by Allison Lane
Nor did he hold her in higher esteem. By the time they reached the dining room, he had added condescension to his incessant compliments, ignoring every attempt to correct his false assumptions. He considered her a brainless rustic, and Alice might have been one of the lobby’s statues for all the attention he paid her.
“London will seem overwhelming after living in the wilderness,” he said, patting her hand, “though escaping America must be the answer to your prayers. I cannot imagine being trapped in a country overrun by savages.”
Nor could she. It was too late to avoid dining with him, but she could at least discourage further contact. She had no wish to pursue this connection. Yet he was too arrogant to believe she found him boring, so her best approach would be to give him a disgust of her.
“I would hardly call them savages,” she protested sweetly. “We lived with a tribe for a time, and I’ve several Indian friends. They are quite charming and more honorable than many settlers.”
He gasped, fanning himself with his handkerchief. “What was Uncle Andrew thinking to expose you to such horror? The experience has clearly muddled your brain.”
“Really? You sound shockingly narrow-minded. There are many ways to live.”
Unfortunately, he interpreted her words as an attempt at humor. Making another condescending remark about untutored colonials, he welcomed the soup, not noticing that they had placed no order.
She described her winter with the Indians, embellishing because she had been only five at the time, so remembered little of it. An early snow had caught them in the wilderness the year her father had tried his hand at trapping. Unfortunately, her tale had less effect than she’d hoped. Either Robert was not listening or his motives for seeking her out were unusually strong. A half hour later, he was still dumping the butter boat over her head.
When three waiters arrived to lay out a new course, the lady at the next table snorted. “Shocking service,” she snapped loudly. “We arrived at the same time, but have yet to see the soup.”
Robert glowered at the woman, then administered a direct cut. “The problem with public dining is that one must share the room with encroaching mushrooms,” he proclaimed. “Money will never overcome such obvious lack of breeding. As heir to a viscountcy, I will always be served first.”
“Such arrogance,” said Maggie, referring to Robert, though he assumed she meant their neighbor. The wait staff answered to DuPré, whose temper was legendary. His infatuation with Alice resulted in better food and service every day.
But she said nothing as she sampled a lobster patty. Meeting Robert had been a mistake. He talked incessantly, but she could not believe anything he said, even about the family. He exaggerated other people’s faults to make himself appear saintly and shamelessly puffed his own consequence. Yet he ignored even blatant rudeness in his effort to convince her that he was hopelessly smitten.
She finally gave up. She’d met too many determined suitors to mistake his purpose, though why he would seek her hand was beyond understanding. Perhaps he was under pressure to wed and thought an insignificant colonial would be easier to control.
Yet that seemed unlikely. Two hours of acquaintance should have proved that she was rude, argumentative, and unwilling to change – she’d insisted on using a fish fork for the beef even though he’d corrected her twice.
Their waiter presented Alice with a frothy confection of fruit-filled meringue topped with sugared violets. “All day Monsieur DuPré has exerted himself for you,” he said, bowing over Alice’s hand. “He calls it Henri’s Delight.”
“Thank you, Matthew,” said Alice. “Give him our compliments. This was his best meal yet. And the service was exceptional.”
“He will be charmed,” said Matthew, winking.
“He will puff himself up until those nearby cower for fear that he’ll burst,” she countered, making him laugh. “But this time he deserves the praise – yet I shan’t utter a word until I have the recipes.”
Maggie choked. Not at Alice, for these exchanges had become a nightly ritual – DuPré believed she had the ear of society’s most powerful arbiters of fashion. But Robert looked like someone had just thumped him on the head. He had seemingly forgotten Alice’s presence.
“I am appalled,” snapped the lady at the next table. “There is no excuse for catering to that popinjay! I swear the service is worse now than when the hotel opened.”
“Then why are we eating here?” her husband demanded, draining his glass. “Give me my club any day. Never did like fancy plaster and all those foreign statues. Waste of good blunt. I’d wager Sir Michael cut corners on the construction to pay for such fripperies.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, peering suspiciously at the ornate ceiling as a waiter set a platter of squabs on her table.
“Sure of it. No need to cover sound building with gilt. Take my club – good solid walls with sensible paneling.” He shoved a pigeon breast into his mouth.
“Hardly elegant, though,” said his wife, nibbling her trout.
“The fellow who designed this place was the same one who did the Ipswich Gardens Hotel. Hiding deficiencies under plaster frills did not work then, and it won’t work now.” He gulped another chunk of squab.
“Kitchen fires are common.”
“Faulty construction. The wall behind the ovens was too thin. If the chef had been slower, the whole building would have burned.”
