Rebel Baron (14 page)

      
“With Reiver out of the race, King Arthur might have a chance to win, although I still think he'd do well to place at all. Hmmm. Where do you suppose O'Connell got the money? And why use Winters as a cat's-paw?”

      
“All good questions. I shall work hard to provide answers. By the by, please endeavor not to get your throat cut in some back alley while I am not about to protect you.”

      
Brand snorted. “The Royal Opera House is scarcely situated in an alley. Just watch your backside while you're unraveling this mystery at the racecourses.”

      
Sin's eyes traveled to the creamy sheet of paper with the large bold handwriting on it. “Speaking of backsides, you'd best look to your own when you do battle with the mama bear.”

* * * *

      
By the time he was ushered into Miranda's office, Brand was seething. He'd been kept waiting since half past the hour while she conducted some sort of business with a tall, anemic-looking stranger who had just walked past him without so much as a glance. The officious secretary held the door open for “the changing of the guard.” Brand firmly took the heavy brass knob and closed it in Timmons's face.

      
“I apologize for the delay, Major, but Mr. Aimesley had a matter of pressing importance to discuss with me before his ship sails for New York.”

      
Miranda did not appear the least bit penitent, Brand thought; but he bit back his retort and nodded, only taking his seat after she took hers. He noted that there was no foolishness about handshakes this time. “You summoned me, Mrs. Auburn,” he said levelly.

      
Those gold tiger's eyes pinned her to her seat. Although not cold and deadly as they had been last night, they still unnerved her—and she was considerably stronger than Lori. “My daughter and I thank you for the flowers you sent by this morning.”

      
“A note would’ve sufficed for that,” he replied, waiting her out. The damned roses had cost a goodly portion of his winnings from yesterday's race. He had no idea how he would cover the loss of his opera cape and the evening wear he now had to replace at Bond Street's exorbitant prices.

      
“You were quite bold to take on three such ruffians single-handedly. We owe you our lives,” she said stiffly.

      
“Why is it, ma'am, that I hear a qualification in your voice?” he asked, mustering the most charming smile he owned.

      
“Surely you realize how the sight of such carnage affected a young woman of my daughter's sheltered sensibilities. Perhaps if you'd simply allowed me to give them our jewelry—”

      
He shot out of the chair and leaned over her desk. “A most level-headed gesture if it had worked; but since the first fellow paid not the slightest bit of attention to a set of rubies flung at his feet, I suspect his compatriots would’ve been no more easily distracted. They intended us harm. To put it bluntly, they were going to kill all of us in cold blood.”

      
“So instead you killed the three of them.” By this time she was standing across the desk, her palms flattened on the polished surface.

      
“The third one is still alive, but I have not given up hope,” he snapped, his hands balling into fists which he planted on the desktop.

      
“You beat him into a bloody trifle in front of my daughter and terrified her out of her wits!” She leaned forward until their faces were within a foot of each other. Gold and silver eyes glared at each other, neither blinking.

      
“How rackety these Americans can be! Would a proper English gentleman have stood by and allowed that scum to slit your throat in front of your daughter—then drag her off in the carriage?”

      
Miranda's breath caught. She had negotiated with some of the most arrogant and infuriating captains of industry and never lost her temper, yet here she was, screaming like a Billingsgate fishmonger at a member of the peerage! She sat down abruptly, gathering her scattered thoughts. “Dear lord, do you think he would have...could have...?” Her words trailed away as visions of Lori being carried off to an unthinkable fate flashed before her eyes.

      
Brand realized how badly he'd lost control just now, not to mention the preceding night when the rage of battle overtook him again. He had gone to a place he never wished to go again, and it had cost him dearly, but he would never admit that to a living soul, not even Sin. Certainly not this haughty woman.
Haughty, yes, but incredibly brave also
, a voice admonished. And he was forced to admit it was nothing but the truth.

      
“You were quite level-headed last night. Most women would’ve swooned or become hysterical. It was a good idea to try distracting them with the jewels,” he said as he, too, took his seat once again.

      
Miranda shook her head to clear it. “I... I witnessed a robbery once many years ago. A wealthy woman in Liverpool refused to give over her ermine cloak and pearls to a street thief. In the struggle that ensued she was killed. Senseless. No possessions are worth one's life.”

      
“Spoken like one who's never done without them,” he said dryly. He was curious about this enigmatic woman who might yet become his mother-in-law.

      
Miranda was taken aback by his unfair assessment. What did he know of the sacrifices she'd been forced to make? She would damn well not enlighten him. Her past was too painful. “My father owned an iron foundry and I had a comfortable childhood. But all of that was long ago and quite frankly none of your business. Lorilee is my concern and should be yours as well—if you would make her a suitable husband.”

      
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.