Rebel Baron (18 page)

      
Why?

      
The question tantalized him, and he vowed to solve the riddle that was Miranda Auburn. Lorilee's question broke into his thoughts, making him feel guilty for paying so much attention to her mother when it was the girl to whom he should be attentive. But the subject of her discourse only made matters worse.

      
“Is not Mother's new gown simply smashing?” she asked ingenuously.

      
“Yes, it is,” he said with what he hoped was a neutral smile. The problem was he could not stop talking at that point. “Blue flatters you, ma'am.”

      
“Oh, it isn't merely blue,” Lori exclaimed. “Why are men so color-blind? It is the most brilliant deep turquoise.”

      
“I stand corrected,” he said with a grin for Lorilee, but quickly found his attention drifting back to her mother.

      
“That shade brings out the highlights in Mother's hair. It flatters her complexion and turns her eyes a silvery color.”

      
Brand could not have said it better himself. Miranda's hair was a burnished halo surrounding her face, which glowed with youthful color. And those eyes... He gave himself a mental shake when Miranda broke into her daughter's recitation.

      
“I, for one, believe gray is more appropriate for me, but I was overruled,” she said.

      
“Now, why do I have the feeling that seldom happens?” he responded with a glint in his eyes.

      
“Never in matters of business,” she replied flatly, daring him.

      
“It's good that you're willing to take advice...from time to time.”

      
“Only in regard to unessential matters, such as fashions.” Casting an amused look from her daughter to her maid, then back to him, Miranda said, “I can be influenced...up to a point. But gray is more practical for business.”

      
“Perhaps. But this isn't business. Today is the Ascot,” Brand countered. Were her drab clothes necessary for the sort of work she did? He doubted that, but she appeared to believe it. Or perhaps that facade made her feel safer in the world of men. It seemed to him that looking as she did now would make her associates do anything she asked without question. But somehow he knew that Miranda Auburn would never do business using feminine wiles. She'd think it was contemptible.

      
“Everyone who attends Ascot simply must dress festively. Why, Abigail Warring and I spent hours and hours deciding what to wear and how to coordinate slippers, reticules and parasols. And, of course, our hats. One has to be ever so careful to select just the right accessories...”

      
As she continued to prattle about fashions, Lori pretended oblivion to the way the baron was studying her mother, but winked quickly at Tilda. Things were going just as they had hoped.

      
Uncomfortable with Caruthers' gaze on her, Miranda decided to shift the conversation in more suitable directions. Lori was babbling with uncharacteristic loquaciousness. What the devil had gotten into her shy daughter? This must certainly be off-putting for a man of the major's background. Perhaps if she could steer Lori to their mutual passion, horses? More easily said than done.

      
Normally a sharp and witty conversationalist and downright keen debater in business matters, she found herself almost tongue-tied when she opened her mouth to speak. If only the major would stop looking at her the way he did. She felt mesmerized by those intense gold tiger's eyes, immobilized like a butterfly skewered by pins. “Do the Americans hold horse races similar to Ascot, my lord?” she finally managed.

      
“Across the border states where I grew up, folks always loved horse races, but they're not grand like the Ascot.”

      
His slow, lazy drawl seemed to mock her ever so subtly, as if he were aware of the effect his attention had on her. “Really?” was all she could manage in response.

      
He shook his head. “No fashion shows, no box seats or places where the better sort can keep from mixing with riffraff.”

      
“Riffraff? So much for your vaunted American democracy,” Miranda jibed.

      
“But your drab gray clothes would fit right in there in the backwoods,” Brand jibed right back.

      
“You mean there is no royal box?” Lori interjected ingenuously before her mother could launch a retort.

      
“No president's box either,” he teased. “We don't even have fancy painted fences to keep the crowds under control. Often they run right onto the track and fights break out.”

      
“It sounds like quite an adventure,” Lori said melodramatically.

      
“I fear you wouldn't like it. The race courses are muddy or dusty depending on weather, and often cover rough terrain. Men bet large sums of money on their stables, but society isn't organized around elegant events like the Ascot. Kentucky planters did form a Jockey Club back in 1797.”

      
Miranda could not help raising one eyebrow and smiling wryly. “That long ago? Imagine!” she murmured.

      
“I realize by English standards, a mere seventy years is nothing. I suppose three hundred years is considered uncouthly recent for a title,” Brand parried, knowing full well the Rushcroft barony had been in his family for over twice that. And he knew that Miranda knew it.

      
She smiled. “I sometimes wonder, Major, of which you are more proud—your title or your horses.”

      
“Of both, I expect. Without my horses, I have no hope of proving myself worthy of the Caruthers name in England.”

      
“But you're the baron. You don't need to prove anything,” Lori said, genuinely puzzled by this enigma of a man. Far better that her mother deal with him than she.

      
“Ah, but Lord Rushcroft was raised with an American work ethic,” Miranda said archly. Her eyes danced as she added slyly, “Now who's the Puritan, Major?”

      
“I strive never to allow it to interfere with pleasure,” he drawled, eliciting a flush from Miranda.

      
Although Lori didn't understand the allusion, she knew the two of them were flirting. And that was exactly what she wanted. She would have rubbed her hands in glee if she could have. Tilda merely sat back and smiled as serenely as a mysterious Indian goddess.

Chapter Nine

      
When they arrived at the train station, a slightly built, light-skinned man of mixed race waited on the platform. His short-cut nappy hair was liberally flecked with gray, but there was an ageless quality and a keen zest for life in his lithe step and open smile when he responded to Brand's greeting.

