Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  Tilda arched one eyebrow. “Odd, but she's said the same about you from time to time.”

  “I had hoped once they...well, once he kissed her, she'd see that she loved him,” Lori said forlornly, nuzzling the kitten for comfort.

  “Like you believed you loved Mr. Winters after you kissed him?” Tilda reminded her gently.

  Lori deflated, flopping ungracefully onto her bed. The kitten squealed and jumped away. “You know that was different. I was just a silly girl. What shall we do, Tilda?”

  “Well, Mr. St. John has been instructed to see that the place is watched and someone accompanies your mother whenever she goes to the City. I suppose he could be our intermediary with the baron.” She frowned then. “At least until this troubling matter of unaccidental accidents is straightened out.”

  “I tried to reason about that with Mother, too. It didn't work.”

  “Then I imagine we'll just have to leave it in the hands of Lord Rushcroft for the time being, won't we?”

  Lori brightened, watching the kitten begin to bat at a tassel on her four-poster bed curtain. “If the baron finds out who's been trying to harm her, she'll be grateful and come to her senses. But in the meanwhile, Tilda, I have an idea...”

  * * * *

  “I don't like it. We've paid O'Connell too much already and nothing's come of it,” he fretted as he sawed off a large piece of steak and stuffed it into his mouth. The food in this abysmal hotel was not half bad, considering everything.

  “What do you mean, nothing? Caruthers' mews nearly burned down and he was frightened to death his precious horses were going to roast. And he believes that fool Winters was responsible,” his companion argued, taking a small bite of meat, then shoving the plate away in disgust. The food here was truly awful.

  "That was a good idea, using that Irishman to ‘lend’ money to Winters for his infernally unlucky gambling habit."

  “I do have a good idea now and then. If only you could conclude your arrangements and have done with this mess.”

  “I told you, as long as Miranda Auburn is alive, that's impossible,” he snapped.

  “It isn't as if we haven't exhausted every trick in the book to change that! That harpy has the most incredible luck I've ever seen. But I have been thinking of another plan that will work.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked across the table at his accomplice. “Now that all these so-called accidental attempts on her life have failed, she's being guarded like the crown jewels. All courtesy of Brandon Caruthers, damn his eyes. Just how do you propose to get to her?”

  “By indirection. As you say, everyone is worried about the mother. So we'll take an alternate approach—through the daughter. If motherly love isn't greatly overrated, I suspect we'll have Miranda Auburn just where we want her. Dead and buried.”

  His eyes lit up. “Kidnap the daughter and lure the mother after her…hmmm, not a bad idea.”

  “I'll make the arrangements as soon as I speak with our source,” his companion murmured with a cold smile. “Just give me a few days to work out the details.” What a fool you are. When I'm through, I won't just be rid of the Auburns, I'll be rid of you, too. And I'll control everything!

  * * * *

  “Please, Mr. Aimesley, you must say yes. She'll listen to you. She's been working much too hard and needs to take time away from her office,” Lori cajoled.

  Kent Aimesley leaned back in the chair behind his large desk and sighed. As Miranda Auburn's senior associate, his was the largest office in the building, with the exception of his employer's. He studied the golden-haired young woman so earnestly asking for his help.

  Miss Auburn could be most persistent when she got an idea in her head. “I fear it's no use. Until we complete the negotiations for the railway, your mother will insist on overseeing matters herself—and I must sail for America again within the week. With one of us on each side of the Atlantic, it will be impossible to prevail upon her to spend time away from here.”

  Lori looked around nervously. Although no one had seen her slip into Mr. Aimesley’s office, she knew her mother was at the end of the hall. If Miranda caught her meddling this way in business affairs, she'd confine her to the house like a prisoner. There was no way to explain to this dull man the real reason she wanted her mother to stay home. One could hardly ask a former suitor to assist in her matchmaking!

  She twisted her handkerchief and allowed the tears to well up in her eyes, deciding on a partial truth. “You don't know that several attempts have been made on her life, do you?” she asked.

