by Henke, Shirl
* * * *
The sunrise came with its usual accompaniment of coal soot and sulfur fumes spewing a gray miasma over London. A bit early for Reba to be awake. Brand smiled grimly. All the better to catch her while her wits were clouded by sleep. He knocked sharply on the door of the elegant city house she was renting from the Marquess of Ellenswick.
When the butler answered stiffly that the mistress was not receiving, he brushed past the old man, saying imperiously, “She'll damn well see me. Downstairs, dressed, or upstairs naked.”
The old man studied the unshaven, dangerous-looking man with a scar on his cheek and decided he meant business. “Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Lord Rushcroft, an old friend from Kentucky.”
After the butler scurried off, leaving him to cool his heels in a sitting room, Brand wondered if it might not have been best to head directly for her. He wouldn't put it past the woman to slip out the back way. Then again, Reba always did love a challenge.
What would be the best way to approach her? He felt gut-deep that she was involved in the botched attempts to kill Miranda and to destroy his racing stock. The latter he could almost understand. He had spurned her, and Reba did not take rejection well. But to want Miranda dead?
Reba could not know how involved he and Miranda had become...could she? He recalled that scene in Falconridge's garden and reconsidered.
The butler returned, stiff with disapproval. He doubtless has had a great deal about which to disapprove since Reba’s taken up residence here, Brand thought wryly. “Mrs. Wilcox will see you in her upstairs apartments. If you will come with me, milord.”
Brand followed the old man up a steep staircase and down a long, narrow hall. The house was small but well appointed. When the servant announced him, Brand stepped into a small sitting room adjacent to Reba's bedroom, the double doors of which stood ajar. She was posed languorously across a fainting couch, dressed in a robe of scarlet silk that fell artfully open, revealing the curves of her lush breasts, covered only by red lace.
“Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she purred.
“There won't be any pleasure when I finish with you, Reba,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Are you certain, darlin' ?” She stood up slowly, allowing a generous amount of long white leg to slip out from her robe before demurely straightening it and tightening the belt to emphasize her tiny waist.
When she reached him and raised her arms, placing them around his neck, he let her, then pulled her roughly against him and savaged her mouth. He was disgusted at the way she responded like a cat in heat, immediately plunging her tongue into his mouth and writhing her lower body against his as she dug her fingers into his hair. He pulled away and peeled her off his body.
He felt as if he needed to gargle with his granny's home remedy of boiled water and black-strap molasses. “Now that we have that out of the way, we can talk.”
Her eyes blazed with startled surprise, then slitted furiously.
“You're more practiced at that than you were back in Kentucky,” he said. “Maybe I sold ole Earl short...or you had other teachers.” She tried to slap him, but he was too quick for her, seizing her wrist and squeezing it painfully.
“I'll scream if you don't let me go.”
”I doubt it.”
“You're hurting me,” she said, pouting. When he released her, she rubbed the reddened marks he'd left. “What makes you so cussed mean, Brand?”
“I think you know. First, the mews at my city house were nearly burned down. Then yesterday a fellow named O'Connell tried to kill Reiver and all my broodmares and colts at the Hall. Would you happen to know him? A real charmer, he is, full of Irish blarney.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Brand. Why would I consort with racetrack trash?”
“I never said he worked the racecourses,” he replied flatly.
“I didn't say I hadn't heard of him—just that I didn't consort with him.”
Reba always recovered quickly, he'd give her that. “What would I have to gain by ruining you?” she asked over sweetly.
“Revenge.” He studied her face and read calculation. Guilt. How in heaven's name had he ever been stupid enough to think he loved her? “Perhaps revenge against Miranda Auburn, too. Someone's been trying to kill her, as well.”
Reba let out one of the trilling laughs that used to charm all the men in Lexington. “I declare, I still can't imagine what you see in that old woman except her money. And you despise me for being mercenary and marrying poor Earl.”
“Miranda and Earl are nothing alike and you know it.”
“Well, I don't know a thing about anyone trying to kill her—or your silly ole horses. And you can't prove that I do.”
“She's not only rich, Reba. She's powerful and has the ear of men high in the government. So do I. Here you're just an American intruder, while I'm a peer. I wouldn't tangle with us if I were you. You're right likely to end up in Newgate. Ever seen the place? No? I hear it's even worse than that Yankee prison in Chicago.”
“You can't threaten me. Get out.” Her voice was icy now, and she stood by the bell pull, ready to use it if he did not comply.
Brand shrugged. “I've learned what I needed to know, Reba.” As he closed the door behind him, he heard the sound of a Meissen vase shattering against it. Ellenswick would have to bill her for it.
* * * *
Miranda sat down on the chair, the room going black before her eyes as she read the contents of the almost illegibly scrawled note. Biting down on her lip to keep from crying out, she pulled the bell and a maid quickly entered her office. “Please go upstairs and check on my daughter and Tilda. I fear they've overslept.”
No, it can not be true. It must not be true!
Moments later, the puzzled servant returned. “They are nowhere to be found, ma'am. Shall I turn out the staff to search?” Her young voice quavered when she watched her usually calm mistress go stark white and tremble.
