Rebel Baron (17 page)

      
“We don't know that for certain,” Miranda replied.

      
Brand backtracked over the wheel ruts and returned a few moments later with the other ribbon. He held it up for their inspection. “Yes, we do,” he replied. “Mrs. Auburn, although I know you're loath to ever mount another horse—and at the moment I scarcely blame you—we must get you home. Will you ride with me?”

      
“Well, it's obvious that Lori's small mare can't hold both of us, and the sidesaddle would not permit it in any case, so I have no recourse but to accept your kind offer. I'll send a footman back for Bally.”

      
Her smile was tinged with a wariness that Lorilee could sense. But after assisting her to remount Taffy, Brand swung up on Reiver and reached down for her mother. At least he'd put his gloves on again. Miranda allowed his strong arms to lift her in front of him.

      
Lori knew full well that they could have asked any of the gentlemen in the park to drive them home. Several had made the offer earlier and Miranda had graciously declined, sending them on their way. Riding beside them, she smiled inwardly. Plans began to buzz in her mind. It would all be quite perfect...if not for the person who wished harm to her mother. But perhaps even that could be turned to good advantage…

      
After all, the baron had already appointed himself her protector, and he was quite good at the job.

* * * *

      
“Will you help me, Tilda? Oh, please say you will.” Lori's voice took on the wheedling tone she'd employed with such good results since she was a little girl. She held up the deep turquoise silk gown like an offering.

      
The Indian woman studied her young charge with shrewd dark eyes. Since coming to England many years ago, she had learned every trick that Miranda and now Lorilee used to bend her to their ways. “Why this sudden interest in your mother's manner of dress?” she asked suspiciously.

      
Lori sighed impatiently. “You yourself have chided her since my earliest memories for wearing such drab, ugly clothes. I'm merely agreeing with you.”

      
Tilda knew that Miss Lorilee had just neatly evaded answering her question, but she was not about to argue the point. “Your mother says her clothes are suited for business and she has no time for fashion. This would not have anything to do with the baron, now would it?”

      
Drat the woman's perceptiveness. Lori would have to chance confiding the truth. “Well...yes, it does. What would you say if I suggested...that is...” She struggled for the best way to word it.

      
“That your mother suits the baron better than you do?”

      
Lori blinked. ”H-how did you know that?”

      
Tilda only smirked. “One of the mysteries of the East.”

      
“You left India when you were a girl. Don't try to fool me with such nonsense. You're just very intelligent!” Lori said, exasperated. “If you knew what I was about, why didn't you save us both time and just say so?”

      
“Perhaps I wanted to plumb the reasons why you feel as you do,” Tilda said dryly. Then her expression grew serious. “No more mooning about Lord Pelham's son?”

      
Lori threw up her hands. “Heavens, no! I've learned my lesson. Perhaps I'm too young to settle down and marry—yet,” she hastened to add. “Why, I might take a year or two or even more to find just the right man. What if I'd been deceived as Falconridge's daughter was?” She shivered at the thought, then looked abruptly puzzled. “Odd, but I was so hurt at first, I thought my heart would break.”

      
“Young hearts mend quickly,” Tilda said with the wisdom of experience.

      
Lori dismissed that, caught up in her own thoughts, which she voiced aloud. “Now...I don't know how to explain it. I feel...free. I don't have to marry the baron or anyone else if I don't choose.”

      
“What makes you so certain your mother will agree to this rather unorthodox switch in plans?” Tilda asked, ever practical.

      
Lori noted that Tilda's voice no longer sounded dubious and took heart. “Oh, you should have been there yesterday. Seen the way they held on to each other when he scooped her from the carriage just before it crashed.”

      
She described the scene in detail so minute it would have made Miranda's face burn with embarrassment, had she been aware of how scandalously she'd acted. But Lori did not think it was scandalous at all. Merely romantic. And an indicator of how much her mother was drawn to the baron and he to her.

      
Tilda took it all in, nodding but making no comment until Lori breathlessly ran out of words. Then she cautioned, “You may be right, Miss Cupid. However, I don't know that your mother will appreciate your acting as a matchmaker. You'd best be careful not to reveal too much to her.”

      
“Oh, I plan to continue accepting the baron's suit,” Lori said airily. “Mother won't have any idea that we've reversed roles. I'll be the chaperone.” Here she paused and giggled. “Only I'll not be a very good one.”

      
“There is one problem. Your mother will feel horribly guilty when the baron begins to pay more attention to her than to you,” Tilda said thoughtfully.

      
“Well, at some point I'll tell her that Lord Rushcroft and I simply do not suit—but not until she sees for herself which way the wind blows.”

      
Tilda nodded with approval. Her young charge had surprised her by exhibiting such insight. They would have to keep Miranda from guessing what they were about at first, lest she put a period to the whole courtship immediately. But if she could justify her interest in the baron as being only for her daughter's sake, it just might work.

      
“We'll begin by arranging for her to wear this gown to Ascot,” Tilda said, spreading the vibrant silk skirt across the bed. “I remember when last your mother wore it...to a ball given by one of your father's business associates.”

      
Lori's expression turned wistful for a moment. “I remember it, too. I thought she was so beautiful—like a fairy princess.” Then she frowned. “But isn't it out of fashion now?”

      
Tilda shrugged. “We have no time for new clothes before Gold Cup Day. A few minor changes. I'll take some of the fullness from the skirt and catch it up in the back using this trim.” She held up a roll of cream-colored lace. “I think I'll add a bit of it at the sleeves and neckline, too.”

