Rebel Baron (23 page)

      
“Mr. St. John and Tilda have discussed it, and she's explained the connections to me. All the more reason for you to remain close by my mother's side,” she cajoled earnestly.

      
“I’m not at all certain your mother would ever consider marrying me, but until we sort out this whole tangle, I'll continue keeping an eye on you both,” he agreed.

      
“My mother and I are greatly in your debt, Lord Rush-croft,” Lori said. She was smiling gamely when they left the study.

      
She was her mother's daughter, after all.

Chapter Eleven

      
“I understand a hansom nearly ran your carriage down. It almost overturned. You could’ve been trampled in the evening traffic.” Brand stood in the doorway of her sitting room, glaring accusingly at Miranda, who sat with that huge orange tom on her lap. The battle-scarred beast blinked at him as her hand stroked over his scruffy fur. Brand was too angry to care about the cat.

      
“As usual, my lord, your information is quite accurate. It was merely one of those mishaps that occur during the press of people, when everyone's rushing madly to get out of the City at day's end—nothing to be upset about,” Miranda replied calmly, placing Marm on the chair cushion as she stood up to face her antagonist.

      
“Nothing to be upset about!” he roared, advancing into the room. “After all that's happened, you surely can't believe it was just another traffic tangle.” Brand felt like seizing her and shaking her. After his disconcerting conversation with Lorilee this morning, he suddenly wondered if he actually was falling in love with this woman.

      
Absurd. Then why had he grown icy with fear when Sin had told him about the incident on the Strand? Why had he rushed directly here to assure himself that she was unharmed?

      
“How could anyone have arranged such a chaotic mess?” she asked reasonably, although her temper was beginning to simmer at his arrogant manner. “A dozen vehicles were involved. I doubt their drivers all wished me ill.”

      
“It would only take one clever man who knows how to sabotage a harness and spook a horse to start the melee. I've seen what bedlam the Strand is at that time of day. We know full well that someone has already tried this sort of ‘accident’ once before. From now on, you're going nowhere without a guard.”

      
She looked at him as if he'd just proposed she frolic naked in front of Temple Bar. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her temper rising another notch. “I will come and go, and conduct my business as I please. I am not a member of your regiment, Major. In the increasingly unlikely event you ever become a member of this family, you still will not give me orders. I give the orders around here.”

      
“Not to me you don't,” he snapped.

      
The two of them stood glaring at each other until the big tom jumped from his seat and wended his way toward Brand. When the baron stepped aside to let him through the door, Miranda smiled. “He won't take orders either.”

      
“Then we're even.” Brand raised his hands in frustration, then sighed and ran his fingers through his hair as she once again sat down on the large overstuffed chair. “All right, I apologize for my peremptory behavior, but you might have been killed. Is it so much to ask that you keep at least an extra footman about when you drive to your office in the City? And wouldn't it be far safer to conduct business from your home until we find out who's behind this?”

      
“That's ridiculous.” Then noting the tightening around the major's mouth, she tried a more conciliatory tone. “I cannot simply stay here and bid people keep me informed of what is going on as if I were the queen holding court. Besides, I'm right in the midst of negotiating an important American railway venture right now.”

      
“The transcontinental that Durant, Stanford and the rest of those damn Yankees are funding?” he asked, then immediately added, “I apologize for my language, ma'am. I can't seem to say the word Yankee without the appropriate adjective modifying it.”

      
She nodded with a slight smile. “Well those...Yankees, whatever their status with heaven, require quite a bit of help funding the railway, not to mention supplies such as iron rails and heavy equipment.”

      
“I'm suitably impressed.” He was. Brand had been following the newspaper accounts about the railroad planned to stretch from the Atlantic seaboard all the way to the Pacific Ocean. British capital would greatly contribute to American success.

      
“As well you should be. If my factor in the United States can win the bidding war for contracts, Auburn Iron & Steel will stand to make a fortune.”

      
“Not to mention Auburn Shipping,” he added with a grin.

      
She found herself returning it. “You're quite the thorough investigator yourself, aren't you, my lord?” He nodded, still smiling. When he looked at her that way, she could feel her heartbeat trip.
I'm behaving like a schoolgirl
, she scolded herself, but she was unable to stop smoothing her gray silk skirt. The outfit was dull and tailored for work, not something Lori and Tilda would have her wear for a social occasion.

      
But it was her daughter, not she, who needed to worry about pleasing the baron. Why did she have to keep reminding herself of that? It was hardly as if he'd consider an older woman as marriage material. Horrified at the way her thoughts kept straying into forbidden territory when he was around, she said coolly, “Other than upbraiding me for being involved in a carriage accident, do you have some purpose in being here, Major?”

      
Back to her Queen Victoria mode. Brand smiled wryly. “As a matter of fact, yes. I know Rushcroft Hall is in ill repair, but the staff there assures me they have things well enough in shape for guests. I'm extending an invitation for you and Miss Auburn to join me this weekend. It's a celebration of sorts, since two of Reiver's mares have foaled and from the looks of them, they'll be prime racing stock in a couple of years. I thought Miss Auburn would enjoy the outing,” he added as an inducement, recalling her highly unorthodox visit and her schemes.

      
“I'm not certain I can break away just now ...” Miranda thought about the wire from Mr. Aimesley naming another bidder, whose offer was holding up the completion of her deal.

