by Henke, Shirl
“Chapter Twenty
“We're in such luck,” Lorilee whispered excitedly as she sighted the hansom turning the corner. “Imagine finding a public vehicle so easily at this hour.”
Tilda reached out and gripped her charge's arm, eyeing the hansom warily. “It almost seems too convenient. I expected to have to walk to the square at the least before we encountered anyone.”
“It's a hansom, Tilda, for goodness’ sake.” Her tone of exasperation turned to concern as she realized why the maid was being so cautious. “You're thinking about whoever tried to harm my mother, aren't you? Why would they send someone after—”
“Back to the house,” Tilda declared as some deep instinct from her horrific childhood in India flared to life. She grabbed Lorilee's hand and began dragging the girl after her, picking up her skirts as she ran.
Lori did likewise and the two women darted back down the alleyway to cut through the mews. Choosing the dark route proved unwise. The carriage pulled up to the end and blocked it. As they raced in the opposite direction toward the safety of home, a large figure suddenly materialized from behind the adjacent mews, blocking their path. He was tall and broad-shouldered with shaggy hair that stuck up at odd angles from the sides of a tattered billed cap whose brim obscured his face.
To Tilda and Lorilee he looked like the devil incarnate as he walked toward them in a slow, ambling gait. Like a wolf stalking lamed prey, he was in no hurry. The women were caught between him and the driver of the hansom, who was shorter but quite stocky. He moved in behind them, carrying a nasty truncheon in one hand.
Scandal be damned, Tilda opened her mouth to scream, but the hiss of the big man's voice stopped her—that and the gleam of the pistol he held in his hand as he said, “If you make a sound, I'll be shootin' the girl. Not to kill, mind, just to cripple.”
Lori stood frozen, mute with horror at what she had done. Now not only had she endangered her dear Tilda, but perhaps her mother as well! She tried to think as the two men came at them. Suddenly from the corner of her eye she spied the narrow gangway directly to her left leading into the Reardons' garden. It was overgrown with shrubbery where they could hide and cry an alarm before these thugs could shoot them.
Without taking time to consider, she gave Tilda's hand a warning squeeze and then yanked on it as she whirled and dashed toward the only possible escape. The taller fellow let out a snarled oath, but did not fire his weapon. He dared not for fear of alerting the Peelers. Hope bloomed as she cried out for help.
“Thieves! Kidnappers!” Tilda joined in as they scurried through the narrow passage, but all the houses were dark, and servants, the only ones near enough to the rear of the houses to hear them, might not wish to become involved.
After all, what decent women would be out at this time of night?
Lorilee saw the shrubs of the garden, but her hopes sank at once. She'd forgotten that the Reardons had a high oak fence partitioning the garden—and its gate was locked. Frantically she grabbed the latch and yanked, yelling, “It's Lorilee Auburn! Please help me!”
Not a light came on. No one appeared. Except the big man with the Irish brogue who seized her roughly by the throat, choking off her cries as he pulled her against his smelly body. He reeked of horses, tobacco and gin.
Lorilee saw the gleam of the knife blade in front of her eyes and ceased her struggling. “That's a smart colleen.”
Tilda started to jump on him in an attempt to free her young charge. “If you move, I'll be cutting her,” he almost crooned.
By this time the second fellow was there, seizing the maid and menacing her with his truncheon. “One more peep 'n I cosh ye, unnerstand?” he rasped in a garlicky slur.
The two women were dragged down the alley and shoved into the dark interior of the hansom. The big Irishman joined them while the driver whipped the team into a brisk trot.
The only sound breaking the stillness of the night was the clop of hooves over the cobblestones.
* * * *
Miranda could not sleep. She had lain awake for hours staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed in the darkness. Every time she closed her eyes, visions of Brandon intruded. How could she ever sleep in this bed again after sharing it with him? She had instructed the upstairs maid to change the sheets this morning, two days ahead of schedule. The servants might gossip, but there was nothing she could do about it. She certainly could not lie down enveloped in his scent.
