Rebel Baron

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Rebel Baron Page 7

by Henke, Shirl

“He favors sleeping in the window of Mother's room on sunny days,” Lori explained nervously. “Then once the door is open, Callie's kittens come tumbling out in search of adventure.”

  “They certainly appear to have had one,” he replied with a more natural smile.

  Miranda noted that the color that had leached from his darkly tanned face was once again returning.

  “Now that they're getting larger and can move quickly, Marm loves to chase and play with them. But when they were newborns, we had to watch him closely. He tried to eat them. Can you imagine—his own young!” Lori blurted out.

  “If you ever met my cousin Horace's hellions, the idea of eating one's young might hold more appeal,” Brand remarked dryly.

  Lori gasped, shocked that she had made such a gaffe, speaking of a tom eating his kittens, but even more appalled by the baron's reply. She flushed pinkly, not at all certain how to respond, but her mother surprised them both, emitting a hearty chuckle.

  “My late husband's cousin had just such a brood. You do recall Wilfred's children, Lori? Dear Cousins Lucy, Lemuel and Lymon?” Amusement danced in Miranda's eyes.

  Lori nodded, still uncertain. “Yes. They were...rather accident-prone as I remember it. Especially the boys.”

  “You are most charitable, my dear,” Miranda replied archly. “Lymon once dumped an entire bowl of raspberry compote on your white Easter dress.”

  “It was an accident...I think,” Lori said thoughtfully. She had never realized her mother knew the nasty boy had done it on purpose.

  “You only said that to keep Wilfred from taking a strap to the lad.” Miranda turned to the major and added with a hint of warning in her voice, “Lorilee has a very soft heart, sometimes too much so for her own good.”

  “A weakness you most obviously do not share.” The light of a dare danced in his eyes now.

  Miranda's smile was cool. The arrogant American was offended by her business acumen. The devil with it, so were most men. “No, I have not had that luxury,” she replied, thinking with satisfaction of the many business associates who had already learned precisely how hard a bargain she could drive.

  Just then the maid bustled in, bearing the heavy tray, and placed it on the table. Lori once again leaned forward to begin pouring tea. The silence thickened for a moment before Brand broke it. “Perhaps,” he began carefully, “I should explain my...er, rather bizarre reaction to old Marmalade and his band of tiny raiders.”

  “Oh, no! That is, I'm quite certain it was nothing. Why we hardly...” Lori's voice faded, and the teapot hit the silver tray with a clank.

  Miranda rescued her, interjecting, “You have a phobia of cats. There is nothing rare in that. I've read that people fear all sorts of things—heights, being confined in small spaces, spiders—”

  “Ugh,” Lori said, shivering. “I'm terrified of spiders.”

  “Ah, but you're a young lady and that is quite acceptable. A bit less so for a man of my years to freeze at the sight of small house pets.”

  “You need not speak of it, my lord,” Miranda replied.

  “I believe I must, ma'am,” he said with a decisive nod toward her. “When I was a tadpole, er, between three and four years of age, I was placed in the bathtub by my elder cousin Tim, who was supposed to see to it that I ended up with less creek mud on me than when I'd been brought into the bathhouse. Then my aunt Crystal was called away and her elder son Sam slipped into the room. He and Tim thought it might be fun to drop a sack of half-grown cats in the water to see if they could swim.”

  “Oh, my,” Miranda said, beginning to imagine what happened next.

  “Yes,” Brand said grimly. “Sam and Tim had a devil of a time getting the burlap sack opened, with all the clawing and yowling inside, but after a couple of tries slapping it against the side of the big old tub, the cats came tumbling out. Never did figure out just how many there were. When they landed in the water, all teeth and claws—and used me as a ladder to climb out—I commenced to doing some yowling myself and lost count. Even at that tender age, I knew how to add,” he said dryly, for the first time seeing a bit of humor in what had been a debilitating problem for all these years.

  “You must have been clawed to bits,” Lori exclaimed.

  “My cousins didn't intend to hurt me, but it took a month of Sundays before I had more skin than scabs. Ever after I've kept my distance from felines, who were mercifully kept busy handling mouse problems in the stables.”

  “Did you ever have any pets?” Lori asked.

