Rebel Baron (8 page)

      
Miranda nodded. Mrs. Lieder and that ancient Murcheson baggage were the worst gossips in all of England, but they knew everything that went on in Society. She waited patiently as Lori gathered herself to continue. Already she could feel a killing anger at Winters boiling through her veins. The rotter had hurt her daughter!

      
“The Earl of Falconridge's daughter Varinia has been compromised by him and they are to be wed by special license within the week. The scandal is spreading across London. The earl at first wanted to call him out, but his countess prevailed upon him to allow the marriage instead. Mr. Winters expected a large dowry. The earl refused. Instead, he has provided them with a very modest allowance. If Mr. Winters does not mend his ways, he will be banished to America to work in the offices of a shipping firm owned by the earl's family.”

      
Miranda could not resist an inward smile. Ah, the splendid irony of it. She would have laughed aloud but for her daughter's distress. “I have had business dealings with Cameron Beaumont. Given the chance, he will work Geoffrey Winters very hard indeed.”

      
“All he wanted was my money, and...all the while he was courting me, he was still...searching for a wealthy woman of his own class.” Lori's eyes finally began to swim with tears, but she met her mother's gaze, refusing to break down.

      
She's growing up.
Miranda hated the brutal blows that all too often accompanied maturity, but it was for the best. What if his scheme to entrap Varinia Beaumont had snared Lorilee instead? What if her beloved daughter had been the one to be compromised and forced to wed a man who had used her thus?

      
“I know this must be very painful,” Miranda began carefully, feeling as if she had spent the entire day walking over eggshells. First the prickly baron, now her wounded daughter. She took Lori's hands in hers, massaging the tight little fists until they released their death-lock on the shredded handkerchief. “Geoffrey Winters is young and callow, too wrapped up in his own selfish schemes to see your worth. That is no reflection on you, my dear. You're beautiful, intelligent and warmhearted, all any gentleman of breeding could wish in a wife. Only think of how many suitors you've already turned away—and how many,” she hastened to add, “you have yet to meet.”

      
“But Geoff—Mr. Winters,” she coldly corrected herself, “was the only one whom I fancied. And now he has turned out to be just like all the rest. Men are only interested in my money, not in me.”

      
“You know that's not true. Several of the young swains you spurned were rich as Croesus. Ralph Condon certainly did not need your money, nor did Leander Fleming.” Both were heirs of wealthy industrialists, albeit, Miranda was forced to admit, rather dull sticks. Perhaps a rakish charmer such as the Rebel Baron would prove just the tonic for Lori. But not so soon. She would require time to lick her wounds.

      
Miranda remembered how bitterly disillusionment could hurt. And she'd been given less than a week to accept Will Auburn's marriage proposal...

      
“I want to marry for love, not make a business merger, Mother.” Upon seeing the tiny flinch Miranda quickly hid, Lori was instantly contrite. “I'm sorry. That was most unkind of me. I know that you and Father—”

      
“I regret that you did not have enough time to appreciate what a fine man William Auburn was,” Miranda said softly. “But I promise you will find a man far closer to your age who will cherish you just as he did me.”

      
“Perhaps,” Lorilee replied in a despondent voice, gripping her mother's hands as if they were a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.

* * * *

      
Sin was busily humming his second chorus of “Froggie Went A Courtin' ” when Brand threw the boot he'd been polishing at his friend's head. Unrepentant, Sin merely ducked, then returned to mending the halter he'd been working on for the past quarter hour as Brand prepared for his first meeting with Miss Lorilee Auburn, heiress.

      
“I know you don't approve, and I can't say I'm the least bit enamored of the scheme myself, but it's the only way we can survive, dammit,” Brand snapped, attacking the other boot with enough zeal to rub the fine leather to the thickness of gauze.

      
“No estate is worth leg-shackling, old chap.” St. John shuddered. “I've avoided connubial bliss for well in excess of five decades and have never regretted the decision. Need I remind you of the mistake you nearly made with Reba Wilcox?”

      
“I'm not signing any marriage lines just yet Only going to meet the young lady...who, if her likeness was any indicator, is very beautiful.”

      
Sin grunted, putting down the tack. “And what if she has the disposition of a treed bobcat? Or the brain of a possum? I say we take the horses and make a run for it.”

      
“There's nowhere to run, Sin,” he replied wearily. “If Miss Auburn does not find me appealing, then I'll have no recourse but to approach her mother for the loan once again. The widow has shrewd business sense. I'll give the devil her due. She made no attempt to hide her interest in my plans for Rushcroft Hall.”

      
“You really feel a tie to this old ruin, don't you?” Sin asked rhetorically. Brand had walked the land with a gleam of hope in his eyes. After the loss of River Trails, St. John had feared that hope was gone forever.

      
Brand laughed self-consciously and resumed polishing the boot. “Perhaps it's bred into Caruthers men to covet land. Or maybe it's because I was born on English soil.”

      
“Pure happenstance, that. If your parents had not been returning from their grand tour of the Continent when your mother was ordered abed carrying you, you'd have been born in Kentucky just as your forebears were.”

      
Brand chuckled. “Father was furious at the inconvenience. It was the opening of racing season back home.”

      
“A far more important event than your entry into the world,” St. John said with a rich chuckle. “But here you are, sitting in the House of Lords.”

      
“I'd far prefer a business arrangement to a marriage alliance, believe me,” Brand said grimly as he thought of the interview coming up that afternoon.

      
Sin's eyes swept over Brand's elegant features and tall, lean body. “Give me leave to doubt the girl will spurn you. Need I remind you the ladies of London Town are fairly swooning over the Rebel Baron? Why should this chit be any different from the rest? She's from a family in trade, and you're a peer.”