  “Good heavens! When? How?” Aimesley shot forward in his chair and stood up.

  “Oh, dear, if Mother knew I'd told anyone, even you, Mr. Aimesley, she would be furious. But there have been several near misses. We were attacked at the opera by three street ruffians. And then there were two carriage crashes and even a shooting incident....” She waited a beat, allowing him to digest what she'd said. If he still harbored the tendresse for her mother that she hoped he did, Lori felt certain she could win him over.

  “Well, that does put the matter in a different light, I must agree,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could convince her that she need not come in to the City, at least until I have to sail again. And I might put that off for a bit over a week, if I can make the proper arrangements. I shall see what I can do.”

  Lori beamed. “I knew I could count on you, Mr. Aimesley. Mother trusts you implicitly. If you assure her that matters are in hand here, you'll make my task of keeping her safe much easier.”

  * * * *

  “She's hiding from me, dammit,” Brand muttered to himself.

  “Turned you away at the front door, did she? Well, I suppose you could force your way past that feeble butler of hers and confront her, or waylay her as she enters her business offices, but somehow I don't think that would be quite the thing,” Sin said dryly.

  “I'm ever so glad you're amused,” Brand growled.

  “I believe a bit of subtlety and patience are called for—never your strong suit, old chap,” St. John replied with a cheerful grin. He and Tilda had been in constant touch for the past several days since the weekend at Rushcroft Hall and the breaking off of his friend's courtship of Miss Auburn. “The lady's daughter has concocted a scheme or two. How do you feel about attending a ball at the Earl of Falconridge's city house tomorrow night?” From inside his jacket he pulled a heavy velum envelope sealed with the crest of Falconridge and handed it to Brand.

  Caruthers tore it open and read while murmuring, “I've scarcely met Falconridge. He's a Liberal.”

  “And being a staunch Conservative, you avoid him in Lords as if he were a plague carrier.” St. John chuckled tolerantly. “You are beginning to sound frighteningly English, m'lord.”

  Brand snorted. “Just because I make an innocent comment in passing, you needn't insult me for it.” He returned his attention to the invitation. “How the devil did you get this?”

  “Miss Auburn prevailed upon Mrs. Winters, who asked her father if he'd consider such a heresy as inviting you. He agreed.”

  “And I take it Miss Auburn has also prevailed upon her mother to attend?”

  “How could she not when her daughter is once again out on the marriage mart? Of course, there will be a bit of gossip since Miss Auburn spurned you less than a week ago and now you'll both be present at the same function.”

  “It'll be a press of hundreds, if Falconridge’s reputation as a host is to be believed. Not exactly the best way to speak to Miranda.”

  “I'm certain you'll think of something,” Sin replied dryly.

  * * * *

  The music was lilting, but Miranda felt no urge to tap her toe as she watched Lori dancing with the son of a young industrialist from Manchester. The cream of the peerage and the most wealthy commoners in the country filled the huge ballroom to overflowing. Falconridge was an earl; but his politics, as well as the shipping firm his family owned, brought him into contact with wealthy men
of business, many of whom he counted as close friends. Being a woman in that men's arena, Miranda had not been extended the same privileges and had never before received an invitation to one of his countess' famous balls.

  Lori had been thrilled when it arrived. She had apparently been truthful about having no romantic attachment to the baron, for she was dancing and laughing, the belle of the ball in a room full of eligible males. This was what Miranda had always wanted for her. So why do I feel so terribly unhappy? It certainly was not as if she harbored any dreams of dancing with a beau. That part of her life had ended before it ever began. She must live for her work and allow Lori to find joy in this world, a world to which she would never belong.

  Thinking of her business and of long-forsaken dreams made Miranda wonder why Kent Aimesley had been so insistent that he could handle matters in the office this week and would not sail for Philadelphia as previously planned. She needed the refuge of hard work to occupy her mind and allow her to drop off to sleep in exhaustion at night. Otherwise...