  “My daughter could not imagine life without her menagerie,” Miranda said with a smile.

  “Besides my horses, I had a pair of Bluetick hunting hounds named Betsy and Bitsy. Best coon dogs in Kentucky.”

  “Coon dogs?” Lori echoed.

  “I believe it's an American way of saying ‘raccoon,’ dearheart.”

  “You mean you hunted raccoons? Whatever for?”

  Brand shrugged, knowing he had just dug himself a deeper hole. “I’m afraid folks eat raccoons in Kentucky, Miss Auburn. In fact, we never hunt an animal unless we intend it for our table.” His dislike of fox hunting had prompted the latter comment, but now he could see the girl was taken aback by what he'd said.

  Miranda knew he fully intended to sell thoroughbred hunters to the squires and peers who were avid fox hunters, but she decided pointing that out would be less than politic. Heavens knew the afternoon had not gone exactly swimmingly thus far. Instead, she suddenly found a way to change the subject. Her expression shifted from tart irritation to mocking solicitude as she said, “It would appear you'll have cream with your tea whether you prefer it or not.”

  Brand followed her eyes, looking at the right lapel of his immaculate new frock coat The black wool bore a clear set of cream-drenched paw prints. He bit back an oath, knowing he could not afford to replace the obscenely expensive garment. He also knew that Miranda Auburn was aware of the fact and it galled him.

  Lori saved the day, interjecting, “I've observed our housekeeper Mrs. Osbourne using a sponge soaked in vinegar to remove oily stains from wool.”

  Miranda nodded briskly, rising to give the bell rope a tug. “Quite true. She saved one of my favorite jackets from just such a fate. Of course, Major, I apologize for your being forced to depart reeking of vinegar.”

  “Being a horse breeder, ma'am, I'm used to far worse odors, believe me. And as to the remedy for this small matter”—he brushed the lapel with his hand dismissively—“my valet can attend to it Please don't trouble Mrs. Osbourne.” His smile was broad and charming as he asked Lorilee, “Do you, perchance, enjoy horse racing?”

  “I have only attended one. Ascot on Gold Cup Day is quite wonderful.”

  “All the ladies turned out in their finery was what interested you,” Miranda said, teasing Lori. “Their hats were so large they obscured the racetrack.”

  Brand gave Lori a gentle smile. She was young and without artifice, utterly unlike her clever, hard-headed mother. He liked the girl. Not a bad beginning in spite of the fiasco with the kittens and that thrice-damned tom. “A new acquaintance, Lord Mountjoy, has invited me to join him in his box this Gold Cup Day. I may bring any guests I wish. Would you ladies do me the honor?”

  Lori looked toward her mother first. Miranda nodded, then replied, “We would be pleased to accept your invitation, Major.”

  “Good. I only hope we can see the racecourse for the hats.”

  * * * *

  By the time he arrived back at the Caruthers city house on St. James Square, Brand's spirits had revived quite a bit. The first meeting had not been a total disaster. Lorilee Auburn would be putty in his hands if not for the presence of her overprotective mother. The widow utterly doted upon the child. It was a miracle that the girl was not spoiled rotten as he had feared. She was really quite sweet.

  After all, she loved horses and dogs—yes, and cats. Oddly, after he spoke of his—what was the starchy widow's word for it—“phobia” regarding felines, he had una
ccountably felt better. He'd never explained why he avoided them to a living soul before. Of course, he'd never been forced to, since back in Kentucky cats earned their keep mousing in the outbuildings, not destroying furnishings indoors. As he walked into the parlor, he vowed that his future baroness would have to keep her pets more carefully confined.

  “And, under no circumstances will 'Marm' be allowed to accompany his mistress to Rushcroft Hall,” he murmured to himself as he poured a cup of strong black coffee and laced it generously with brandy from the sideboard.

  “I'm afraid I have some distressing news, my friend,” Sin said as he entered the room without knocking.

  One look at his grave expression made Brand clutch the decanter tightly as he raised it in silent inquiry. Sin nodded, and Brand poured the golden liquid straight into a cup and handed it to him. “The horses? Reiver?”

