by Henke, Shirl
“No, Brandon, I didn't mean—”
“Yes, I believe you did. That's what this is really about—not gossip, not Lori—just all that cold, hard cash you worked so hard to amass. You know, I was wrong,” he snarled as he scooped up his jacket and swung it over his shoulder. “You and Reba have a great deal in common. You measure every man you meet in pounds and pence.”
Miranda blinked, utterly speechless as he stormed out of the room. She sat frozen in the bed, listening to the echo of his footsteps down the stairs until the outside door slammed in grim finality.
Brandon Caruthers was gone for good. She had accomplished what she'd set out to do...or had she?
* * * *
Since her clothing lay strewn from the side entry stairs all the way up to her bedroom, Miranda donned a night rail and robe, then gathered up the incriminating evidence. It took longer than she imagined, for not only were her garments there, but so were her hairpins, scattered in a trail down the hall. Worst of all, the baron's shirt studs had flown across her bedroom when she'd ripped the shirt from his body! Retrieving them all required a most diligent search. What gossip would follow if one of the upstairs maids found a man's jewelry lying beneath her bed?
When Tilda and Lori returned later that night, Miranda feigned sleep and neither tried to awaken her, although she heard the soft murmuring of their conversation in the next room. No doubt speculating about whether or not the baron had whiled away a few hours with her before departing.
No one must ever know. She repeated that over and over as she lay in her lonely bed staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. How could she have made such a terrible mistake? Opened such a Pandora's box of hurt...and need? Before, she had only guessed about what she'd missed, but now she knew. And with the knowing came the wanting. Small wonder the Church and Her Majesty both exhorted women of good morals to abstain from sex whenever possible.
It was as addictive as opium!
She tossed and turned all night, exhausted but unable to sleep, for every time she drifted off, she dreamed of the major and how he'd made love to her. And awakened, aching for him to carry her to that far place of wonder again and again.
In the morning, Tilda entered her bedroom with coffee and an inquisitive expression on her face. To head off her questions, Miranda said, “Please have a bath drawn, good and hot.”
“Feeling a bit achy, are we?” Tilda asked with a hint of a smile.
“No, ‘we’ are not. I did not sleep well last night—”
“I can imagine you didn't,” came the impertinent reply as Tilda turned and yanked on the bell pull, summoning an upstairs maid to set up the bath.
Miranda could’ve bitten her tongue for giving the clever Tilda such an opening. She counterattacked, asking, “How did your evening with Mr. St. John go? You came in quite late.”
“You would know, since you didn't sleep a wink last night.” Now Tilda smirked.
“What do you expect? To find the baron hiding beneath my bed?” Miranda seethed with indignation.
“Oh, I don't think his lordship spent any time under the bed,” she replied.
Her mistress was spared thinking of a retort when the upstairs maid entered and Tilda instructed the girl to fetch fresh towels, then draw a bath in the chamber adjacent to the bedroom.
Dismissing them both, Miranda lay back in the large claw-foot tub and let the perfumed heat soothe her, for she did indeed ache in places unused for many a year...and in places never used at all before last night. Her attempts to relax were rudely interrupted when Tilda returned bearing a letter.
“It's from him,” she said, laying it on the marble-top table beside the tub.
As if “him” were self-explanatory. Miranda dismissed Tilda more sharply than she should have but made no effort to open the letter. It leaned between two bottles of bath scents, a heavy velum envelope bearing the Rushcroft seal. Taunting her.
Finally the bathwater grew cold and she could not bear sitting in it or looking at the unopened letter a moment longer. Without ringing for help, she stepped out of the tub and rubbed herself dry, not bothering to use lotion, but quickly pulling on a robe and belting it before she tore open the envelope.
She should have taken a seat before reading the terse words he wrote, for they made her whole body quake.
My dear Mrs. Auburn,
Because of last night, there is one matter of exceeding urgency upon which we must confer. After that is resolved, I shall not trouble you further. I shall call upon you at ten. Do not think to turn me away.
B
What could he possibly want? It was quite obvious that he was still killingly angry with her. Had he reconsidered her offer of a loan? No. She had grievously offended his prickly pride by offering it. What had made her do such a foolish thing? A man such as Brandon Caruthers truly could not be bought. He did not want her money. But neither did the note sound as if he intended to plead his case for continuing their impossible relationship.
Mystified, she selected a dress and readied herself without summoning Tilda, who would insist she wear something fetching and want to fix her hair in a flattering style. She donned one of her gray business suits and braided her hair, putting it up in a tight coil at the back of her head. When she turned to look at herself in the mirror, her face crumpled.
She was old. Dark smudges beneath her eyes accented her awful pallor, and with her hair parted down the center and pulled back tightly, every tiny line in her face was magnified. Well, best that he see me as I really am—and as I will all-too-quickly become in a few brief years, while he is still young and virile, with every woman in London ready to fall at his feet.
She splashed her face with cold water to wipe away the traces of crying. He must never know that she hurt even worse than he did. He would recover. Somehow, Miranda did not believe she ever would.