  No, I will not think of him.

  “Would you honor me with this waltz, my dear Mrs. Auburn?” James Dunham inquired, bowing smartly.

  He was an old family friend from Liverpool with whom she did occasional business. He was also well into his eighties, and she feared a brisk turn around the dance floor might just do him in, but there was no way to evade his unexpected invitation without appearing rude.

  “I would be delighted, Mr. Dunham,” she said with a smile, rising and allowing him to lead her to the floor, where the orchestra had just begun playing a Strauss piece with gusto.

  As she was swept into the dance, she did not see her daughter standing at the side of the room with a sly smile curving her lips. Lori turned her head and winked at Brand, who was hidden behind a large potted palm.

  Looking through the leaves, he watched Miranda dance. Lord above, she was a delectable vision! Tilda had outdone herself with that mane of fiery dark hair, piled high in a welter of curls with a few tendrils trailing beguilingly at her nape. Her gown was made of some satiny fabric that caught the glitter from the myriad gaslights on the chandeliers overhead. The cloth was deep orange shot through with gold threads, colors one might have believed would clash with red hair. Quite the opposite was true.

  His mouth watered at the swell of milky white breasts revealed by the low vee of the neckline. The skirt was gracefully full but fell straight, not caught in one of those infernal bustles. He could imagine the curve of her slender hips and buttocks, indeed thought of grasping them and plunging...

  Shaking his head to clear away the deliciously lascivious visions that were raising his temperature, Brand willed himself to concentrate on what he had to say to her. Once he felt in control of mind and body, the Rebel Baron strode boldly across the polished walnut of the dance floor and made his way to where Miranda spun in the elderly man's arms.

  She was utterly unaware of his presence. He could smell her scent, could in fact pick it out from any other in this room filled with powdered and painted ladies. Miranda always smelled like lavender and sunshine, an essence uniquely hers. Inhaling it almost undid his resolution not to think of sex. Almost. He took a deep, calming breath and tapped Mr. Dunham on the shoulder.

  “Eh, what?” the older man asked, turning in mid-stride with a confused expression on his face. “Oh, Lord Rushcroft, good to see you.” Then noting where the baron's eyes were fastened in spite of the gentleman's nod to him, he recalled what he had been asked to do. “Want to enjoy this waltz with the lady, hey, what? I must confess to being a bit old for dancing. My wind's not what it used to be.” He turned to Miranda. “It's been a pleasure, dear lady,” he said with a courtly bow, handing her over to the younger man.

  Before she could protest, Mr. Dunham was gone and she was in the baron's arms, being swept into the music.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Without creating a horrendous scene, there was nothing she could do but dance. The air around them was charged with more tension than an electrical storm. Miranda could feel the burning glances of curious onlookers who knew the baron had been escorting her daughter a scant week ago and that Lorilee had ended the courtship. What must they think now, seeing her mother in his arms?

  “Shall we give them something to gossip about?” he dared her with a rakish grin.

  “I believe we already have, courtesy of your poor manners,” she whispered, trying to slip from his grasp without being obvious about it. “Release me at once.”

  “I don't believe I shall,” he replied thoughtfully. “Having you back in my arms is far too enjoyable.”

  She stiffened angrily. “I have never been in your arms.”

  “I beg to differ. There was that day in Hyde Park after the carriage crash, then when I toppled you to the ground to escape flying bullets...and, of course, there was the picnic.”

  “If you were a gentleman—which you rightly deny being—you would never speak of such things.”

  “And that, I believe, is what the philosophers call a tautology,” he said dryly. “Would you care to discuss philosophy? No? Perhaps politics? We always seem to have lively discussions about Parliament.”

  “I wish only to leave this dance floor as inconspicuously as possible,” she hissed, knowing she was trembling and afraid that he, too, could feel the effect he was having on her.