  “He's unharmed, but it was a near thing.” St. John gulped the brandy, then continued, “Someone left an open jug of kerosene in the straw and it was kicked over. Sullivan caught the smell of it just before he tossed his match on the ground.”

  “I've warned him about smoking in the mews,” Brand said with an oath. “Bad enough to have him tossing hot matches near dry straw without having it soaked with flammables. Why in the hell did someone leave the kerosene uncorked?”

  “That is the disturbing part,” St. John replied. “It was not our kerosene jug. The stableman is quite careful to fill the lanterns out on the cobblestones, not inside with the straw. He'd not left it. And when Sullivan arrived at the stable this afternoon, he said he heard footfalls out the door leading to the house...very swift footfalls.”

  “Someone was running, interrupted before he could fire the straw?” Brand supplied as the cold certainty settled deep in his gut. “Were any of the horses injured?”

  “They are all basically unharmed. I checked them myself when Sullivan sent Mathias to fetch me. They were restive. The stench of that much kerosene, combined with the presence of a stranger, was more than enough to send Reiver into fits. He bruised his right front fetlock kicking at the stall bars, but Mathias is poulticing it now. I believe there'll be no permanent damage.”

  “Thank heavens for that.” Brand began pacing, combing his fingers through his hair as he polished off the coffee and took a straight refill of brandy. “Why would anyone try to burn down the mews? To destroy my horses?”

  ‘To insure the success of their own? Or perhaps to hedge a bet already placed on another animal?” Sin replied.

  “It might do to see who's bet heavily on our competitors,” Brand said thoughtfully.

  * * * *

  The Rebel Baron's big black had already acquired quite a reputation around the London tracks. Sin and Mathias investigated who stood to gain if Reiver did not run, checking the betting rumors. Several days passed as they ferreted out information. Meanwhile, the horses remained under twenty-four-hour guard.

  Brand was timing Kentucky Sunrise, one of Reiver's best two-year-olds, at the Sandown track early on the fourth morning after they discovered the attempted arson. When Sin handed him the list they had compiled, Brand curled his lip in disgust as he read the name, Hon. Geoffrey Winters, scrawled near the top.

  “Quite a large bet. I imagine he'll make short work of his new bride's dowry,” Brand said in disgust.

  “Cost me a few quid, but worth it to obtain the information.” The older man had bags beneath his bloodshot eyes owing less to age than to the late hours and smoky alehouses surrounding the betting parlors of London. “The young Winters is quite a high flyer about the tracks. Mostly he loses. Frightful horse sense.” Sin shook his head as if that were the most unforgivable transgression of all.

  “For the time being he has money enough to throw away.” Brand looked at the rest of the notes, written in St. John's precise hand. “King Arthur! He wagered a thousand pounds on that wretched beast!”

  “I said he had no horse sense, did I not? The beast belongs to the Earl of Falconridge, his father-in-law. Perhaps he was only being politic with his new relations.”

  Brand snorted. “Considering the circumstances of his marriage, I doubt that placing a bet—no matter how dear—on Falconridge’s ‘beast’ will in any way endear him to the clan.” He thought of sweet Lorilee and the rumors he'd overheard regarding young Winters's pursuit of her. Miranda had proven a far better watchdog than the earl and his countess. He was grateful, not only because it afforded him the opportunity to court the girl himself, but also because she'd been saved from a wastrel such as Winters.

  She was too innocent and sweet to be victimized by a fortune hunter. But what are you? an inner voice accused him. Was he any better than Winters? Miranda Auburn had made the mercenary nature of his courtship abundantly clear when she proposed it to him. But he would be kind and faithful to the girl, and break his back making a success of his stud farm. His uneasy reverie was interrupted by Sin's low whistle of incredulity.

  “Never in my worst nightmare did I imagine to see that baggage again,” St. John muttered.

  Eyes fixed firmly on her quarry, Mrs. Earl Wilcox picked her way across the muddy grass at the edge of the track. Although it had rained during the night and the ground was a veritable quagmire, the mud did not deter Reba, who held her skirts up, revealing a shocking amount of trim ankle and dainty foot encased in elegant kid slippers with impossibly high heels. Revealed, no doubt, for the baron's appreciation. She was resplendent in a day gown of deep violet silk trimmed with bits of black lace. Her golden ringlets glistened from beneath an elaborate straw hat of matching violet, trimmed with all manner of fantastical flora and fauna.

