Rebel Baron (22 page)

      
Tilda appeared thoughtful. “Knowing your mother, I'd rather lean to the setdown than to anything romantic. Although, heaven knows, she is attracted to the man. Now that I think of it, she was rather tense and uncommunicative last night, and then that wire arrived before anyone but the kitchen staff was up. As soon as I delivered it to her, she was out of here in a flurry.”

      
“That may not give us much time.”

      
Tilda's slim black eyebrow arched. “Us?”

      
“Why, yes. I can hardly go to the city house of a bachelor unaccompanied, can I?”

* * * *

      
Sin opened the door at Brandon Caruthers' townhouse. As an economy, they had let go all the staff except for a tweenie, a footman and a beastly cook who insisted on boiling every morsel that came into his kitchen. Both of St. John's eyebrows arched in amazement when he beheld the statuesque Miss Tilda standing on the stoop.

      
“You,” was her greeting.

      
“Good morning to you, as well, my Indian Goliath,” he said, sketching a bow.

      
She harrumphed and asked, “Is his lordship receiving?”

      
“That might depend on who's calling.”

      
Just then, overhearing them, Brand walked into the foyer. “Miss Tilda, please come in. Is something amiss at the Auburn household?”

      
“Oh, something's amiss all right,” she replied as she stepped inside. “And she's waiting in the carriage to speak with you.” Before Tilda could turn around, she heard the soft scampering of Lori's footsteps as the girl dashed from the unmarked hansom they'd hired and up the steps to the door.

      
“Is there a place where we could speak privately, my lord?” she asked nervously.

      
He gestured to his study. “My honor, Miss Auburn. Does your mother know you're here?” He knew damn well Miranda Auburn would skin them both if she did.

      
“Of course not,” Lorilee replied as if he were as dense as Manchester iron. She stepped inside the study, resolved to speak her mind and straighten out the tangle they'd all three created.

      
“Sin, if you'd be so kind as to entertain Miss Tilda?” Brand said to his friend. “I believe the cook has some coffee on the fire.” He closed the door, leaving the two antagonists facing off in the hall.

      
“Probably as thick as the silt on the banks of the Thames by now,” St. John replied, turning to the woman in question.

      
Quite literally looking down her nose at him, Tilda said, “I don't suppose anything as civilized as a cup of good English tea is available.” It was not a question.

      
“I rather imagine the cook, whatever his deficiencies, can manage tea.” Sin added beneath his breath, “Whether or not it's good is highly conjectural.” He gave her a mocking smile. “If you'd be so kind as to follow me?” He led the way into the front parlor.

      
Tilda stood rooted to the floor, aghast. “You'd dare to entertain someone in his lordship's parlor?”

      
St. John shrugged. “Well, I apologize for it's being a bit on the tatty side, but one does what one can.”

      
“This is highly irregular. What kind of a servant are you? I thought those of your race in America were until very recently enslaved.”

      
Entering the parlor as if fully expecting her to follow, he turned and stood arrogantly by the bell pull, yanking on it to summon the cook. “I am not a house servant but Brand's horse trainer and master of his stables, a position I held for many years prior to the late conflict in America. As to your second remark, neither am I American nor have I ever been a slave. Now please have a seat.”

      
She entered the room but continued standing, obviously uncomfortable. “You're still in the baron's employ and have no right to assume such airs.”

      
“Before he was even in knee britches I was wiping ‘the baron's’ arse. He'd be the first to tell you.”

      
Tilda blinked. “I see your crudity has not abated since our first encounter. Upper servants ought to know how to conduct themselves with gentility.”

      
He walked closer to her, his cocky stance belying what he said. “Oh, I know the way things are done in jolly old England, and it's pretty much the same way things are done in America. The color of one's skin determines who's in charge. My father had me educated as a white man, but I learned that my erudition”—he paused to emphasize the word ironically—“as well as my father's fine family pedigree, gave me not the slightest entree into Society. Or even into your class of ‘upper servants.’ Tell me, Miss Tilda, do the white house servants treat you as their equal?”

      
Before she could reply, the cook, red-faced and belligerent, wearing a greasy apron, appeared in the doorway. “Whot do ye need?”

      
“A fresh pot of tea and some cream, preferably not curdled, old chap,” St. John replied genially.

      
With a surly nod of acquiescence, the cook departed, muttering imprecations to himself.

      
Sin turned to Tilda and said, “If he possessed the slightest culinary skills, he'd quit and find other employment.”

      
“Because of you.” It was not a question.

      
“Most assuredly. I overturn the order of the cosmos, don't you know?”

      
“You'd overturn the patience of a saint,” she shot back.

      
“Are we to continue this sparring match standing? It will prove awkward to manage our tea at the same time.”

      
“You only want me to sit down because my height gives me the advantage.” In spite of her words, she perched on the edge of a threadbare settee.

      
“You may need it,” he replied with a grin.

* * * *

      
Inside the study, Lorilee had been only too happy to take a seat, simply to keep her knees from giving way beneath her. She'd used up every ounce of her courage by the time the door to the baron's study had closed the two of them inside. Alone. She had never been unchaperoned before—except for those brief stolen moments with Geoffrey Winters, memories that did not soothe her case of nerves. But somehow, she felt this was too private a matter for even her beloved Tilda to witness.

