Rebel Baron (2 page)

      
The message was brief and to the point. Abigail, whose father was a baron, had been invited to tea in the exalted presence of a countess. “Why, you had made an engagement with Abbie last week. How very rude of her to break it at the last moment just because of that dreary Belford clan.” Miranda knew how such a rejection must sting her sensitive daughter.

      
Lori's smile wobbled for an instant before she raised her chin stubbornly, a trait inherited from Miranda. “Oh, Mother, only you would call the Earl of Varley’s family dreary.”

      
Miranda took her daughter's hand and patted it. “Well, it is nothing but the truth. They're vapid and exceedingly self-centered. The earl has the brains of a squirrel. All he's concerned with is riding to hounds and drinking at his club. And as for his wife, she lives only to collect jewelry and attend court functions.”

      
“You're saying that because the countess told you she thought Her Majesty was exceedingly witty,” Lori said, the smile at last spreading to her eyes.

      
“Her Majesty is a fine, upstanding woman, but Mr. Disraeli winds her about his little finger.” Miranda sniffed with disgust, both for women prone to flattery and Tory politicians likely to give it.

      
“You're Whig to the core,” Lori replied as she studied her imposing mother.

      
Miranda Stafford Auburn, courtesy of her own ingenuity, industry and perseverance, sat on the boards of iron foundries, banks, shipping firms and railway companies. In the cutthroat circles of Britain’s leading businessmen she was accepted, albeit sometimes grudgingly, with considerable respect. Her acumen in investment and ability to foresee expansion into new areas had taken the modest fortune of her late husband and multiplied it many times over.

      
If only she would agree to dress her hair properly and wear some flattering clothes.
Lorilee studied her thirty-six-year-old mother’s crisp but unadorned gray wool dress and that hideous bun of braids into which she insisted on torturing her hair. “Perhaps we could go to Madame Celeste's this afternoon. She has some of the loveliest new fashions—”

      
Miranda shook her head regretfully. Not because she had the slightest interest in fashion, but because she could not take the time for her daughter. “I'm ever so sorry, dearheart, but Mr. Minton from the National Bank is coming for tea. We're to discuss the new railway investment.” At Lori’s look of disappointment, she countered, saying, “I have it. How would you feel about the opera tonight? Adelina Patti is performing. Sarah Beverton told me anytime I wished, we could join them in their box.”

      
Lori's expression brightened. “That would be wonderful! Did you know that Adelina Patti is considered the foremost coloratura soprano in all of Europe? It's true. I read it in
The Times
.”

      
“Well, if you read it in
The Times,
then who am I to doubt?” Miranda said, returning her daughter's smile.

* * * *

      
Lorilee insisted on selecting a gown for her mother that evening and had their personal maid Tilda fix her hair. Wanting to please her daughter, Miranda acceded although she always felt as if she were mutton disguised as lamb whenever she wore low-cut, brightly colored clothing. As for having her hair dressed in an upswept cascade of curls, well, that was more suitable for young misses making their debuts.

      
Girls such as her own beloved daughter.

      
But Lori’s debut was sadly restricted. Commoners whose families engaged in trade, no matter how wealthy they might be, could not be presented at court. Lori had endured this sort of snubbing all her life. In spite of everything that Will and Miranda had been able to do—spending a small fortune on governesses and sending her to the finest schools—she was still the daughter of a jumped-up merchant from Liverpool.

      
Will Auburn had never cared for the fine opinions of Society, nor had his wife, who came from less than sterling bloodlines herself. But Will had insisted Lorilee be educated as a lady since he had toiled so long to amass the fortune to which she would one day be heir. Unfortunately, such an education led to mingling with the peerage, and that often led to heartbreaks and snubs such as the one today.

      
Miranda’s own success in multiplying her child's inheritance only complicated matters; for unlike her utterly practical mother, Lori was a dreamer, a gentle girl who longed for a handsome young man to sweep her off her feet.

      
“You look splendidly handsome, ma'am,” Tilda said as she finished looping the myriad tiny jet buttons down the back of her mistress’s evening gown. It was a deep pewter shade of velvet which brought out the color of her gray eyes. At least, that was what her longtime maid and companion said, although Miranda knew Lori would think the color far too drab.

      
“Thank you, Tilda,” she replied absently as she tried to breathe in the nasty corset which was necessary with an evening gown such as this.

      
“You look all the brown study. What’s troubling you—besides having me lace you tighter than you prefer, that is?” Tilda asked with the familiarity of a servant who had attended her mistress since Miranda had been twelve years old and the East Indian a girl of sixteen.

      
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if Geoffrey Winters will be at the opera tonight.”

      
“Pelham's youngest?” Tilda’s tone indicated what she thought of the third son of Viscount Pelham. “A pretty one. He might be quite a catch if not for the gambling vowels he cannot pay…and other vices no lady dare mention,” she added beneath her breath. “You're worried that he'll pay court to Miss Lori?” Her shrewd brown eyes studied Miranda, who nodded.

      
“He's already approached me.”

      
“I trust you sent him packing,” Tilda replied indignantly. “He hasn't a shilling to his name, nor will he ever. Gossip is that Pelham's cut him off completely for his dissolute ways.”

      
“Gossip in this rare instance is quite correct, not that the viscount's family has all that much of which to deprive him,” Miranda replied dryly. But still she worried. “I did indeed refuse his request to call on Lori, but he's been appearing at social events and accidentally encountering her in spite of my wishes. She'll hear nothing ill spoken of him.”

      
“Young love is quite painful, but that's the strength of the young—they can survive it,” Tilda said gently.