      
“There is a telegraph office in Dorking. I can vouch that it works.”

      
“Lori would love to see the foals,” she equivocated, knowing how delighted with such a prospect her horse-mad daughter would be.

      
“And how about you? After all, you might be investing in my stud farm one day.”

      
“Is manipulating people with such charm an American trait, Major?” She could not resist his sunny smile.

      
“When it's done properly, ma'am, it is a Southern trait.”

      
How could she say no? “Very well. I shall ask my daughter, but I believe we both know what her answer will be.”

      
“I'll be here to escort you to the railway at five on Friday. I've reserved a car for us.”

      
“Are you always this sure of yourself, Major...or is it only with women?”

      
“Now, that's a question packed too tight with black powder for any Southern gentleman to answer,” he replied, reaching for her hand before she could stop him. He raised it to his lips, kissed it lightly and bowed.

      
As he walked out of the room, Miranda held to her lips that hand, scandalously bare since she had been working on accounts, and felt the heat of his mouth transmit to hers.

      
Bitter pain unexpectedly choked her.

* * * *

      
As they rode up the long circular drive to Rushcroft Hall, Brand felt considerable trepidation about the Auburns' reaction to his shabby home. As if their opinions were not worrisome enough, he'd been cajoled by Lorilee into inviting her friend Abigail Warring and her fiancé, Varley's son Jonathon, who was an utter snob. The Pelham family seat was adjacent to Rushcroft, and Jon had just informed the party that Geoffrey Winters and his wife were in residence that weekend. Bloody lovely.

      
The entourage took three carriages from the railway station, one for the guests, one for the servants and one filled to overflowing with an incredible mountain of trunks and baggage. How many changes of clothing did a lady require for a mere two days in the countryside, anyway?

      
The roses were spindly and diseased, and the goldfish pool in the gardens was so murky the fish could only be seen if they floated to the surface dead, an event he'd witnessed on his last visit. Brand hoped the yardman had managed to clean the water, at the least. He could see that the overworked fellow had hacked down the worst of the weeds and vines, but the lawns were bare of grass and muddy in many places, and what had once been ornamental shrubbery was now a more or less shapeless mass of boxwood and barberry all grown together.

      
The Hall itself had once been quite splendid. Unfortunately, that had been in the Elizabethan era. It commanded a stunning view of the countryside from the top of a gently rising hill backed by a magnificent stand of walnut and oak trees. Although expanded over the generations, with wings added on in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the main house was a rustic English manor of cleanly cut limestone, softened by sun and wind over time.

      
Large leaded-glass windows seemed to welcome visitors and bid them enter. Upon closer inspection, the cracked and broken panes and rusty hinges holding together the scarred oak door made the promise of hospitality appear thin indeed. At least the maids had washed what remained of the glass until it gleamed in the twilight.

      
“I said it was badly in need of repair. I may have understated the case,” Brand said dryly as the carriage slowed, nearing the front steps.

      
“Oh, I can picture it refurbished in the Gothic manner with a tower there and arched windows placed just so,” Lorilee said, pointing enthusiastically to her vision.

      
Brand struggled not to shudder. Was the girl playacting or was her father's execrable taste inherited? But it was Miranda who remonstrated for him.

      
“Why, I'd never ruin the simple lines of the architecture. It isn't a medieval church, dearheart, it's a country manor house. All it needs is a bit of polishing up to bring out the charm of it. Look at the way the light spills from the windows. It's enchanting.”

      
“The first time I saw it, I thought of River Trails,” Brand said.

      
“Your plantation home in Lexington?” Miranda asked as Lori and Abbie argued about how the exterior of the Hall could be refitted for modern sensibilities.

      
“Yes. It was white frame, a neoclassical structure. New by English standards, but beautiful. I loved its simplicity.”

      
“So tragic it was destroyed during the war,” she said gently.

      
He nodded. “When I first saw this place, I thought—not that they're anything alike architecturally, but this was...”

      
“Home,” Miranda supplied for him.

      
“Yes. The furnishings—what the late baron did not sell off to pay gambling debts—are in poor repair but similar to the Greek Revival pieces my family had in Lexington.”

      
“Quite unlike the monstrosities in my city house,” Miranda said with a teasing smile.

      
Brand grinned back at her. “I confess the Wanstead sofa in your parlor does come to mind.”

      
“I've bruised myself on those hideous griffins affixed to the ends of it so often, I've considered having it chopped up for firewood.”

      
“The house is obviously not to your taste. Most women with the means would leap at the opportunity to redecorate, if not sell it outright and purchase one they wanted. Why haven't you?” He was treading a dangerous path here and knew he should let the matter drop, but he wanted to know.

      
Miranda felt as if the two of them were alone in the large open carriage. When he looked at her, the laughter of the young people, even the strident voices of Tilda and St. John in the carriage behind them, all seemed to fade away. But still, she could not give him an honest answer. Did she know it herself?

      
She moistened her lips and said, “My business affairs require too much attention. I haven't the time or inclination to search for another home or suffer the intrusion of painters, plasterers and the like.”

      
“Well, here we are,” Jonathon Belford, the next Earl of Varley, said with disdain, curling his mustachioed lips as he looked at the house. The expression would have been more effectively insulting if his beard were not quite so sparse. The bare spots about his mouth made him look like a mangy sheepdog.