But clean sheets had done nothing to erase the memory of his touch, the feel of his mouth on her breasts, his hands roaming over the curves of her hips, pulling her to him, burying himself so deeply inside her. She shook her head and continued pacing the floor. But refusing to even look at the bed won her nothing. He was inside her head...and her heart.
What a terrible mistake her craving for one night of passion had been. If she had never known what she was missing, she would have had regrets, yes. But regrets could not possibly hurt as badly as this. She cursed herself for a fool. And her major? He was scarcely innocent in the matter of the seduction. He'd stalked her, followed her home and caught her in a moment of self-pitying weakness. Taken advantage of her, that's what he'd done!
Miranda shook her head and massaged her temples, feeling the weight of her unbound hair as it glided around her shoulders and fell to her waist. Even that was a reminder of him and how he'd praised the beauty of what she'd always thought of as ugly coarse red hair. He'd urged her to let it down.
With a muttered oath, she sat at her dressing table and began to put her hair into the usual plait she wore for sleep. But the springy stuff stubbornly fought her, tangling and refusing to braid. Tilda normally did it, but Miranda had not felt up to enduring her questioning eyes and softly voiced innuendoes, so she'd dismissed her as quickly as possible, saying not to bother with the plait.
“It would serve her right if I awakened her from a sound sleep just to fix my hair,” she muttered to herself spitefully.
But then she broke down and sobbed. She was blaming her own irresponsible actions on the baron, Tilda, even Lori, when it was she herself who was guilty. That was the code by which she'd lived all her life. Miranda Stafford Auburn did not pass off responsibility for her deeds.
And those deeds could have profound repercussions. What if Brandon was right? She could be carrying his child. Her hand clutched her flat stomach, as she remembered how she'd felt when she was expecting Lori. Then she had been respectably married and performing the duty for which Will had chosen her. She had loved Lori with her whole heart from the moment of her conception.
This was so utterly different. She was now an older woman, a widow with vast social and economic responsibilities, and a daughter in the midst of her debut season. If she had conceived, the scandal would ruin not only her but innocent Lori as well. She should hate such a baby, dread the very thought of carrying it beneath her heart
But she did not. Could not. An odd, fluttery sort of joy infused her mind, until she quashed it. This was a serious matter which required logic and planning, not emotion. “I may be borrowing trouble. I'm too old to conceive after only one night,” she whispered, trying to reassure herself and kill the impossible dream.
But then she remembered how Brandon had taken her...twice, his long, shuddering releases so unlike the brief spasms her husband made. Yes, as the baron had reminded her, he was young and virile. And conception was all too possible. He'd also insisted he would be a father to his child, regardless of whether or not she would marry him.
But he had never asked her to marry him. She'd perhaps assumed too much last night when they spoke of the future. Her fear of continuing their dangerous liaison had made her lash out at him and insult his pride in the worst way imaginable—by offering him money. At that moment she had indeed felt as cheap and mercenary as Reba Wilcox.
The damage was done. The relationship between them had ended. She would not marry ever again out of a sense of duty. If she learned she was carrying a child, she would make arrangement
s for Kent Aimesley to take over her affairs and then she would retire to the country. Someplace far away. Scotland, perhaps. She'd always fancied seeing Edinburgh. She could assume another identity to protect the child, pose as a reclusive widow.
But what of Lori's season? She would have to speak with Elvira Horton, who had some social stature. Surely Elvira would be willing to oversee her daughter's future and make certain she chose a suitable young man.
The thought of leaving Lori made tears well up in her eyes. She had always detested weepy women. Was that a sign that she was indeed enceinte?
“I have no idea if it is even true yet. I must stop borrowing trouble since there is more than enough on my plate right now.” With that pronouncement, she turned and looked at the rumpled bed. Did she dare return to it and try to sleep?
Hopeless.