      
“You're a love yourself, Tilda.” Miranda smiled at the tall, thin woman with ink black hair and smooth, light tan skin.

      
As the bedroom door softly closed, Tilda shook her head sadly. “If only you'd had the chance for such foolishness as Miss Lori does…”

* * * *

Just outside Cincinnati, Ohio

      
The racetrack was crowded. Throngs of people, from tattered ruffians to dandified gambling men, with a sprinkling of women of a certain reputation, set up a roar as the horses neared the finish line. When the big black pulled ahead of the gray that had been neck and neck with him for the past dozen yards, cheers and curses erupted simultaneously. Brand and Sin exchanged grins and prepared to collect their money.

      
Afterward, they strolled away from the muddy track toward where Mathias stood with Midnight Reiver. The lad was beaming from ear to ear. Although only fifteen and small for his age, his mentor, the great racing genius Mr. St. John, had trusted him as jockey for the first time. And he had not let them down. “I tole him I cud do it, didn't I, Major?” he asked Brand.

      
“That you did, and you were right.”

      
“He eased up on the reins too much around the first turn. The inattentiveness of youth,” Sin said with a world-weary sigh that belied his own pride in his charge.

      
“In-tent-what?” Mathias asked. “Whatever that means, it must be good.”

      
“You haven't been keeping up with your studies,” Sin scolded.

      
“Considering how busy we've kept him on the racing circuit this spring, that's hardly his fault,” Brand said. Turning to the young jockey, he warned, “Just don't start thinking that you can make your way as a jockey without an education, or the grifters who hang around racetracks will steal you blind.”

      
“I knows—er, know, Major,” Mathias corrected himself. “And I promise to finish that primer before we head on home to River Trails.”

      
“See that you do. I shall quiz you on it,” Sin interjected sternly, but he allowed Mathias one of his rarely seen genuine smiles.

      
“Lord, after the past six weeks I've all but lost track of the states, not to mention the towns, we’ve been through,” Brand said as they walked the spent horse slowly toward the barn where Mathias and Sin would cool him down. “It’ll be good to put my feet back on Kentucky bluegrass.”

      
Sin snorted. “You just have an aversion to Federals, that's all.”

      
“Don't have an aversion to taking their money. None at all,” Brand replied with a chuckle. Then his expression turned grim. “Damnation, what's
she
doing here?”

      
“Intent on making trouble, that I can predict,” Sin murmured.

      
Reba Wilcox sashayed toward them, twirling a frilly pink parasol. One gloved hand held up her skirts daintily so the hem did not touch the muddy grass. Her golden curls were piled high beneath a straw bonnet trimmed with pale pink roses that matched her gown. For daytime, it was cut scandalously low, revealing more creamy flesh than current fashion approved. But Reba had never wanted social approval. Only money…and Brandon Caruthers.

      
“Why, imagine finding you here, Brand,” she exclaimed ingenuously, batting thick golden lashes against her subtly rouged cheeks. “I was visiting my second cousin once removed—you do recall me mentioning the Cincinnati Cunninghams, don't you? Well,” she continued without giving him a chance to reply, “Cousin Stephan suggested we come to the race and you know how horse-mad I've always been. However could I resist?”

      
“Ladies don’t attend this sort of race, Reba,” Brand said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving her a look that clearly indicated what he thought about her presence at the track.

      
“Now don’t be rude,” she scolded with a mock pout, reaching up to take his arm, tugging it to indicate that they should walk. When he did not move, she said, “We need to speak privately, away from your darkies.” The moment she said it, she could feel Brand's muscles stiffen beneath her fingers, but she ignored his anger and bestowed a blinding smile. “Please, Brand?”

      
Darkies! Not half as dark as the space between your ears!
But Sin's face remained expressionless. Since returning to America from Britain where his English father had taken him to be educated, St. John had learned to curb his bold tongue around the flower of Southern womanhood—even if this particular flower was actually a weed.

      
“Why don't you and Mathias see that Reiver is cooled down? I'll be along directly,” Brand asked his friend with a weary sigh.

      
Wordlessly, Sin nodded. He and the young jockey led the horse away. Brand turned back to Reba, making no attempt to stroll with her or allow her to put her hands on him again. “Say what you have to say and be done with it.”

      
“Don't be cross,” she wheedled. “After all we meant to each other—”

      
“We no longer mean anything to each other,
Mrs.
Wilcox. You made your bed with Earl. Now lie in it—if there's room enough after he flops onto it.”

      
Reba stamped her foot, then looked up at him with crystalline tears gleaming prettily in her cornflower-blue eyes. “What would you have had me do, Brand? Sleep in a dirt-floor cabin with slaves?”

      
“River Trails never owned a slave, Reba.” His voice was flat. “But as to your sleeping in a rude cabin, I can’t imagine it under any circumstances. That’s why you chose your banker. Quite a fancy big house he has in town. Hear his daddy in Frankfort has one even bigger he'll inherit one day. You should be overjoyed.”

      
She twisted the handle of her parasol and let several plump teardrops trickle down her cheeks. “I'm not. I'm utterly miserable because I still love you, Brand. Earl is just a boy.” She gave a delicate shiver. “And he's fat!”

      
Brand laughed, realizing that his misplaced affection for this girl-woman was completely gone. He thanked whatever powers were in charge of the firmaments that he had not married her before going off to war. He could well imagine the living hell he'd have faced upon returning to a wife forced to endure the hardships of rebuilding River Trails with him. “Earl's been fat ever since we were children, Reba. I'd think you could get him frisky enough in bed to shake off forty pounds.”