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realm. The punishment would almost be worth the satisfaction of shaking Biltmore's arrogant certainty.
     
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           Miranda sat at her desk, staring at the papers in her hand, trying to digest the implications...and possibilities. As the major shareholder of the largest bank in London, she reviewed all loan applications for amounts in excess of ten thousand pounds. “My, the baron is truly as destitute as Elvira Horton indicated,” she murmured to herself as she scanned the inventory of Caruthers' holdings.
           The preceding baron had been a gamester, as were all of his ancestors. Unfortunately for Brandon Caruthers, his cousin Mortimer's luck was the poorest of the lot. He had sold off every scrap of the family possessions he could before his untimely death. In addition, he had taken not the slightest interest in the running of the family seat in Surrey, which was now in utter chaos. Virtually all the tenants were in arrears in paying rents, due in no small part, Miranda surmised, to the absence of the lord of the manor, who cared nothing about making repairs or seeing to their welfare.
           Would the new baron be any different? His application for a sizable loan outlined ambitious plans for making improvements, not to the manor house itself, which she would have expected, but rather to the land. Much of it was lying fallow now, but apparently he'd inspected it and felt it would suit quite perfectly for raising and training horses. If the report appended to the loan application was to be believed, he had experienced some notable success in breeding thoroughbred stock and racing his prize stud, Midnight Reiver. He even had aspirations to run horses at Ascot next year.
           Once when Lori was a baby, Miranda had attended the races with her husband and some business associates. She thought the exorbitant bets placed between members of the nobility were quite appalling. And now this man wanted her to lend him money—her and Will's very hard-earned money—so he could cavort at racetracks!
           She felt a sudden flood of righteous indignation that smacked of the Queen's puritanical philosophy, and grimaced. This was business. The morality of gambling had nothing whatever to do with it. If the stud farm Major Brandon Caruthers proposed could produce the income he projected, she should approve the loan.
           But Miranda had another idea in mind—if the Rebel Baron came up to her exacting standards. She walked briskly to the heavy walnut door and summoned her secretary, Herbert Timmons. “I have an investigation that requires the utmost discretion, Mr. Timmons. Here is what I wish you to do...”
     
    * * * *
     
           “Who the hell does this woman think she is? Queen Victoria herself?” Brand fulminated as he glared at the letter in his hand, then passed it to Sin as if it were a live snake.
           Quickly perusing it, Sin chuckled. “It would appear to be a royal summons indeed—in this case, the royalty being not of the peerage but rather the industrial elite. The Widow Auburn not only owns controlling interest in the bank from which you have requested a loan, but a shipyard, an iron foundry and so many other ventures, I fail to recall them all.”
           “Unnatural female. As bad as those crazy Yankee women demanding they be allowed to vote.”
           “I hate to inform you, old chap,” Sin said with a chuckle, “but they're making the same demands here in England.”
           Brand shuddered. “Women should stay home and tend to their families. Leave the running of government—and industry—to men.”
           “You and Her Majesty are in complete accord on that issue.” Sin's voice had taken on a decided hint of irony. “You were turned down by every other bank in London. At least the Widow Auburn deigns to grant you an interview Tuesday next.”
           Brand muttered a vile oath and paced across