Robert snorted. “That fellow should keep his mouth shut about things he doesn’t understand. I was staying with friends in Suffolk when that fire occurred. Despite the rumors, it cannot have been more than a grease fire or the place would have burned to the ground – like Billings Hall. A single spark ignited a fire that spread so fast the family barely escaped. Generations of records gone.” He sighed. “The paneling dated to Elizabeth’s reign.”
After hundreds of years, even thick beams would have been dry as tinder, but arguing would serve no purpose. It was time to end the evening. Yet curiosity prompted one last question. “Why does Uncle William refuse to see me?”
“He will come around,” he said, frowning when she moved her hand out of reach. “But you remind him of Andrew’s insane jealousy.”
“Jealousy?” What lies would he repeat now?
“Andrew despised being the younger son. He hated knowing that Father would have the title one day, so he lashed out whenever he could.” He shrugged. “The final straw was forcing himself on Father’s betrothed, then abducting her. Father never recovered.”
“Instead, he twisted the facts. My mother never wanted William, but no one listened, so her only option was to flee.”
“A lady never contradicts a gentleman,” Robert said, finally giving in to the anger she’d seen whenever she’d tried to provoke him. It was the first true emotion he had shown since confronting Teddy.
“I prefer truth.”
“Females are incapable of comprehending truth.” He held up a hand to halt her words. “Do not prattle about things you don’t understand. Your father would never have admitted his crimes to you.”
“Nor would yours. Heed your own advice, Cousin. You weren’t there, either.”
Robert took a deep breath, then donned another false smile. “I must take you firmly in hand if you are to go on in society, Maggie. Your barbaric upbringing will have you ostracized in a trice. I warned you about contradicting a gentleman. It is never acceptable.”
* * * *
Marcus stared at Robert’s back as he placed his dinner order. He should have warned Maggie to avoid her Adams relatives until he could introduce her, but he’d assumed that she would leave the matter in his hands.
Idiot! She was no helpless maiden. The fact that she had come to England by herself proved that she was a determined woman who rarely relied on others. He should have known that she would shove the Adams family’s rejection back in their faces.
So now she was at the mercy of Robert’s charm. He hoped she was experienced enough to see through
him. Robert’s debts must be larger than anyone knew. Why else would he court a woman so different from his usual tastes?
He absently drained his wineglass.
If only it had not taken so long to authenticate her papers. Robert was dangerous. More than one innocent had fallen victim to his charm.
But he relaxed the moment he caught Maggie’s eye. Her face lit up, the contrast making it obvious that she was barely tolerating Robert’s company. To make sure she understood her danger, he scowled at Robert, shaking his head in warning. She nodded agreement, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.
Relieved, he winked. He could almost read her mind – which was rather disconcerting. He’d never felt so attuned to another person.
Robert noted her inattention and glanced over his shoulder. “Be careful of that one,” he warned her, administering a direct cut as he turned back. “He can never introduce you properly to society. Look at that insipid jacket and that dull waistcoat. The man understands nothing about fashion.”
“But I have no interest in fashion,” Maggie said, pulling on her gloves. Her eyes now held only irritation.
Robert laughed as if she were joking, though Marcus knew she spoke the truth. She would return home as soon as she had carried out her father’s wishes – which meant he must act immediately. At least explaining the Widmers was straightforward. Discussing the Adams family was another problem entirely.
-4-
Maggie frowned. Alice had not yet returned from her morning visit to the kitchen, and breakfast was growing cold.
She had declined to accompany Alice today, though she had done so two days ago, creeping down the servants’ stairs into the bowels of the building. The kitchens were cavernous rooms kept uncomfortably hot by numerous cooking fires and four huge ovens. The smell of baking bread had made her mouth water, reminding her that she’d not yet eaten.
Assistant chefs had scurried about in apparent disarray, though they actually worked in concert to prepare a vast array of food. DuPré was a master of organization.
“Ze trick is in ze wrist, chérie.”
His voice had cut through her study of the tricks he used to keep the kitchen running efficiently. Startled, she’d realized that he was teaching Alice how he introduced lightness into his creams.
“Hold ze spoon like so.” He’d stood behind Alice, his hands covering hers as he demonstrated how to beat air into the cream. Several of his minions had stared in amazement.
Maggie grinned at the memory. DuPré had continued the lesson for nearly an hour, flirting outrageously the entire time. His voice had resembled honeyed velvet as he led Alice through the motions, nuzzling her neck between words. They were undoubtedly sharing another lesson today, but Maggie would not join them again. She did not belong there, as one of the maids had made clear. The girl had been so shocked to find her belowstairs that Maggie had felt obliged to apologize. Clearly, her standing as a lady would be in jeopardy if she indulged her curiosity again. Service would suffer.
Now she picked up the two letters that had arrived with breakfast. Robert’s arrogant scrawl adorned one. The other had been penned in a precise hand that revealed nothing of its owner’s character, so it was probably from Marcus.