Instead, she lit a small kerosene lamp and made her way downstairs in her robe and slippers. There was a mountain of work sitting in her office. She might as well put this time to some good use. Her resolve was interrupted by a loud pounding on the front door just as she reached the bottom of the steps. Knowing it would take their elderly butler several moments to dress and answer the summons, she approached the door cautiously.
Who could be here demanding entrance at this ungodly hour? Then she heard Brandon's voice and almost dropped the lamp. Quickly walking to the stained-glass window at the side of the heavy door, she peered through and saw that Mr. St. John was with him. Only slightly reassured, she opened the door, and the baron rushed inside.
“What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she asked as he seized her in an embrace.
“Miranda, thank God!”
“Let me go,” she hissed, glancing red-faced at the small man who stood behind them, looking discreetly down at the floor as she wriggled from the major's arms, her head spinning from the warmth of his touch.
“Why did you throw open the door that way? Where are the servants?” Brand demanded, knowing he was acting idiotically now that she was obviously safe.
“I happen to be the only one awake. Please lower your voices before you rouse the whole household and create a horrible scandal.”
“It might be wise if we were to step inside the parlor for some privacy,” Sin suggested quietly.
Miranda nodded. Of course he was right. With a bit of luck she could find out what had occasioned this outburst and send them on their way without anyone being the wiser. She led them into the small entry parlor with as much dignity as she could muster while dressed in a robe. Her hair was only half braided and askew, and she was wearing carpet slippers on her bare feet! Oh, the gossip this would create!
Seeing that his Miranda was her old stubborn self, Brand felt a wave of relief flood over him before he could stop himself. His Miranda. He grinned at her, the hurt of her earlier words forgotten for the moment as he asked, “Couldn't sleep? Maybe a glass of warm milk might help.”
She could sense the undercurrent in his solicitude and stiffened her back. “I was working on the railway contracts, as a matter of fact.”
“In the middle of the night, dressed like that?” he asked disbelievingly.
“We're behind in closing the deal. I often do my best work at night.” That was an inappropriate choice of words.
“So do I,” he replied, grinning innocently as he added, “Foals usually come at the most inconvenient times, don't they, Sin?”
Knowing there was a good deal going on here to which he did not wish to be privy, St. John merely said, “Quite so.”
“I don't think this is an appropriate hour to discuss our respective work habits, my lord.” She stood with her arms crossed protectively over her chest, but stiff-backed, chin high, with one slippered foot tapping irritably on the Brussels carpet. “So I repeat, what is the reason for barging into my home this way?”
“We were lured back to Rushcroft Hall this afternoon. Sin ran O'Connell to ground in Seven Dials, but we just missed him. He was busy trying to kill all my horses.”
At her incredulous expression, St. John explained about the granary and the possible outcome if old Wiggins hadn't stumbled upon the scene.
“First your mews, now this. It would appear, my lord,” she said, “that someone is trying to ruin you.”
“And to kill you, which is far more significant,” Brand replied. At her puzzled look, he continued, “Don't you see? We were lured away, leaving you unprotected. If the horses had really gotten into that grain, we'd have been overwhelmed with trying to save them, and if you needed help...” His words faded away as he studied her, all amusement gone now.
Miranda could feel his concern touch her heart across the space separating them and knew it was genuine. In spite of everything, he did still care for her. Or is it for the child you might carry? That insidious thought leaped inside her mind unbidden and caught her off guard. She stepped back, one hand clutching the lapels of her robe as she realized what a sight she must be.
“As you can see, I am quite unharmed. I do appreciate your concern, my lord, Mr. St. John, but this house is built like a fortress.”
“With a gate you open quite readily,” Brand replied in exasperation. “I'm convinced there is a tie between what's been happening to my horses and the attempts on your life.”
“You don't think Geoffrey Winters—”
“No, he's an idiot. After spending a weekend in his company, I'm quite certain he hasn't the nerve to kill anyone. But someone who knows her way around horses and has a strong dislike for you has nerve to spare.”
“Mrs. Wilcox.” Miranda could easily believe her capable of it. “But I don't understand what she would stand to gain by killing me.”
