Rebel Baron (12 page)

      
“You would win,” she replied softly, glancing at Miranda.

      
He chuckled. “I knew it. Well, Miss Auburn, I will agree with your mother. If you're to vote, you must learn for whom to vote.”

      
“Oh, I do not wish to vote...ever. But Mother does.”

      
“And perhaps even stand for a seat in Commons?” he could not resist adding.

      
Miranda became agitated. How could a man charm and infuriate at the same time? “Men
and
women of property should have the franchise, not those of the lower classes,” Miranda stated firmly. “We have not yet been able to sufficiently educate them to vote responsibly. That will occur over time.”

      
“So will the Second Coming, but I don't hear any echo of trumpets yet,” Brand replied as their driver pulled up in the queue of carriages disgorging passengers at the estimable Lady T's front steps.

      
“How cynical you are, my lord,” Miranda said as he assisted them from the carriage.

      
“I've led that sort of life, I fear,” he murmured, then added in a lower voice for her ears only, “as I'm sure your reports made clear.”

      
Once again Miranda felt herself vexed by his charm.

      
The musicale was a crush with over a hundred people taking the seats assigned them by the beady-eyed Lady T, who held her lorgnette over her nose as if ready to swat flies with it...or anyone who displeased her.

      
Just as they were passing into the room where the quartet was tuning up, a honey-dripping voice broke into their conversation. “Why, I do declare, if it isn't my old and dear friend from Lexington. How are you, Brandon?”

      
The woman was decked out in a silvery shade of gray silk trimmed with black lace. The glimmering color was flattering, although she wore pearls at her throat and ears, a gauche display for an afternoon entertainment. She advanced toward them with a distinguished older man in tow. Miranda recognized him as the head of a rival banking firm in the City. The blonde had eyes only for the baron, and judging by her drawling speech and familiar manner, she was his countrywoman and well acquainted with him.

      
Brand cursed inwardly as he forced a smile. There was nothing for it but to make introductions. ‘‘Ladies,” he said, turning to the Auburns, “may I present Mrs. Wilcox, late of Kentucky.” Damned if he'd call her a “friend,” dear or otherwise!

      
“Charmed, I'm sure,” Reba said after he introduced the redhead and her vapid little daughter. “Oh, this is Mr. Harold Grimsley. He's in banking, just as my late husband was.”

      
Miranda nodded as he bowed. “Mr. Grimsley and I are acquainted. You remember my daughter, Lorilee," she replied breezily, turning the tables on the lascivious younger woman by ignoring her.

      
Lori made her curtsy to her mother's friend, all the while noting the subtle currents between the beautiful widow and the baron. Inexperienced as she was in society, she intuited that they had more in common than being from the same town in America.

      
Moving closer while her escort and Mrs. Auburn chatted about some boring old banking matters, Reba tapped Brand on the arm playfully, saying, “You always detested Mozart, Brand. Why on earth are you here?”

      
“I'm enjoying the company of two lovely ladies,” he replied, casting a smile at Lorilee. “The better question is why you're in England at all.” His tone indicated he didn't care a whit if Reba had swum across the Atlantic.

      
“London is far more exciting than Lexington.” She raised her other hand to the heavy triple strand of pearls at her bosom and fingered them delicately.

      
“I thought grieving widows were supposed to shun excitement,” he replied, removing her hand from his arm. “After all, Earl's barely cold in his grave.”

      
“You know I never gave a fiddle what folks think,” Reba said with a smirk at Lorilee, who had emitted a tiny gasp of shock at Brand's last words.

      
“Your dress and presence here make that attitude abundantly clear,” Miranda said cuttingly, making it obvious she found the behavior of Mrs. Wilcox utterly unacceptable. She had worn unrelieved black for Will Auburn for two years.

      
Just as Reba opened her mouth to make an angry retort, Brand interjected, “I believe the musicians are ready to begin. We must take our seats. A pleasure, Mr. Grimsley,” he said, nodding to the banker, but completely ignoring Reba as he turned and took Lori's hand.

      
In spite of the noise of the crowd, he was certain he could hear Reba Cunningham stamp her foot.

Chapter Six

      
Brand hated opera. But Miranda and Lorilee adored it. What was a dutiful suitor to do but escort the ladies to see
The Marriage of Figaro
? The production was considerably more amusing than he had anticipated. At the conclusion of the performance, he joined them in hearty applause.

      
As a servant held the velvet curtain at the door of their box for them, Miranda murmured to him, ‘‘Was it less painful than you'd thought it would be?”

      
Could the woman read minds? He smiled, offering an arm to her and her daughter as they descended the wide, curving staircase from the box seats. “It was more enjoyable than a tooth extraction, although I'd far prefer a good Shakespearean play to either one. I understand Mr. Osgood's troop will do
Romeo and Juliet
. May I invite you to attend Tuesday next?” He looked first to Lorilee, than to Miranda. She nodded.

      
“I believe that would be agreeable, don't you, my dear?”

      
“It sounds exciting. I've seen
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
but never a tragedy,” Lori replied.

      
“Well, the tragedies are a bit more, er, vigorous than the comedies,” Brand ventured, thankful that Osgood wasn't doing
Titus Andronicus
this season.

      
“Just so you are not disappointed in the ending, perhaps it would be best for you to read the play first,” Miranda suggested dryly, exchanging a fleeting look of amused understanding with the baron.

      
Again he was possessed of the uneasy notion that she knew what he was thinking. Ridiculous. He must surely be imagining things. “Are you familiar with the play, ma'am?”

