Rebel Baron (39 page)

      
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.”

      
“It wasn't his money,” Sin replied.

      
“Then let us see just whose it was.”

      
Inside they went, following the stink of boiling cabbage and rat offal as they climbed some rotting stairs to the third floor. Rather than knock on the door at the end of the hall, Sin tried turning the rusty knob. With a loud creak, it opened, revealing a dank, tiny room with one window, the panes partially broken out, the jagged edges so encrusted with grime they impeded the small shaft of light glimmering through the narrow gangway between buildings. Its pale rays shone down on splintery wood floors and a rickety pair of chairs facing a table with a broken leg. In the darkest corner, lying on what looked like a pile of rags, a figure stirred upon hearing the sounds of footsteps.

      
"Hoo are ye?”" a scratchy voice asked. The nasal cockney accent did not belong to O'Connell.

      
“Friends of the Irishman's,” Brand said. “Where is O'Connell?”

      
The filthy figure scuttled up from the bed of rags like a crab emerging from beneath a pile of slime-encrusted rocks. He squinted at the tall stranger with his one good eye. “Don't know no bloody Irishman.”

      
“You're sharing his domicile,” St. John said, withdrawing a gleaming blade from the concealment of the carved walking stick he carried. He flourished it menacingly. “Where is the Irishman?”

      
“You'd better tell him,” Brand advised. “He gets right testy when someone doesn't answer his questions—truthfully, mind.”

      
“I don't want no trouble, gov, honest I don't,” the man whined. “E ain't got no more need o' this place, and it be safer than the street. Rent's paid till end 'o the week.”

      
“What do you mean, he doesn't need it?” Brand asked as Sin held the business end of the blade pointed directly at the little man's chest.

      
“E left ‘ere last night. Said 'e 'ad a job whot paid real good. Wouldn't 'ave to live in this ‘ere muck no more.”

      
“What kind of job? Working for whom?” Sin prodded.

      
“Some swell. Dressed like ye,” he replied, gesturing to Brand. “All's I know is Connie was bound for Surrey. Somethin' er other about some nobleman's ‘orses.”

      
“Rushcroft Hall. My stables,” Brand said grimly.

      
When the tall one with the odd accent said “my stables,” the little thief blanched and began backing away. “Ain't 'ad nothin' to do wi' it, gov.”

      
Ignoring him, Brand said to Sin, “If he left London last night—”

      
“That doesn't give us much time. There's a train on the quarter hour, if I remember the schedule. Otherwise we'll have to wait until noon for the next one.”

      
“Can we make it?” Brand asked as Sin pulled out his pocket watch.

      
“Perhaps if we sprout wings and fly. But greater miracles have happened,” he replied as they dashed for the stairs.

      
The moment they were gone, Benbo followed. His gnarled bones did not allow him to keep up with them, but he knew Lion would be interested in the expensively dressed pair. There might be a farthing or two in it for his trouble.

      
Concluding the same thing, Lion had already assembled his crew of cutthroats. When the tall man and his small companion rushed from the building, the human wolves attacked, hoping to use the element of surprise to overcome superior firepower. But the strangers were prepared for the worst. When the first of Lion's men leaped out of the shadows, knife slashing for his throat, Sin impaled him on his sword, kicking the blade free of the dying man with his boot.