Rebel Baron (20 page)

      
While the men argued, their wives and daughters clustered at the opposite end of the large room, looking through an enormous volume of photographs. Lori, as usual, was the center of attention, giggling and laughing as she described the pictures. Miranda had not yet put in an appearance, owing to an unexpected business emergency. Brand found his attention drifting from the debate as he watched the door for her.

      
Which would she be tonight? The cool, no-nonsense woman of affairs, or the warm, vivid creature who had bewitched him at Ascot? Guiltily he turned his eyes back to Lori, sitting surrounded by the other women—the youngest of the lot by far.
Too young for you.
He sighed, knowing it was true.

      
What a conundrum his life had become. He had given his word to Miranda Auburn to court her daughter. Made a verbal agreement that would affect the security of hundreds of people who were depending on the new baron. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that peers could not be placed in prison for debt. Perhaps he could make enough on the racing circuit to hold his ancestral estate together. He had met a few men at Ascot who would pay exorbitant stud fees for Reiver.

      
But that did not solve the dilemma of Miss Auburn. It was his duty to go through with this marriage. Crying off after escorting Lorilee to so many public functions would humiliate an innocent young woman who believed in his honorable intentions. He could not hurt Lorilee. But he couldn't marry her either. It would not be fair to him or her. She must be the one to break off the courtship before they became formally engaged, an event Miranda had indicated she would announce within a few weeks.

      
But how the devil could he arrange it without devastating an innocent?

      
Across the room, Lori hid her nervous anxiety behind a facade of bubbling enthusiasm, laughing over pictures her mother had insisted she pose for from the time she was a small child. The note she had labored over so long seemed to burn through the thin silk of her gown. Tonight was the night she had to speak with the baron alone and tell him that she did not wish to marry him...and all the rest.

      
Even if he did prefer her mother, how the devil could she explain without offending his male vanity?

      
Just then Miranda entered the room, offering profuse apologies for keeping her guests waiting. She had already done so to the kitchen staff, who were struggling to keep an eight-course meal the proper temperatures after an hour's delay. At once she felt the baron's eyes on her. He stood beneath the massive crystal chandelier, and the light played lovingly in his dark gold hair. Ever the rebel, he still ignored convention, wearing it longer than was fashionable, curling slightly at the snowy collar of his lawn shirt. His face remained clean-shaven in a room filled with beards.

      
She liked that, just as she liked the way the tailored severity of his black dinner clothes molded to his lean body so perfectly. Most of the gentlemen looked as if they'd slept in their suits, their plump, dumpy bodies swathed in bulky woolens with jeweled stickpins and cuff links gleaming opulently to proclaim their positions. The only jewels apparent on the baron were two amber eyes that met and held hers for a moment frozen in time.

      
Brand had his question answered. She was utterly smashing in rich bronze brocade. The gown was cut severely, without the ruffles and furbelows so in vogue for a formal dinner party. But it suited her quite perfectly. The shade provided a striking complement to her coloring, setting off her dark red hair with brilliant highlights. The formidable Tilda must have worked her magic with it, for it was styled in loose curls and looped atop her head, accenting her high cheekbones and softening her determined jaw line. At her neckline and ears, fire opals sparkled in antique settings, bringing out the silvery fire of her eyes.

      
But in spite of her new outer appearance, he still saw beneath the surface a woman in hiding. Was there the faintest hint of a flush to her cheeks as she averted her gaze from his and made her way across the room to greet the ladies? He reined in his wild imagination and concentrated on how he was going to speak to Miss Auburn, reminding himself that once he'd done so, Miranda would despise him. That would put an end to it...

      
Whatever
it
was.

      
No doubt she would make a formidable enemy. But she also had formidable enemies and someone was trying to kill her. He simply could not leave her before getting to the bottom of that dangerous tangle. This was going to be a long night indeed, he concluded as Miranda announced the pairing-up of ladies with their escorts and the order in which they would proceed into the dining room.

      
He, of course, was assigned to offer Miss Auburn his arm. Lord Pell, being the ranking peer, was first and Miranda's escort. The widower was seventy if he was a day. Brand watched the old goat's balding head bend close to hers as they chuckled over some joke. What was it about men so much older than she that seemed to draw the confounded woman?

      
While the servants were clearing the table between the fish course and the main entree, a huge rack of spring lamb and a venison saddle roast accompanied by multitudinous vegetables, Lori fingered the note in her palm, working up the courage to slip it beneath the table to Lord Rushcroft, who was busily engaged in a heated discussion on tariffs with Miranda and Mr. Baggins.

      
Brand's hands were occupied in gesturing as he explained the negative effect of foreign competition on home-grown grains. Good heavens, what if she touched his...limb when she passed the note! Or some place even worse! Seizing her wineglass, which the thoughtful footman Charles had just refilled with a fine claret to accompany the red meat, she took a deep swallow. No, she would have to wait until dinner was over. But that was the time when the ladies would excuse themselves and allow the gentlemen to remain at table with their port.

      
Then an inspiration came to her. She would have one of the footmen give the note to the baron. Of course, why had she not thought of it before?
Because you have been so terrified, you haven't even had the courage to confess it to Tilda,
she admonished herself.

      
She took another swallow of wine. The room was growing rather warm in spite of the cooling breeze from the windows opening onto the garden. She looked down at the slices of pink lamb surrounded by creamed turnips and fresh peas. Lori smiled gratefully at the footman Charles, who knew she detested venison.