      
“I read the complete works of Mr. Shakespeare when I was young. I found the histories to be particularly instructive.”

      
Brand could not help wondering about her background. Her manners and education indicated one born to wealth, but why would such a pampered woman decide to run her own businesses? Before he could puzzle more over it, her daughter spoke.

      
“I have always found history quite boring, I fear,” Lori confessed. “But I do enjoy reading poetry.”

      
“Lord Byron?” he asked hopefully.

      
“Mr. Shelley is more to my taste,” she murmured.

      
“Of course. Far more suitable for a young lady's sensibilities,” he agreed.

      
“Byron was a scoundrel,” Miranda interjected firmly. “My daughter's tutors set her to reading fine literature appropriate for a young lady.”

      
Unlike you, who read what you pleased,
Brand thought.

      
Had that sort of unstructured upbringing enabled her to become such a formidable woman? Brand squelched his curiosity about a young Miranda secreting forbidden books from her father's library.
Concentrate on the daughter. Forget the mother
, he reminded himself. Still, he could not help wishing that Miss Auburn's education had been broader. But that was unreasonable. After all, she was fresh out of the schoolroom and, from what he knew of governesses and tutors for the wealthy classes, education was as deficient for women in England as in America. Perhaps more so.

      
“It's not fair to confuse Byron's personal life with his literary work, which should stand on its own merits.” He could not resist continuing the argument. By this time they stood outside the theater beneath the flickering gaslights, waiting as carriages queued up to pick up the elegantly dressed crowd of opera lovers. Those of lesser means who hired hansom cabs departed from doors on the next street.

      
“
Childe Harold
is a frivolous piece compared to
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
” Miranda replied. “Mr. Coleridge teaches an excellent moral lesson as he entertains.”

      
“Ah, but Mr. Coleridge was an opium eater,” he countered.

      
Lorilee placed her fingers over her mouth, uncertain whether to gasp at the baron's audacity or giggle because he had gotten the best of her mother. In all her observations of her mother's verbal exchanges, this was a first.

      
Before Miranda could make a reply, the footman who worked for the jobmaster from whom Brand had engaged his carriage came dashing down the street toward them, his natty livery wrinkled and askew, crying out to the baron, “I'm that sorry, yer lordship, but they're after old 'arry, they are. Won't let 'im go, but 'e's usin' ‘is whip on 'em right proper, 'e is!”

      
“Calm down, man. What are you saying?” Brand demanded as the out-of-breath footman stood panting before him and the women. The last of the theater patrons gave them curious looks as they climbed into their carriages.

      
Then, before the frightened man could elaborate further, the carriage came careening around the corner from the alley where it had been parked. Harry was indeed engaged in a battle with three toughs who were attempting to climb aboard the driver's box, apparently intent on stealing the expensive vehicle. Harry lashed out from side to side with his whip to good effect, eliciting curses and snarls of pain. Then one of the fellows, a large hulk of a man with matted filthy hair obscuring half his face, swung one brawny leg over a horse and yanked on the harness with brute strength.

      
The footman took off at a dead run, heading around the corner and vanishing from sight before Brand could tell him to summon help. Perhaps he would, but the look of stark panic on his face gave Caruthers little hope.

      
“Get back inside the theater,” Brand instructed the women, seeing no one around now to come to their aid. The street had suddenly become as deserted as a graveyard at midnight. He reached for the fastening of his opera cloak and let the expensive garment fly in a maroon satin whirl, cursing the loss of yet another article of clothing he could ill afford to replace.

      
Miranda seized hold of Lori and turned toward the heavy brass handlebar on the theater door, only to find it locked tightly. She began to pound on it with one hand while protecting her terrified daughter by sheltering her with her arm wrapped around her.

      
The carriage stopped about a dozen yards down the street as the team of horses neighed furiously, rearing up on their hind legs in terror. Two of the brigands yanked cruelly at the horses' mouthpieces. The third man was engaged in a battle to the finish with Harry, who still held on to his whip. But now his assailant was on the box beside him. In such close quarters he could not use his weapon effectively.

      
Brand cursed his lack of firearms, but attending the opera with his bulky Remington had hardly seemed appropriate. Fortunately, he never went anywhere without his “Arkansas toothpick” in his boot, a holdover from his days as a raider. Now he was glad for it as he bent down and pulled it into his hand. He moved to intercept the first man, who had stepped away from the horses and was advancing toward the women.

      
The gleam of avarice in his eyes chilled Miranda to the bone. She felt his slitted gaze fasten on the ruby pendant she wore. She'd give him the antique ruby earrings and necklace, and Lori's favorite aquamarine jewelry as well if only the bounder would leave them unharmed. Pulling off the jewels, which had been Will's wedding gift, she threw them at the squat man's feet, but he ignored them, advancing with an ugly grin twisting his round face.

      
Then the baron stepped in the thief's path. A long, wickedly gleaming blade suddenly materialized in his hand to match the one the thief held. Miranda covered Lori with her cape as the girl clung to her, not wanting her daughter to witness what was happening.

      
But Lori would not look away. She and her mother watched the way the baron moved, like the great jungle cat Miranda had first thought him. He lashed out with one clean, sweeping arc that left the thief gurgling in disbelief as his hands flew to his stomach where a river of gore suddenly gushed. The thief crumpled to the pavement, gutted. Caruthers stepped around him with no more thought than he'd give a puddle of water, advancing on the remaining two men.