      
“An American peer. An utter barbarian according to some lights,” Brand said, unconsciously rubbing the narrow white scar on his cheek—and marking it with a smear of bootblack.

      
“Keep applying that and you'll be in no danger of attracting the young miss—nor will you get your bank loan,” St. John said wryly.

      
Caruthers looked over to the opposite wall where the room's sole mirror hung, one so chipped and ancient as to be unsalable. He applied a matching streak of bootblack to his other cheek. “Perhaps I can frighten Miss Lorilee Auburn away and then deal with her mother. What say?”

      
Sin grinned, happy to see his friend's old sense of humor reassert itself. When he'd returned from the solicitor's office, Brand had been in a killing rage, his pride so affronted he'd all but called the man out. But oddly, after receiving a similar suggestion from this formidable widow at the bank, he had simply ridden back to his ancestral land and resumed planning for the future. One way or the other, Brandon Caruthers intended to hold on to what was his.

      
If that included taking a simpering slip of a girl to wife, would he be able to go through with it? St. John had known Reba Cunningham was a dreadful choice. He doubted the Englishwoman would be any better. Of course, he was a confirmed misogynist who felt it his duty to find some way for Brand to escape this marriage trap. He stroked his chin, considering options___

* * * *

      
“You've done splendidly.” Miranda squeezed her daughter's hand as she inspected Tilda's handiwork. The handsome older woman fussed with last-minute touches to Lori's golden ringlets.

      
“Thank you, Tilda,” Lori said with a tremulous smile. She turned this way and that, inspecting her new sprigged muslin gown, trying to take her mind off the prospect of meeting the dashing American. She was a bundle of nerves. Would he find her attractive? More importantly, would she find him attractive? She scarcely remembered him from their brief collision at the Moreland ball.

      
Her mother had explained that the baron required money with which to restore his estate—money that would come from Lori's inheritance. Not precisely the stuff of dreams. But Lorilee was becoming resigned to what she knew most other women of her station accepted. A marriage alliance between families. Her only consolation was that if she detested him, her mother would not force her into the match.

      
“Don't fret. You look quite perfect, dearheart,” Miranda reassured the nervous girl. She had given her daughter nearly a month to recover after her deliverance from Winters before even broaching the subject of Lord Rushcroft. After a round of outings to musicales, balls, regattas and other social events, Lori showed no particular interest in any young man. Overall, that was a good thing, for many of them were every bit as irresponsible and mercenary as Pelham' s boy.

      
Perhaps Lori was at last putting aside girlish dreams and could evaluate a man's ultimate worthiness more maturely. Miranda devoutly hoped so. Not only would Caruthers not squander Lori's inheritance, but he would also provide the social recognition that her insecure and often slighted daughter so dearly wished. As a baroness, she would be presented to Queen Victoria.

      
Let Abigail Warring choke on that!
Miranda thought with a sudden surge of vitriol. Lori would have a dashingly handsome peer for husband while Abby would be saddled with Varley's ogre of a son. Although son to an earl, the young Mr. Winters picked his nose. Miranda suppressed a chuckle of triumph and said, “I do believe I hear the baron arriving.”

      
Lori could not resist peeking out the window at the street below, where the sound of hoof beats clattered to a halt in front of the iron gate enclosing their small front yard. A groom took the reins of a magnificent bay gelding as the rider dismounted with casual ease. “He's taller than I remembered,” she said breathlessly, straining to see his face, which was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat not at all in fashion.

      
Looking over Lori's shoulder, Miranda noted the same thing, but could not help thinking the plumed headgear suited him. “A veritable cavalier,” she murmured dryly.

      
“You did say he was a soldier for the Confederates. I suppose that is part of their uniform,” Lori remarked uncertainly.

      
“And the frock coat? Somehow I doubt it, considering it's cut in the latest fashion. Fresh from Bond Street or I miss my guess.” Miranda knew he'd won a sizable purse at Epsom two weeks ago and surmised he'd invested in some new clothing, but she did not feel it prudent to share that bit of information with her daughter. ‘‘Come, let me introduce you to the baron.”

      
Brand stood at the foot of the stairs, ignoring the servant who was holding open a wide oak door into the parlor in favor of observing the two ladies descending the steps. She was as lovely as a siren, he had to admit, but he could sense no air of sophistication to go with her striking beauty. Perhaps that was a mark in her favor. Lord knew, Reba had been aware of her power over men from the time she'd learned to walk.

      
Lorilee Auburn's hair was pale gold, her complexion like milk and rose petals. She was slightly shorter than her mother, who was tall for a woman. Her slender figure was accented fetchingly in a day gown of light blue muslin sprigged with darker blue flowers. Most appropriate for a young miss in her first season.

      
Every feature from her huge cornflower-blue eyes to her little red bow of a mouth was quite perfect...and perfectly untried. There was nothing...formed about her yet. A woman to mold any way he chose, if that was his pleasure. A vague sense of uneasiness mingled with his anticipation. He'd grown up around complaisant women who employed only soft wiles to influence their men, deferring to them in all matters of importance. But that was the South...half a world away from here.

      
This was England, where a woman sat upon the throne. Brand didn't much care for the idea. Were all Englishwomen as strong-willed and self-assured as Her Majesty...and Miranda Auburn? His eyes moved from Lorilee to her mother. There was nothing untried whatever in those cool silver depths. Those eyes belonged to a woman who had seen much of life and was fooled by little of it. And to think he'd once dreaded Alvira Cunningham. Comparing Reba's coy, manipulative mother to this woman was like comparing a tabby cat to a tigress.