“No! That is, there is no need. This note explains everything.”
Chapter Twenty-one
They said to come alone. Miranda was certain there had to be at least two of them. Her brave daughter and fiercely loyal maid would not have fallen into the vapors and allowed themselves to be whisked away without a fight. “Please, God, don't let them be hurt,” she murmured, shuddering and swallowing back her tears. There was no time for such weakness. The note's instructions had been most explicit.
She was to take her private coach and ride along the Strand during the mad rush at day's end when everyone in the City was leaving. A public hansom driver would approach and offer her a ride. She was to dismiss her carriage and go with the man. God only knew what the destination would be. But to reach Lori and Tilda, she would ride through the very gates of hell.
The note had explained tersely that if she failed to follow the instructions, she would never see them alive again. She was to bring no one with her. During several moments of rash panic, she had considered sending for Brand. He and Mr. St. John knew that someone was trying to kill her and they were investigating. Perhaps they had learned something since last night, but she doubted it. Perhaps they might be able to help her rescue Lori and Tilda, but she doubted that, too.
The only thing certain was that whoever was behind this had gone to considerable trouble to see that the baron and St. John were otherwise occupied. If she involved them, it would surely endanger Lori and Tilda. She simply could not take the risk.
Of course, she could not be certain that the kidnappers would free the hostages even if she complied. The only thing she knew was that they intended to kill her, even though the note did not say so. But why? Who? Somehow Reba Wilcox must be involved, but Miranda could fathom no earthly reason for the woman to wish her dead. Even if Reba knew about the baron's spending the night in her bed, that could not explain it. This went far beyond mere jealousy.
There was only one way to get to the bottom of the mystery and
to have a chance of saving her daughter and her companion. She must handle it alone. After a lifetime of dealing with adversity by herself, she would have to overcome this greatest challenge alone. However, the note had said nothing about coming unarmed. She was certain that was because the kidnappers had no idea she even owned a gun.
But after the disastrous outcome of her first shooting lesson at his country house, Brand had insisted that Miranda take one of his Adams revolvers and learn to use it. Mr. St. John had given her a few brief lessons and seemed satisfied with her progress. Now she knew from which end of the weapon the bullets issued. At close range she was even a passable shot.
Carefully removing the Adams from its rosewood case, she checked to make certain it was loaded. Good. She sat down at her desk and clutched the gun in her hands, trying desperately to think of a plan, but none came to her. If only she knew where she would be taken. Whether Lori and Tilda would truly be there.
Perhaps there was a way...
* * * *
The sooty skies of London blended their yellowish gray industrial pollution with the first hints of twilight as Mrs. Auburn's carriage pulled away from her house and headed toward the City's press of vehicles and swarms of humanity and livestock. She was too preoccupied to notice Mathias crouched hidden in the shrubbery. Mr. Sin would have his hide if she slipped away undetected.
He and Major Caruthers had been so worried about Mrs. Auburn, they had summoned him from the country to help watch her. The youth was there to check on the men hired to safeguard the lady, then report to the baron. But neither of the two guards was at his station. Mathias had made inquiry at the mews and found that one had been sent to deliver some business papers to her office earlier that afternoon and the second fellow had been lured into the kitchen by a comely tweenie who was currently feeding him freshly baked peach tarts.
It was apparent to the clever youth that the lady had deliberately slipped from her home without allowing the men to do their job of protecting her. Her safety was up to him. Without further hesitation, he dashed after the carriage and leaped agilely into the boot, concealing himself beneath the canvas.
Soon the carriage was enveloped in a giant press of humanity and animals. Ragged beggars bumped shoulders with somberly dressed clerks while a herd of goats stopped the flow of traffic along the Strand, baaing loudly as they were driven past irately cursing hansom drivers.
Mrs. Auburn's driver held his temper when a cart overflowing with potatoes cut directly in his path, causing him to jerk on the reins. He stopped his carriage and waited for the cart to bounce past.
Then another vehicle, a battered hansom, pulled from an alley across the way and slipped neatly around the cart, which did not move. In a flash, a man jumped from the old hansom and rapped sharply on the door of Mrs. Auburn's carriage. As Mathias watched, the lady climbed out and instructed her driver to return to the city house without her.
The youth observed as the servant protested leaving his mistress alone with such a disreputable sort. Indeed, the stranger was filthy, with long, stringy hair. Even from a distance, his clothes smelled of Billingsgate's fish markets and looked the worse for it. But Mrs. Auburn repeated her instructions in such an imperious tone that her driver quickly subsided.
As soon as she followed the grimy little man into the hansom, the cart pulled away, clearing a path for her carriage to proceed on its way. The hansom headed in the opposite direction. Mathias had only a moment to jump clear and grab a hold on the rear of the conveyance containing his charge. The hansom slipped down yet another narrow alleyway, vanishing into the gathering darkness.
Miranda was disoriented as the vile-smelling little man closed the curtains, blocking out the view just when the hansom rounded a corner. She tried to keep track of the twists and turns but within moments gave it up as hopeless. Equally hopeless was her effort to communicate with her companion. Using crude hand gestures, he indicated that he could not speak. Then he followed this by opening his mouth wide, revealing a set of badly rotted teeth...and the scarred stump of a severed tongue.