      
The baron did not ease her discomfort in spite of offering to share the coffee and scones with jam on the breakfast tray at his desk. The very thought of food left her stomach roiling. He had disquieted her from the first moment she'd seen him standing at the foot of the stairs as her suitor. In truth, everything about him frightened her—his arrogant stride, those fierce tiger's eyes, his harshly handsome face disfigured by battle scars from a war she could not even imagine.

      
Yet she knew her mother did not share her aversion at all. Miranda found him alluring in a way Lorilee could not explain, but then the heart offers no reasons. She clung to that thought and tried to formulate the words for her shocking proposal.

      
Brand studied the skittish girl. She was like a colt being haltered for the first time. He felt the need to help her. “Do you want to break off our courtship, Miss Auburn?” he asked gently.

      
She cleared her throat before replying. “No. Quite the contrary. I would ask that you continue calling.”

      
He raised his eyebrows. This certainly wasn't the answer he was expecting! Leaning forward in his chair, he tried to read her expression, but she kept her eyes demurely downcast, fidgeting with her reticule and rearranging her skirts. “Do you fancy marrying me, then, Miss Lorilee?” he asked, holding his breath.

      
Her head jerked up and their eyes met. “Heavens, no! That is...I mean...” Her face turned crimson. This was not going at all well!

      
He threw back his head and laughed in pure relief, then realized he'd offended the shy girl. “Please forgive me. I wasn't laughing at you but at my own arrogance—and confusion. If you don't want to marry me, then why should you not cry off the arrangement? After all, it was your mother who made it for you, not you. I shall make no scandal, but dutifully play the part of a rebuffed swain.”

      
“That would do no good at all. Then how would you and Mother continue to see each other?” Lori blurted out.

      
The breath seemed to rush from his lungs. His thoughts scattered to the four winds as his muddled brain tried to analyze their bizarre conversation. This green girl could not have an inkling of the sexual attraction he felt toward her mother...could she? Lordy, he certainly hoped not.

      
“Why would I want to continue seeing your mother if not for you?”

      
“Do not play the dolt, my lord. It ill becomes a man of your vast experience.”

      
Her exasperated tone set him back. “And my vast age?” he added dryly.

      
“You are far closer in age to Mother than to me, you must confess.” She was warming to her topic at last, sensing that she had the upper hand. The poor fellow simply had no idea that he was in love with her mother. But he would find out soon enough if she had her way. “If you call on us and escort us to social functions, you shall have the opportunity to continue your courtship of my mother.”

      
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “My courtship of your mother? You're confusing this poor Kentucky lout, baron though I may be.”

      
“Under no other circumstances would she permit you to woo her,” Lori continued, undaunted. At his dazed expression, she sighed and pressed on. “Do you think just because I am young that I am also blind?”

      
He shook his head, as much to clear it as to respond to her. “Miss Auburn, do I understand you correctly? You believe I should use our...er, arrangement as a pretext to court your mother?”

      
“For a ‘poor Kentucky lout,’ you catch the way the wind is blowing quite well,” she replied brightly. “Of course you are attracted to her and she to you. That has been apparent for some time.”

      
“Perhaps to you,” he said, feeling a very unaccustomed heat stealing over his own face now. Miranda and he shared a physical attraction, yes, he could not disagree. But to an innocent like Lorilee that translated to marriage. The very idea that the calculating and highly independent widow would ever consider matrimony again—least of all to him—seemed beyond the improbable.

      
“I fear I've embarrassed you, my lord, and that was certainly not my intention,” Lori said, worrying her lower lip with her teeth as she struggled to convince him of the rightness of her cause. “You were both quite obvious the day of the carriage crash, the way you held on to each other long after it was necessary...or, strictly speaking, proper.”

      
“Was that when you conceived this idea?” he asked. Marriage had not been in his plans when he'd come to England. Only when faced with the prospect of utter ruin had he agreed to Miranda's terms regarding a malleable young girl. Marrying the mother was quite another matter. How to explain this tactfully to her daughter, sitting so earnestly across from him?

      
“I'm not certain when it really began to sift together. Perhaps it was the evening at the opera when...” Her words trailed awkwardly away.

      
“When my violent nature frightened you half to death?’ he said quietly. “Being in a war...does something to a man.”

      
She met his eyes levelly now. “You and my mother have shared adversity in ways I cannot imagine, nor do I want to. But such bitter experiences have shaped you into people who are naturally attracted to each other.”

      
Brand had always wondered about Miranda's relationship with her husband. She had stressed that he was a kind man; but from all reports of his ruthless business dealings, the baron wondered if that was the truth. “Do you remember your father?”

      
“Very little, I'm afraid,” she replied with a sigh. “I was quite young when he died. He was seldom at home until he fell ill. Then I was kept from his sickroom. Mother was ever so brave, dividing her time between us so I should not be neglected.”

      
“And you'll grow to be just like her some day. All this time, you played the frivolous giggling belle without a thought in her pretty head except fashions and gossip, just so I'd see how much more admirable your mother is than you. Am I right?” He grinned at her, and she nodded.

      
He read a great deal between the lines of what she'd said about her parents and decided that he wanted to learn more. Not because he harbored any illusions that the widow would allow him to court her. However, there was the matter of the attempts to kill Miranda. But when he started to explain what he and Sin had pieced together, she interrupted.