Rebel Baron (41 page)

      
“Miranda!” Brand cried, shoving his chair back from the table.

      
Both men were up and reaching for their coats, food forgotten as they realized they had fallen into a trap and an innocent woman would pay the ultimate consequences.

* * * *

      
“Be quiet, Tilda, else you'll waken Mother,” Lorilee whispered as the two conspirators tiptoed down the servants' stairs at the back of the house. Dinner had seemed interminable as Lori had waited for Miranda to finish her dessert and linger over coffee, but she had not wanted to arouse her mother's suspicions by seeming to rush her off to bed.

      
Tilda had gone through her usual ritual of brushing her mistress' hair a hundred strokes and pulling back the covers, even bringing a book of Lord Tennyson's poems for Miranda to read in bed.

      
“If anything should put her to sleep, that will,” Lori had murmured. She was no admirer of the Queen’s poet laureate.

      
When they heard no sounds stirring in the dark house, the two women set out, but Tilda still worried. “I sent a note to Mr. St. John and have received no reply. It is not like him to fail to answer an urgent letter. Perhaps the baron does not want to discuss what went on between them any more than does your mother.”

      
“Nonsense. Just because they act like fools, that is no reason we should accept it. Anyway, we can leave a message if, for some reason, Lord Rushcroft is not at home.”

      
“I still don't like this,” Tilda groused as they slipped into the alley and began walking to the next square. “It's late. What if we cannot hail a hansom driver?”

      
“Then we shall walk,” Lori said determinedly.

“All the way from Kensington Gardens to St. James Square!”

      
They did not see the man in the shadows as they closed the back gate. He smiled to himself. This was going to be even easier than he could have imagined. He glided through the cover of the shrubbery and emerged on the next street. A hansom driver waited for his instruction.

      
“She's coming to us, a right obligin' colleen,” O'Connell said.

      
“Out alone this time of night?” the driver asked incredulously.

      
“Not alone. She has the maid with her. We'll have to nab the two of them. All the better to convince the widow she'd best be cooperating.”

      
“If ye say so,” the driver replied, looking about the street as if expecting a Peeler to pop from the bushes at any moment.

      
“Just drive around the corner, boyo. They're afoot. Sneaking off to see himself or I miss me guess.” O'Connell chuckled. “All we have to do is offer them a ride. They'll jump right in.”

“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 arrangements 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.