When he leered nastily at her, she paled but refused to give him the satisfaction of further showing her fear. Her hands clutched her reticule as if she held receipts for the royal treasury inside it, but he did not demand she give it to him. Yet.
Why bother? He'll probably take it and strip the jewelry from my body after I'm dead.
She gritted her teeth as the hansom began to slow at last. Miranda was relatively certain they were somewhere along the Thames. The noise of river traffic in the distance and the growing quiet as the horses' hooves echoed off tall buildings indicated that they were in the warehouse district. While inspecting her shipping interests from time to time, she had always noted the distinctly cavernous sounds made when a carriage passed between such large structures after they had closed down for the day.
When the hansom pulled to a halt and the mute scrambled out the door, opening it for her with a grotesque flourish, she was shocked. The sign hanging over the small side entrance to the warehouse read: Auburn Shipping, Ltd. Miranda whirled and looked up at the driver, saying, “I own this place. Why have you brought me here? Where are my daughter and her companion?”
Then a voice spoke from behind her. “You need not worry about Miss Auburn, my dear. As for yourself and that blackamoor maid, I fear the circumstances are quite different.”
When she turned to face him, Miranda felt her knees weaken with shock. All she could manage to blurt out was, “You!”
“I'll be relievin' you of that pretty little pouch,” the driver said in a nasal Irish accent as he jumped lithely to the ground and snatched her reticule. “Niver know what a foolish female might take it in her head to do. Shoot yer worship, mayhap?”
Miranda turned between the two men, never having felt so betrayed or so confused in her life.
* * * *
“You simply have to believe me, Brand. Why would I make up somethin' as crazy as this?” Reba batted her lashes at him and affected a dramatic sigh. “He's utterly ruthless.”
He stared at her perfect heart-shaped face with its wide, guileless eyes and pouty red lips. How appearances could deceive. Reba was quite a convincing little actress, but this was the most bizarre tale she had ever concocted. Was it just wild enough to be true? “This could be a ruse to get me out of the way while you have O'Connell make another attempt on Miranda's life. Why should I believe you?” Brand countered.
Reba began fishing in her reticule and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. “Do you recognize the writing?” she purred.
“I'll go with you,” he said after a quick examination. He seized his hat and yelled for the footman, instructing the lazy servant to fetch Sin.
“No need, old chap. I'm here. Would you mind lowering your voice to a roar? The whole of St. James Square can hear you as well as I.” Sin and Reba exchanged hostile glances—his sardonic, hers seething.
“Come on, Sin. We're off to see a man about a horse.”
“O'Connell?” St. John asked with relish.
“Not quite. You're not going to believe this...unless you're considerably more spiritual than I ever imagined.”
After arming themselves, the men escorted Reba to the carriage she had arrived in and Brand assisted her inside. As she arranged her skirts, she glared at St. John, daring him to climb in after her. He ignored her, instead jumping agilely to the driver's box and shoving the elderly coachman aside.
Brand took the seat opposite her, saying, “He'll get us there a lot faster.”
“You'd actually sit beside a nigra, wouldn't you?” she sniffed, knowing the nasty reference would infuriate him. She intended that.
Brand paid her no heed, too deep in thought to consider her provocation. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall in place now that he understood why Miranda had been targeted for death. But just as the carriage lurched ahead, a cry caused Sin to rein in and leap from the driver's box.
Brand stuck his head out th
e window and saw Mathias sprinting up the street, waving frantically as he called out to them. The youth was gasping for breath, too winded to speak as he collapsed in Sin's arms.
In an instant, Brand jumped out and joined them. “What is it? Miranda?” he asked, struggling to hold his fear in check as Mathias nodded, still unable to speak.
“He's run quite a distance,” Sin said, lowering the sweat-drenched youth's slight body to the weed-infested grass in front of the house.
Still gasping, Mathias said, “I followed...the lady. She left...without the g-guards and—”
Brand cursed, knowing someone must've lured her away. His quickly exchanged look with Sin confirmed it. “Where did she go?”
Just as Mathias started to answer, Reba's carriage shot away from them, the old driver whipping the horses as if the very devil were on his trail. Sin dashed after it, jumping onto the back of the conveyance just as it picked up speed.
“Can you take us to where they're holding Mrs. Auburn?” Brand asked Mathias.
He held his breath until Mathias replied, “Yes, it's down by the river—a big warehouse.”
“Deserted this time of evening,” Caruthers muttered, refusing to give in to the blind panic clutching at his heart. Miranda in the hands of men who intended to kill her! Brand helped Mathias to his feet. “You game to go after them, son?”
“Always, Major,” Mathias replied with a grin, wiping the perspiration from his eyes, ignoring the misery of his sweat-drenched body.
By this time Reba's carriage was pulling to an abrupt halt at the end of the street. St. John had climbed over the top and used his pistol to convince the driver it was wiser to listen to him than to the woman inside, who was now shrieking at him for stopping.