid sensuality. Miranda had seen her like before in the drawing rooms of business associates with socially ambitious wives. Reba put the Englishwomen to shame. But what did she want? Surely she no longer harbored hopes for Brandon. He had made it more than apparent that he had no interest in rekindling their former relationship.
