by Henke, Shirl
“An old remedy the Sergeant Major used to mix up when he'd overindulged in gin.” The Sergeant Major was Tilda's English guardian, the man who'd saved her life in India and brought her to England when he retired from the army.
“Will it help?” Lori asked dubiously, taking a tiny sip.
“I don't know. You drank wine, not gin, but I imagine it's worth trying, wouldn't you say? I would if my skin were as green as yours.”
Lori swallowed down several sips, pulling an awful face as she did so. “Anything to relieve my head and my tummy.”
“What on earth possessed you to do such a foolish thing? You don't even like wine, for pity's sake.” Tilda asked.
“Has Mother inquired about me?” Lori evaded, eyeing the door nervously.
“She received an urgent transatlantic wire from Mr. Aimesley and had to meet with her associates in the City early this morning. I imagine she'll be ‘inquiring’ as soon as she returns home,” Tilda replied dryly.
Lori polished off the rest of the foul concoction in one gulp. “Then I must use this time to my advantage since I made such a botch of matters last evening. Did Mother mention anything about the baron when she was retiring last night?”
Tilda was the one to look dubious as Lori climbed from the bed and stood unsteadily. “No, she did not. What ‘botch’ last evening?”
“Send for a bath and help me select my clothes while I explain,” Lori replied.
She still looked a bit green about the gills, but the Sergeant Major's remedy appeared to work better on wine than gin. It had never worked all that well for the dear old man. Perhaps Lori's recovery was due to the resilience of youth.
Tilda listened as Lori explained about the note and her lack of courage which resulted in...she was not exactly sure what. “So, you see, I think she went to the garden in my place to give him a setdown...or...”
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.
“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.”