      
“What about a parasol? And a hat? She must have a hat for Ascot,” Lori pronounced.

      
The conspirators set to work on their plans, beginning with disposing of the drab tan dress Miranda had selected to wear to the race.

* * * *

      
“Mutton disguised as spring lamb,” Miranda said, shaking her head as she looked at herself in the tall mirror. The color was far too bright, and the way it fitted, revealing every curve, was too brazen for her taste. She blushed, imagining what her business associates would say if they could see her now.
If the major could see me...
Where had that thought come from? She quashed it and said quickly, “Honestly, Tilda, I don't believe—”

      
“Oh, Mother, it's quite perfect!” Lori exclaimed. “Tilda stayed up all night sewing just to finish it in time. After all, you have nothing else to wear, and it is such an important day.”

      
“How could my new tan poplin have been stained that way? I was positive the last time I wore it that I hadn't spilled coffee on it. I rarely drink coffee,” she added suspiciously.

      
“Well, someone stained it and this is what you'll have to wear. It's really far more appropriate for Ascot anyway. Remember, Mother, this is where all the ladies of Society go to see and be seen—not some stuffy old shipping office.”

      
“The hat won't fit.” Miranda tried again, fighting against something she was afraid to name.

      
“Yes, it will,” Tilda said through a mouthful of pins as she picked up a hairbrush. With that, she began fashioning her mistress's heavy hair into a soft roll, allowing wispy tendrils to fall around her face.

      
“I'll look like a girl.”

      
“Only because you still do. Best to worry about that when you only
think
you do,” Tilda replied wryly.

      
“I trust you'll tell me when that day arrives,” Miranda scolded.

      
Tilda nodded calmly, her deft fingers continuing to perform magic with the masses of heavy red hair. Finally she positioned the wide-brimmed aqua straw hat at a jaunty angle on Miranda's head and pinned it in place, then stood back to admire her handiwork.

      
Lori said not a word, gazing raptly at her mother as if seeing her for the very first time. With trembling hands, she offered the matching parasol to her mother, who now more closely resembled a sister than a parent.

      
Miranda looked into her daughter's wide eyes, mirrors of delighted wonder, and felt a deep frisson of fear. What was she doing? This was wrong. Utterly crazy. She had lain awake last night in bed, replaying the terrifying adventure in the park over and over, trying to convince herself that she was analyzing it to figure out who wanted to kill her.

      
But all she truly thought of was the way her body had felt pressed so closely to Brandon Caruthers' hard frame. She could recall every nuance of his scent, even the smell of Bally's blood on his hand...his ungloved hand with its long fingers and powerful tracery of veins, even the light sprinkling of golden hair on the back of it. And he was her daughter's suitor! One day he would be her son-in-law.

      
How could she bear it?

      
Miranda stiffened her spine and swallowed hard, pushing back her fears. After all, one look at Lori's delighted face made her realize that she would sacrifice anything for her daughter's happiness. Even the major. Most particularly the major. “Very well. I suppose I shall have to wear this ensemble to Ascot.”

      
“And you shall require a whole new wardrobe in order to fit into Society, Mother. Please don't say no,” Lori added. Then she played her trump card. “Remember, you're not conducting business with stodgy old men in trade now. You're strolling among the ranks of the peerage.”

      
“I shall make an appointment with the dressmaker,” Tilda said before Miranda could protest.

      
“Why do I feel as I did after Lionel Wingate bought the Wrexham Iron Foundry right out from under me?” Miranda asked rhetorically.

      
Perhaps if she had not been so preoccupied with her own guilt and the pain of self-sacrifice, she might have noted the conspiratorial grins Tilda and Lori exchanged behind her back.

* * * *

      
Brand sat on the hard, uncomfortable railway seat with Lori by his side for the short trip to Windsor. From there they would travel by carriage to Ascot, but his mind was far from horse racing now. Mrs. Auburn and her maid Tilda shared the small private car, sitting directly across from them. Mother and daughter talked of the splendid weather, such a delightful break from the incessant rain which had quite spoiled the spring of that year.

      
“I feared our whole summer season would be ruined if the rain didn't stop,” Lori said.

      
“Far more than the social season still remains in jeopardy. Crops are rotting in the fields, and the economic consequences of that could be dire indeed,” Miranda chided.

      
“Mother always turns any conversation to business,” Lori said to the baron.

      
“Your mother is right,” Brand replied, nodding to Miranda. “My own crops will be a total loss if the rain returns.” He didn't care a fig about that dilemma at the moment. All he could think of was the way she returned his gaze. The way she looked. He tried not to stare, certain that he had made an ass of himself when he arrived to pick them up for the ride to the station.

      
He still could not believe the transformation. Miranda had gone from cold, drab, no-nonsense business woman to this elegant, strikingly alluring female who sat next to her exotic East Indian servant. If Tilda had the slightest trace of a smirk on her face, he was too preoccupied with her mistress to notice.

      
Was it the color of the sea-blue gown or its fit? Was it the new soft hairdo with burnished curls surrounding her face, or the large hat swathed in lace perched atop her elegant head? Her eyes glowed like silvery waters, and her smile...somehow that had changed, too. It had always been radiant when turned on Lori, but now it seemed open for the whole world to admire. She appeared truly younger now. He'd caught the hint of youth earlier, in brief flashes, but now he could see that she must have wed and borne her child at a very early age. Yet she hid behind a facade of clipped severity and ugly clothing.