“I don't know, but I intend to find out. In the meanwhile, you remain here surrounded by servants—armed servants.”
When she started to bristle at Brand's peremptory command, Sin said quietly, “Mrs. Auburn, this O'Connell is a very dangerous fellow. We have a witness who can identify him as the man trying to kill the baron's horses. He'll come for you next. Most probably while you're in route to the City this morning. It would be wise if you stayed at home. I'll alert the men watching the front and back doors.”
Miranda nodded. ”I thank you both for your help.” Although she included Brand in her thanks, she looked only at St. John.
* * * *
They rode in the dark for nearly an hour, the coach twisting and turning around street comers, its window coverings drawn down so that the women had no sense whatever of where they were. The only thing they could tell was that they had not left London, since the clop and bounce over cobblestones still continued.
But the silence of the empty streets was eerie. In the posh residential district where they lived, the quiet was broken by shrubbery rustling in the summer breezes and the soft cry of an occasional night bird, or the noise raised by passing carriages. But here, all that was discernible were faint echoes of emptiness. Then, faraway sounds from the river broke the stillness.
The big Irishman made no attempt to molest the women, and for that Lori was grateful as she and Tilda huddled together on one side of the cab while he sat across from them. When he'd drawn the blinds, he'd also made a point of locking the doors and placing the key in his pocket. One tiny kerosene lantern illuminated the cramped, filthy old hansom, which reeked of stale smoke and unwashed bodies, as well as the peculiar combination of horse and sawdust that emanated from their captor.
Lori was almost certain he must work around a racetrack. She'd certainly not encountered him at Ascot. The very thought of it almost brought forth a bubble of hysterical laughter. The most elegant racing venue in all the world—what would rabble such as this kidnapper do there? She needed to know more about him if they were going to outsmart him.
Mustering her nerve, she said, “My mother is a very shrewd woman of business. If you harm us, she won't pay you a farthing.”
Tilda tried to shush her, but Lori met his narrowed pale eyes with courage that s
he knew must be foolhardy.
He barked an ugly laugh. “Oh, she'll dance to whatever tune we pipe, colleen, and niver give us a lick of trouble.”
Us? Somehow Lori intuited he did not mean the brutish driver. “Whom do you work for?” she blurted out, then wished to call back the words.
“Lorilee, hush!” Tilda cried out.
He nodded in her direction. “She's right, ye know. If I was to tell ye that...”
The nasty threat hung in the air for a moment before the hansom jerked to a halt. He leaned forward, fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Then he reached out one large meaty paw and grabbed Lori's arm as he stepped down from the cab.
“Get your hands off me. I can walk,” Lorilee said with more bravado than she felt.
He ignored her, jerking her roughly against him so she tumbled out the door into the darkness. Still holding her by one arm, he called in to Tilda. “Come along now, ye blackamoor bitch, else I'll be forced to put a few bruises on yer charge.”
At the terrible slur, Lori hissed furiously and, without thinking, sank her teeth into the meat of his hand, biting down as hard as she could. He let out a string of oaths as he grabbed her hair and pulled so hard, tears sprang to her eyes. But she did not release her bite.
“I could be usin' a wee bit of help here, boyo,” he called out to the driver, who had climbed down from his perch and seized hold of Tilda as she tried to pound on the taller man who was hurting Lorilee.
Both women continued to struggle, Tilda crying out into the darkness for help while Lori's teeth drew blood from her captor. The sounds of the fight echoed through the deserted streets. They were in an industrial district, closed down for the night, except for one dim light emanating from a window several dozen yards away. The battle was an uneven contest, quickly lost as both women were knocked unconscious.
The kidnappers began carrying the limp bodies toward the light as a figure in a frock coat hurried out to meet them. “What on earth have you done? I'm surprised Scotland Yard hasn't heard the uproar! Hurry,” he commanded, looking up and down the empty street. “Bring them inside. You had better not have harmed the young lady.”