  Brand watched, dumbstruck at seeing her here. She doesn't fit, a small part of his mind judged as he stood waiting. She waved at him, smiling like a cat whose outstretched claws have just sunk into the wing of a sparrow poised for flight. But he'd escaped her in Kentucky and flown all the way across an ocean. There was no chance he'd fall prey to her now.

  “You're a long way from Lexington, Mrs. Wilcox,” he said in a level voice when she stopped in front of him.

  Completely ignoring St. John as if he were part of the fence railing, she smiled up at Brand and said, “That is scarcely the greeting I was expecting after making such a long and arduous journey.” Her lower lip, always plump and kissable, jutted out in a mock pout.

  Without his saying a word, St. John's expression spoke volumes to Caruthers. Then he turned and walked to the track, where Mathias was sliding from Kentucky Sunrise's back. Brand watched them lead the animal into the stables for a rubdown, ignoring Reba as she had ignored his friend. He could see her foot tapping petulantly on the ground for a couple of beats before she quelled her impatience.

  “You always did care more for your silly ole horses than for me.” The voice was forlorn and little-girl sad.

  And it no longer affected him. He wondered how it ever had. “Sunrise almost broke the record Reiver set last week.” He placed the watch back in his pocket and looked at her. “Where's your Earl, Mrs. Wilcox? He know you're out here traipsing around after a mere baron?”

  Reba let out a long, slow sigh. Her voice was flat when she replied, “Earl's dead.”

  “Impossible, darlin'. Only the good die young. Earl should live to be a good ninety.” He eyed the violet gown and matching hat ensemble, “I can see how deeply you grieve for him.”

  “Purple is the second stage in mourning.” She brushed a black lace ruffle at her wrist. “I'm observing the conventions, Brand, darlin'.”

  “The ‘conventions,’ as I recall my mama instructing me, require black for the first year,” he said with a hint of bitter mockery. “Last time I saw old Earl he was hale and hearty, and that was only six months ago.”

  “Poor Earl was, as you pointed out, always fat. He developed an infection from his gout and died of blood poisoning while on a business trip to Philadelphia.”

  “How convenient for you. You're a rich widow now, I imagine...or did his daddy see tha
t you were cut out of the will?” He really didn't give a damn.

  Reba stiffened and stifled a sob. “I never did love him, Brand. He knew that when he married me, but he wanted me anyway.”

  “Just to get back at me for beating him at childhood games?” His tone was scoffing. Once her tears would have moved him, but that was a lifetime ago.

  “Something like that, but I made certain old Cal Wilcox couldn't get his greedy hands on my share of Earl's estate. I am a rich widow, Brand...” She let her voice trail away suggestively. “All alone here in London.”

  “And now you want a genuine earl, not just a rich country boy. I hate to tell you this, Widow Wilcox, but I'm just a lowly baron who's barely got a shilling to his name.”

  “I have the money. And I'd be willing to settle for a lowly baron...providin' he's the right one.”

  “Well now, I reckon I'm just not the one,” he said with a slow grin.

  Angrily she whirled in a flurry of violet silk and perfume and walked swiftly toward the elegant new spider phaeton sitting at the side of the road. She must have known I was going to refuse her overtures.

  What good would it do to try to resurrect a long-dead love? One that she herself had killed. Brand cared nothing for her but worried about the trouble she might cause between him and the Auburn family. He'd put little past her. Once Miss Reba Cunningham set her sights on anything or anyone she wanted, the devil could take whoever got in her way.

  One of the servants working at the track waited by her vehicle to assist her up. Without taking time to arrange her skirts in the small open phaeton, she cracked the whip over the matched grays and drove off, wheels churning mud.

  “You must've said something inappropriate, old chap,” Sin remarked dryly as he strolled back from the stables.

  “Woman always did drive like hell on wheels.”

  “Everyone who's anyone in London drives that way. She'll do smashingly well here,” St. John replied.

  “No matter her money, the sort of people she wants to impress won't give a damn. She'll always be an ignorant American overreacher.”

 

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