  “Too late for that. Look about you. We are the cynosure of all eyes. Ah, well, if we're not to have a civil discourse, then I suppose we'll just have to appreciate the music...and the feeling of being for a brief while in each other's arms. A reminder, Miranda, just a reminder,” he said gently when she tried to pull away. “Can you deny you're enjoying this?”

  When those golden tiger's eyes bored into hers so mesmerizingly, how could she even think, much less deny what they both knew to be true? She loved the feel of his tall, lean body moving in such perfect rhythm with her own. Her considerable height had been a plague all her life, and she had been happy that Lori was slightly shorter. As a girl in her one abortive season, she had found few dance partners tall enough to match her if she wore slippers with heels on them. But in Brandon's arms, she only reached his shoulder.

  You're using his Christian name just as improperly as he does yours! Stop it!

  She might as well command the tides to stop turning or the moon to stop orbiting the earth. Miranda could not deny she loved dancing with him. It seemed he was reading her mind when he said, “You've always been scrupulously honest...until we became involved. Now you even try to lie to yourself, don't you, Miranda?”

  Damn the arrogant man! She forced herself to raise her head proudly and look into his eyes as she replied, “We are not ‘involved.’ ”

  “Then what would you call that kiss we shared at the picnic?”

  “A most unfortunate mistake. One I shall never repeat,” she said firmly.

  He shook his head sadly. “Ah, Miranda, what must I do to convince you it was no mistake?”

  “How about reversing the current of the Thames?”

  “Or parting the Red Sea?” he replied with a faint trace of a smile. “I fear I can't claim any gift from the Deity enabling me to exercise such power. I'm only a man who has found a woman he wants above all others.”

  “Someone might overhear you saying such a shocking thing.” Her eyes darted about the crowd, but everyone was busily laughing and talking over the sounds of the music. “I should slap your face and walk away.”

  “Threats? But you'd create a scene, and we both know how you detest scenes, especially when your daughter would be drawn into it.”

  “She knew you would be here, didn't she? She arranged for Mr. Dunham—”

  “Don't give Lori all the credit. Yes, she knew I was invited, but Dunham's my friend and I asked a favor.”

  “I thought he was mine,” she said sourly. When Brandon threw back his head and laughed, her heart turned over. The lights caught in his hair, glittering on the sun-bleached streaks as a lock fell
across his forehead. He was clad in a black suit as elegant as the one he'd worn to the opera that night, but this time he wore a deep green waistcoat. The small touch of color made his golden hair and tanned complexion seem exotic. Amid all the pale, narrow English faces in the room, Brandon Caruthers shone brighter than the sun. Not a man could compare to him.

  And he wanted her. Miranda simply could not believe it. Her head was spinning as he drew her nearer than was proper, uncaring about the gossip his behavior must be eliciting. But she had her reputation in the business community as well as Lori's future to think of. This had to end.

  Before she could gather her wits to say so, the music stopped. He sketched a bow without relinquishing her gloved hand, then fastened it around his arm and led her from the floor, smiling wickedly at the curious glances they garnered along the way. Miranda wanted to choke the life out of him. But ending up in Newgate would cause even more scandal. She discarded the idea in favor of a diversionary ploy.

  “There's your former fiancée from Kentucky. I'm certain you'll wish to say hello.”

  “And I'm every bit as certain I don't.” He held their course for the open double doors leading to the gardens.

  Miranda caught the narrowed eyes of the blonde. In spite of being surrounded by fawning males, Reba's attention was focused on Brand and Miranda. “I can practically hear the wheels churning inside her mind.”

  “Only if we heard rusty clunking sounds. Reba just acts, without any regard for the consequences,” Brand replied as he swept Miranda past the woman without so much as an acknowledgment.

  “Must be a trait of you Rebels. Perhaps the reason you lost the war,” she snapped.

  “Remind me to discuss it with Bobby Lee the next time I have occasion to chat with him,” Brand said as the cool outside air hit them. “Now, you must admit it's right refreshing out here. You were looking a bit flushed inside.”

  “Only because you were embarrassing me.”