      
Charles! She must give the note to him and instruct him. Once the baron had read it, they could slip away while everyone else was occupied in the parlor. When Charles returned to take her plate, virtually untouched although she'd emptied her wineglass, Lori slipped the note to the infatuated young servant. She murmured instructions under the cover of laughter at an amusing anecdote her mother had just finished telling.

      
Charles nodded ever so slightly. He had been smitten with her from a distance since coming to work here two years ago. As the next course of plover's eggs in aspic and a mayonnaise of pheasant was served, she watched him slide the note beneath the baron's plate. When Rushcroft took it surreptitiously and slid it inside his jacket, she breathed a sigh of relief...and took another swallow of wine.

      
Charles was such an attentive dear.

* * * *

      
By the time the ladies left the gentlemen, Miranda could see that her daughter was quite tipsy. Lori had never done such an unthinkable thing in her life. Her mother would have excused it as a case of nerves—if she had not observed the passing of Lori's note to the baron via that young fool Charles. She would speak to him about such antics, not to mention the way he over attentively refilled her daughter's wineglass.

      
In the meanwhile, she had to see that Lori retired before social disaster befell. As they made their way down the hall to the parlor, she took her daughter's arm. Begging the other ladies to pardon them and proceed, Miranda guided her into the nearest sitting room.

      
“You are unwell and must immediately retire to bed. I shall make your excuses,” she said crisply as soon as the door closed behind them.

      
“I...that is, what...” Lori's tongue suddenly seemed to trip over itself. Forming a coherent thought became inexplicably difficult.

      
Miranda continued, “You have had too much wine and I fear you'll disgrace yourself. And that is not accounting for the note to the baron.”

      
“You saw it!” Lori squeaked. Suddenly the room began to spin about her.

      
“Where did you intend to meet him? In the garden?” Miranda asked, torn between anger at Lori's uncharacteristically scandalous behavior and sheer amazement that her shy child would have the nerve to set up a tryst. Something was definitely amiss here.

      
In the back of her mind a thought hovered like a vulture waiting to pounce: Was she concerned about Lori's reputation...or was she jealous? She suppressed the absurd idea. She was Mrs. Will Auburn, unshakable woman of business who never lost her calm sense of direction. “I will deal with the baron if he dares to tryst with you. You will go to bed at once,” she said to the befuddled Lori.

      
But her daughter was not quite so addled as Miranda presumed. One thought flashed into her aching head—her mother and the baron alone...in the garden. Perhaps things would work out in spite of her incapacity. With a sickly nod of acquiescence, Lori murmured, “As you wish, Mother.”

* * * *

      
Brand reread the note for the tenth time as he stood in a dark corner of the library, inhaling the fragrance of a fine Cuban cigar. As if he did not have enough on his mind, that damnable Callie, mother of the army of attack kittens, sat quietly on the mantel. Sneaky beast. How had she slipped away from her assigned quarters? Across the room, none of the other gentlemen paid her any mind. She stared at Brand with basilisk eyes, as if mocking him for flinching when he saw her.

      
Just to show her who was the human in charge—and to put off deciding what to do about the note he had just read—he walked back to the cat. Taking a deep breath, he reached up and gave her a pat. She stood up, arching her back. Brand almost jumped out of his skin. He leaped away, praying the other gentlemen would not notice. Then he realized she had begun to purr. She wanted him to pet her some more.

      
Callie looked at him with an expression that indicated precisely how dense the superior feline race felt mere humans could be. Dare he take another stab at detente? Stepping up to the mantel again, he ran his hand down her back once more as she bowed up and preened. Growing bolder, he scratched her behind one ear and she nuzzled his hand affectionately, then ran her raspy tongue across his fingers. Amazing! Cats reciprocated affection just as dogs and horses did.

      
Emboldened, he gave her several more strokes before one of his companions called out to him. They were discussing how excellent Mrs. Auburn's choice of cigars was. The luxury was often frowned upon in polite society because Her Majesty disapproved of smoking. Congratulating himself on his first bold step in overcoming a lifelong fear, the baron deserted Callie and strolled back to rejoin the conversation. But in spite of his triumph, the note he'd received continued to burn a hole in his pocket.

      
He had seen the footman slip it beneath his plate, but who the devil had it come from? It was written on the expensive velum letterhead of the Auburn family, but unsigned. He could not imagine the timid Lorilee asking him to meet her in the garden unchaperoned. So, he concluded, it must have come from her mother. How amazing. What could she want to discuss that couldn't wait until tomorrow? Perhaps she had learned something regarding the attempts on her life.

      
He would meet the formidable widow and find out.

Chapter Ten

      
When the ladies and gentlemen reassembled in the parlor, Miranda made Lorilee' s apologies, saying her daughter had taken suddenly ill with a headache. However, their hostess insisted that the party should continue. Brand tried catching her eye as he edged toward the door, but Mrs. Frobisher, the elderly M.P.'s wife, cornered him before he could make his escape to the garden unnoticed.

      
Thank heavens the woman was myopic. When he excused himself to have a word with her husband across the room, she could not see that he slipped out the door instead. He expected Miranda to join him as soon as she could get away, but several moments passed and still she did not appear. They had to be discreet, so he understood the delay.

      
He strolled through the garden, which was cool and dimly lit by a couple of gaslights gleaming dully through the lush foliage. Lacy shadows swayed with the gentle summer breeze. Several marble statues of execrable taste were scattered about the elaborate topiary. Will Auburn had designed this garden to impress everyone with his wealth. Brand was certain of it. The same was true of the house and its interior. Auburn's home was a monstrosity of neo-Gothic architecture and massive, garishly carved furniture that literally made the floor groan beneath its weight.