the track waited by her vehicle to assist her up. Without taking time to arrange her skirts in the small open phaeton, she cracked the whip over the matched grays and drove off, wheels churning mud.
“You must've said something inappropriate, old chap,” Sin remarked dryly as he strolled back from the stables.
“Woman always did drive like hell on wheels.”
“Everyone who's anyone in London drives that way. She'll do smashingly well here,” St. John replied.
“No matter her money, the sort of people she wants to impress won't give a damn. She'll always be an ignorant American overreacher.”
“You scarcely sound regretful,” Sin said with a chuckle, relieved that Reba's spell over his friend had been well and truly broken. “Just so long as she doesn't impress you.”
“No, she doesn't impress me,” Brand said softly, thinking of Earl Wilcox dying alone in some Philadelphia hotel room while Reba counted his money. The idea that he might be anything like her made his skin crawl with self-loathing.
* * * *
Miranda sat staring at the telegram, then rubbed her eyes wearily and reread the message, which was exciting in content. Kent Aimesley, her factor in America, had just arrived in Liverpool after profitable discussions with the transcontinental railway directors. He would be in London within the week with the agreements drawn up for her review and signature. She should be elated but was not.
Mr. Aimesley had once been the love of her youth. The penniless son of a vicar, Kent had asked Miranda Stafford, the daughter of a prosperous merchant, to marry him. But that had been a lifetime ago.
“I see Mr. Aimesley is in town,” Lori said with a small frown marring her smooth brow.
“How did you...?” Miranda smiled at the knowing look on her daughter's face. “All right, don't be so smug.” She knew Lori had interpreted her expression when she opened the telegram. “Actually he's in Liverpool now.”
“Are you going to see him, then?”
“How can I not? He has just arranged one of the largest ventures in which I've ever been engaged—and,” she quickly emphasized before Lori could suggest she find a new factor, “he is quite irreplaceable. It would be neither prudent nor fair to discharge him because of the past.”
“Would Father have offered him work if he had known about the two of you?”
A good question. Miranda had often wondered about it herself. “There was little to know. We were very young and naive. We would not have suited.”
Lori could tell by the tone of her mother's voice that the topic was closed. “So you wed Father instead.”
Miranda did not reply. Instead she removed a sheet of stationery from her desk drawer and began writing instructions for her secretary to wire Mr. Aimesley.
* * * *
Another message arrived that afternoon, this time from the baron. He had just uncovered an invitation to a musicale at Lady Tottingham' s the following afternoon, which he'd accepted weeks ago, then most regrettably forgotten—until rummaging through a stack of correspondence. Would Miss Auburn and her mother join him to hear a string quartet play Mozart?
Augusta Tottingham was a fabulously wealthy dowager baroness and one of the social arbiters of the day, dividing her time between London and Bath. The old lady still took the waters. Given her great age, she was doubtless a veritable walking—or at least creeping—advertisement for them, Miranda thought wryly as she penned an acceptance. Lori would be delighted to mingle with so many of the “best people.” And she adored Mozart.
Brand's carriage arrived promptly for them at one. Giving her reflection in the mirror one last inspection, Lori asked Tilda nervously, “Do
“You must've said something inappropriate, old chap,” Sin remarked dryly as he strolled back from the stables.
“Woman always did drive like hell on wheels.”
“Everyone who's anyone in London drives that way. She'll do smashingly well here,” St. John replied.
“No matter her money, the sort of people she wants to impress won't give a damn. She'll always be an ignorant American overreacher.”
“You scarcely sound regretful,” Sin said with a chuckle, relieved that Reba's spell over his friend had been well and truly broken. “Just so long as she doesn't impress you.”
“No, she doesn't impress me,” Brand said softly, thinking of Earl Wilcox dying alone in some Philadelphia hotel room while Reba counted his money. The idea that he might be anything like her made his skin crawl with self-loathing.
* * * *
Miranda sat staring at the telegram, then rubbed her eyes wearily and reread the message, which was exciting in content. Kent Aimesley, her factor in America, had just arrived in Liverpool after profitable discussions with the transcontinental railway directors. He would be in London within the week with the agreements drawn up for her review and signature. She should be elated but was not.
Mr. Aimesley had once been the love of her youth. The penniless son of a vicar, Kent had asked Miranda Stafford, the daughter of a prosperous merchant, to marry him. But that had been a lifetime ago.
“I see Mr. Aimesley is in town,” Lori said with a small frown marring her smooth brow.
“How did you...?” Miranda smiled at the knowing look on her daughter's face. “All right, don't be so smug.” She knew Lori had interpreted her expression when she opened the telegram. “Actually he's in Liverpool now.”
“Are you going to see him, then?”
“How can I not? He has just arranged one of the largest ventures in which I've ever been engaged—and,” she quickly emphasized before Lori could suggest she find a new factor, “he is quite irreplaceable. It would be neither prudent nor fair to discharge him because of the past.”
“Would Father have offered him work if he had known about the two of you?”
A good question. Miranda had often wondered about it herself. “There was little to know. We were very young and naive. We would not have suited.”
Lori could tell by the tone of her mother's voice that the topic was closed. “So you wed Father instead.”
Miranda did not reply. Instead she removed a sheet of stationery from her desk drawer and began writing instructions for her secretary to wire Mr. Aimesley.
* * * *
Another message arrived that afternoon, this time from the baron. He had just uncovered an invitation to a musicale at Lady Tottingham' s the following afternoon, which he'd accepted weeks ago, then most regrettably forgotten—until rummaging through a stack of correspondence. Would Miss Auburn and her mother join him to hear a string quartet play Mozart?
Augusta Tottingham was a fabulously wealthy dowager baroness and one of the social arbiters of the day, dividing her time between London and Bath. The old lady still took the waters. Given her great age, she was doubtless a veritable walking—or at least creeping—advertisement for them, Miranda thought wryly as she penned an acceptance. Lori would be delighted to mingle with so many of the “best people.” And she adored Mozart.
Brand's carriage arrived promptly for them at one. Giving her reflection in the mirror one last inspection, Lori asked Tilda nervously, “Do
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