* * * *
It was difficult to face him in the harsh reality of daylight, but she was not a coward, she told herself as her hand froze on the doorknob. Yes, she was a coward. Wasn't that the greatest part of the reason she'd sent him away in the first place? Miranda refused to pursue that line of thought. She had to get this over with immediately.
When she opened the door, the major was pacing like a caged tiger in the front parlor where the butler had asked him to wait. He turned and stared at her as she closed the door securely behind her. It would not do to have servants overhearing whatever it was he had to say.
As if reading her mind—a disconcerting trait of his—he smiled bitterly and asked, “Afraid someone might eavesdrop?”
“It would serve neither of us well if someone did,” she snapped. “What is it that is so urgent?”
“I know what a busy woman you are, so I'll try not to detain you.” His voice was heavy with irony.
His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists at his sides. As usual, he'd shed his gloves somewhere along the way. She could not bear to look at how splendidly handsome he was in a dark gray frock coat. One lock of sun-bleached hair fell across his brow, and he combed it impatiently away as he resumed pacing.
“Pray continue,” she prompted when he seemed unable to frame the words for what he intended to say.
“There could be a child. I'll not abandon my own flesh and blood.”
She sank onto a chair, too stunned to speak for a moment. “A child?” she echoed dumbly. “No, that's not possible—I mean, that is, it took nearly a year before I became p-pregnant,” she stumbled over the horribly indelicate word never uttered in mixed company. “With Lori,” she finished in a hushed voice.
His eyes pinned her to the chair. “I'm not a seventy-year-old man, Miranda. And you're scarcely the ancient crone you're trying to be.” He looked from her hair to her dress and back with disgust. “It isn't likely after just one night, but it could’ve happened, and if so, I mean to be a father in that child's life.”
“Do you expect me to marry you on the chance that I might be carrying your child? Or to have—”
“Don't even think it!” he snapped, so furious he wanted to stride across the room and choke her. But the stricken look on her face made him realize that she would never visit an abortionist, no matter how much scandal ensued.
“I apologize, Miranda. I had no right to accuse you of such a thing.”
“As I had no right to assume you wanted to many me. So we are at an impasse.”
He smiled sadly. “No, not yet. You have to let me know when your next courses come. Then everything will be over between us.”
The look he gave her indicated he did not believe that any more than she did. Her face must look a perfect fright. Bright scarlet did so clash with dark red hair. “Very well. I shall do so. Thank you for your concern, Major,” she added softly as she rose on shaky legs and moved toward the door.
“I still insist on guards to watch over you until we find out who's trying to kill you. Sin and I will continue to investigate. In the meanwhile, don't leave this house without carrying the Adams revolver I gave you. Sin says you know the basics of how to fire it now. I'm sending over two guards—”
“You need not concern yourself—”
“Yes, I do. Nothing will change that. The men are professionals and they know how to protect you. Do you think whoever’s tried unsuccessfully four times will just give up?”
She shook her head. With everything that had happened since yesterday, the attempts on her life were the very last thing she'd considered. “I shall use due caution, Major. Thank you.” With that, she opened the door and fled down the hall to the sanctuary of her office.
She always found solace in work.
* * * *
Having done his duty after the preceding evening's folly, Brand felt an almost suffocating need to get out of London. Did he hope for the unlikely possibility that Miranda carried his child? She had said she would not marry him—but such a circumstance might cause her to reconsider. Of course, it would not augur well for their relationship. She might resent the child. She would certainly resent him. He did not want her on those terms.
But damn, he did want her! So bloody much he ached just thinking of how she'd looked last night with all that dark, lush hair tumbling over her creamy skin, the glow in her eyes as he caressed her, the way she responded to him—and he to her. After they had made love, when she had told him about her first marriage, he'd dared to hope for a chance to win her.
And she'd thrown money in his face instead.
Proud, prickly and utterly impossible female. Competing in a man's world had hardened her and made her suspicious of everyone's motives, most particularly his. If he had a lick of horse sense, he'd pack himself off to the country and stay there.
But before he could do that, he had several matters which required his attention. Spurning Miranda's insulting offer of a loan had been essential to his self-respect, but it did leave him in even more desperate financial straits than he'd been the day he arrived in England. Oh, the sale of several foals had held his creditors at bay, but he did not have the time or resources to develop a breeding program that would bring in a substantial income.
In the library at Rushcroft Hall, however, he had stumbled upon what might prove to be his salvation. That was what led him to visit Herbert Austin Biltmore once again. The unpleasant little solicitor had not been entirely truthful in revealing all the details regarding the entailments of the Rushcroft title. There was one way the baron could raise enough money to see him through until he could get the stud farm and his racing stables established.
And he meant to put the punctilious little solicitor to work on it immediately.
Chapter Nineteen
“You simply cannot mean to sell such a home,” Biltmore sputtered. “Why, it's in one of the finest locations in all of London.”
“All the more reason it should fetch a pretty penny,” Brand shot back.
”B-but you'll have no city residence. Parliament is in session. If you sell the Caruthers home on St. James Square, where will you live—in some shabby rental?”