      
So this is the remarkable Mr. St. John,
Miranda thought, but her eyes quickly shifted back to the tall, whipcord-lean body of the baron. It was a pleasure to study him while he was not looking and the others were engaged in conversation. She had not been altogether happy to see Abigail Warring and her new fiancé, Jonathon Belford, Varley' s heir, arriving with the whole of the earl's overbearing family. But Abbie was Lori's good friend, and now that Lori had secured a titled gentleman as a suitor, she was once more in the good graces of the little snob. Miranda detested such shallow behavior, but if her daughter could forgive Abbie, so be it.

      
She returned her attention to the major, wondering what he and his friend were discussing so earnestly. Whatever it was, it surely must be more interesting than anything being discussed by the others.

      
“I've investigated the bets placed, and your guess was right. Winters is burning money he does not have,” Sin said to Brand.

      
“Any idea where he continues to get the funding for his folly? What of O'Connell?”

      
St. John shrugged. “He appears to have dropped from the face of the earth. Nowhere to be found about the racecourse.”

      
“I wish we knew what's afoot here. I'll need you to help me keep an eye out for Mrs. Auburn's safety. The crowds at Ascot will be large, and there could be another attempt on her life.”

      
“From the looks of that maidservant, I doubt our services as guards will be required. If looks could kill, she'd skewer any man alive who laid a hand on her charges.”

      
“Tilda?” Brand echoed, looking across the platform to where the women stood, chatting with Lorilee's friends. The Indian woman stood like a sentinel towering protectively over the Auburn women.

      
“So that's the long Meg's name.” At Brand's puzzled look, he explained, “An archaic term for a maiden lady, but particularly apropos in this case. Tilda appears as formidable as a Valkyrie.”

      
“More like Kali, given her ancestry.” Brand had never thought of the quiet woman as formidable. “Don't tell me you're smitten?”

      
St. John stroked his chin consideringly. “I always did fancy tall women. So she's Indian. Tilda, hmmm...”

      
As if she knew they were discussing her, Tilda turned her head and stared at St. John with penetrating dark eyes. Her expression was unreadable.

      
“I think you have your work cut out for you,” Brand said with a chuckle.

      
“So do you,” his friend replied, noting the way Mrs. Auburn studied the baron out of the corner of her eye. He made no further comment.

      
The Mountjoys' private box was situated so as to give the best view of the horses as they came into the homestretch, but the ladies were more immediately concerned with seeing and being seen as they paraded around the seats greeting old friends effusively. Parasols twirled, fans fluttered, and huge hats so top-heavy they should have sent their diminutive wearers tumbling to the ground bobbed up and down like dinghies at high tide.

      
A sea of bright colors swirled beneath the glorious midday sun as emerald silks vied with violet linens, interspersed by the more demure pastels and whites of the young debutantes on the marriage mart. The ladies bussed cheeks and hugged each other, exclaiming in delight over the latest fashions. Gentlemen in dark coats and tall hats exchanged jovial handshakes and studied racing programs, making personal wagers and discussing the merits of various entries.

      
“Will you have an entry next year, Rushcroft?” the Earl of Varley asked Brand. A large man outrunning portliness in favor of fat, the earl had ginger hair going gray and a perpetually sour expression.

      
Brand found him pretentious and boring, but since he was a fellow Conservative in the House of Lords, the baron was pleasant, smiling as he replied, “I have several possibilities. Whether I will attempt to qualify depends on my trainer's decision.”

      
”Eh? That blackamoor we saw at the station? Was he one of your slaves from America?” Varley asked, his mouth frozen in a downturn, as if he perpetually sucked on a lemon.

      
“Mr. St. John has always been a free man, and he's English, not American,” Brand replied with a lift of his eyebrows.

      
Standing with the countess and several of her intolerable friends, Miranda eavesdropped on the conversation across the box, smiling faintly as Brand explained about his friend's background and invaluable skills.

      
Lori took time from critiquing the fashion show when the royal carriage procession began. As she sat in awe of the pomp and circumstance, she noticed her mother's attention once more surreptitiously drifting toward the baron. She would have been pleased if Geoffrey Winters had not just taken a seat in the adjoining box with his new bride.

      
Mrs. Winters was plain as a wren with mousy tan hair and a plump face. Her narrow, shrewd eyes missed little. Lori turned her back when Geoffrey looked over toward her and dared to nod as if they were casual acquaintances. Then while everyone's attention was fixed on Her Majesty's procession to the royal box, Lori was handed a note by one of Mountjoy's footmen.

      
Opening it, Lori suppressed a gasp of indignation, feeling Geoffrey Winters's eyes upon her. It was written in his hand, offering her the exalted honor of becoming his mistress!

      
“What is it, dearheart?” Miranda asked, leaning over to her daughter to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

      
Without a word, Lori showed the missive to her mother, noting with satisfaction the way Winters blanched. Could he have been that sure of her? That arrogant? That stupid! Before Miranda could say a word, Lori snatched the note back and stood up.

      
“Now, Lorilee, do not do anything—”

      
Before her mother's words of caution could delay her, she made her way calmly to the velvet-trimmed railing dividing their box from Falconridge's. Leaning over, she waved to Mrs. Winters and said in a clear voice, “Your husband sent this to me by mistake, I'm quite certain. Perhaps you need to straighten out the misunderstanding?”