Brand shrugged. “Frankly, I don't care. Now that Disraeli has manipulated the Conservatives' voting reforms through Parliament, the current session will be over before you can finalize a sale. I'll worry about lodgings next year. I intend to spend most of my time in the country improving my land. And for that I shall require the cash this will generate. Fortunately, my cousin never studied the document of entailment or even the house would be gone by now.” He gave the solicitor a harsh stare, which set the little man to rustling papers furiously as he nodded.
“Very good, my lord. If you are certain—”
“Yes, Mr. Biltmore, I am quite certain,” Brand cut him off impatiently. “Please keep me apprised of offers. I want to sell expeditiously, but I also expect to receive what the place is worth in spite of its, ah, shall we say, depleted condition.”
Once he left the stuffy office, one burden seemed to slip from his shoulders. At least he would have a small margin of cash with which to hold the wolf from the door—or the stables, in this case. Smiling grimly, he was about to raise his hand to hail a hansom, when one already carrying a passenger pulled to a halt directly in front of him.
”I was hoping to catch you before you left the solicitor's,” Sin said as Brand climbed into the carriage. “I trust all went according to plan?”
Brand knew Sin was referring to more than the arrangements to sell the city house, but he did not wish to discuss his meeting with Miranda. His friend was certain he had become her lover, but Sin could never guess just how wrong things had gone after their first night together. The baron had no intention of enlightening him.
“We should realize enough from selling the old wreck to keep us afloat for another year or two.”
St. John frowned. “That's cutting right to the bone. Reiver will have to work especially hard,” he replied, winking at the humor of having the stallion put to stud so often. He looked over at the baron guilelessly.
The thought of his own “stud” services caused Brand to scowl. All business, he asked, “What brought you chasing after me to Biltmore’s office?”
“I have at last run O'Connell to ground. Thought you might like to go with me when I confront him.”
Brand nodded grimly. “Lead on, McDuff.”
“Now, why do Americans insist on misquoting—”
“I've had my use of Shakespeare denigrated enough,” Brand snapped.
“I cannot imagine by whom,” Sin replied with a grin but said nothing more. He recognized the look in his friend's eyes and decided to quit while he was ahead.
They rode through the squalid streets of the East End as factory smoke belched over an already sullen day, tinting the gray clouds a bilious yellow. As summer's heat warmed the filth pouring into it, the Thames gave off an overpowering stench. Tumble-down buildings sat row upon dark row like coal scuttles strewn amidst the narrow twisting streets, and the foul air weaved its way around them.
“How can society allow people to live like this?” Brand asked, shaking his head. ‘This is the richest nation on earth.”
“Wait until we reach Seven Dials. It gets worse,” Sin replied.
Brand only shook his head, disgusted and heartsick, eager to return to the clean fresh air and purifying labor of the countryside. He'd never been a city man.
The driver refused to enter the notorious section of the city, one so fearsome that even the Peelers would not patrol there. Brand and Sin offered him a sizable bonus if he were at the post when they returned. He agreed, although they were not certain whether it was the casual mention that St. John's employer was a member of the House of Lords or the clink of coins that convinced him. His cooperation was essential, since they might have to leave Seven Dials in a hurry.
“I do trust you're armed?” Sin asked. He himself was carrying a sword-cane and two Webley revolvers, one in his jacket pocket, one in his waistband.
“Never since that night at the opera have I gone unprepared for the worst in this
hellish city. I've got an Adams and my ‘toothpick, ” Brand replied, eyeing the denizens of the area warily.
“Only one Adams. Pity you gave the other to Mrs. Auburn,” Sin said, testing the waters as they walked. Brand made no reply, but the tight set of his mouth spoke volumes.
A fellow with blackened teeth leaned against a crumbling brick wall, paring his dirt-encrusted nails with a tiny stiletto as they drew near. His eyes, pale yellow and slitted like a serpent's, sized up the unlikely duo. The smaller fellow was wiry and well armed. His companion was much larger and had the look of the peerage about him. The narrow scar on his cheek indicated he was no stranger to a good fight.
So desperate were the street toughs of Seven Dials that they'd kill just for a new suit of clothes. “Help ye, gov?” the man asked, making an obsequious bow before the tall swell. “Name's Lionel Biggs, but them hereabouts calls me Lion, they does. Whot ye lookin' for? A woman?”
Suppressing a shudder at the thought of what sort of woman this fellow might produce, St. John replied, “Our thanks, Mr. Biggs, but we know our way.”
“Hospitable ole boy,” Brand said dryly as they turned the corner. “Somehow I don't imagine we've seen the last of him.”
Sin only grunted his agreement. “This is the corner and that must be the place.”
Brand inspected the rabbit warren of twisting alleyways surrounding the shambling decay of a soot-blackened brick building with more mortar missing than was holding the masonry together. “Cutthroats aside, we're risking our lives just walking inside that place. It could tumble down around our ears with one good sneeze. You're certain your source is reliable? This is where O'Connell lives?”
St. John smiled evilly. “After I threatened to geld him right there on the stable floor, I believe he told me the truth.”
“Quite a come-down for a man who was placing thousand-pound wagers at the races a few weeks ago.”