A glance at the signature verified her guess. Forgive me for ignoring you these past days, he’d written.
Recalling that astonishing moment of mind-sharing in the dining room last evening, she blushed. She had lain awake long into the night, torn between awe that he understood her so well and regret that she must leave soon. They would never meet again – a fact she must not forget. She returned her attention to the page.
Margaret Widmer’s solicitor wishes to see you. I will call for you at eleven, if that is convenient.
She frowned. What might her grandmother’s solicitor want? No one in England had known she existed until a few days ago. And why now?
There was only one way to find out, she admitted, reaching for a pen and stifling a burst of excitement over spending the afternoon with Marcus. This was business.
After sealing her response, she poured chocolate and opened Robert’s missive. He began with an entire page of compliments that ignored her curt dismissal last evening. Nor did he mention her rude and uncouth behavior. His persistence raised all sorts of alarms.
“Why the long face, Maggie?” asked Alice, hurrying in to claim her chair at the table.
“Robert wants to tour London with me this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“An interesting question. He reminds me of Patrick Riley, though I can’t imagine why he wants me. Did you ever hear such fustian?”
Alice read the letter, then smiled. “Not recently.”
Maggie accepted the pages back. “We will decline this invitation. Marcus wants me to meet Grandmother’s solicitor.”
“Perhaps she left your mother something.”
“That is hardly likely after twenty-eight years of silence.”
“Love endures.” Alice poured coffee. “It has the power to move mountains and link hearts, even after twenty-eight years apart. Your grandmother loved your mother deeply.”
“How would you know?”
“Shortly after I became your governess, John drank too much and cried his eyes out over losing Catherine. He mentioned their elopement and admitted that her mother had preferred his suit to William’s. Catherine had always been her favorite – perhaps because she was the youngest.”
“Why did they cut all ties to England, then?”
“That wasn’t clear, though I think John feared William. And after Catherine died, he expected her mother to blame him.”
“What?”
“He had dragged her off to an uncivilized land.”
“Nonsense! She could have died anywhere.”
“True, but beware of your uncle, Maggie. If John feared him, he cannot be a good man.” She disappeared into her room.
Maggie had no further interest in her Adams relatives, but Alice’s warning reverberated through her head as she ate breakfast. By the time she dusted the last crumb from her fingertips, she had revised her plans.
“I think we should leave London for a time,” she announced when Alice returned. “William is not a problem, for he refuses to meet me, but Robert might become a pest. He seems the stubborn sort.”
“Ask Marcus what to do,” Alice advised as she left to go shopping. “He is clear-thinking and must know Robert’s purpose.”
* * * *
Marcus rested his hand on Maggie’s back, absorbing her heat as he escorted her into Frankel’s office. Touching her eased the tension in his shoulders.
They were late because of Betsy – again he cursed his stupidity. Since he’d broken off their liaison, she had plagued him with endless petty revenges – rearranging books, shuffling papers, spilling ashes in the wardrobe. Yesterday, he’d nearly sliced his throat because she’d chipped his razor. The cut would chafe under his cravat for at least a week.
Today, the papers supporting Maggie’s claim had been missing. He’d finally found them under his mattress, but it was the final straw. He must demand a different maid when he returned.
He forced his mind back to business. Margaret Widmer had hired her own solicitor after her husband’s death. Her marriage settlement had left her in control of her dowry, which had irritated her husband no end. And her will had shocked the entire family. Soft-spoken, docile Margaret had been hiding secrets for years.
“This is Margaret Adams, daughter of Elizabeth Widmer Adams,” he said in introduction, then produced fair copies of the Merchant Queen’s sailing roster and log, which mentioned the wedding and explained the discrepancy in names. He’d also found official reports written by Captain Barnsley on identical stationery to that used for the marriage lines. Since years of dust had covered these records, he could swear that no one had looked at them since they’d been stored.
“Is Elizabeth living?” asked Mr. Frankel.
“She died fifteen years
ago.” Maggie pulled the doctor’s statement from the documents he’d asked her to bring.
“Well before Mrs. Widmer.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Your visit is well timed, Miss Adams. Only a fortnight ago, I sent to Halifax for your direction. Mrs. Widmer left five thousand guineas and a small estate in Somerset to her daughter Elizabeth, naming you as residual beneficiary in the event Elizabeth predeceased her. It was her hope that you would use the legacy to assume your rightful place in London society.”
Maggie frowned. “Is the bequest contingent on my doing so?”
Marcus jolted to attention. It was a reasonable question for anyone versed in the law, but why would a lady from the wilds of America think to ask?
“No. The bequest is final, but she left a letter of explanation.” Frankel handed her a thick packet wrapped in velum. “You may read it in the next room. I will be available to answer questions in half an hour.” He gestured toward a door behind him.
Marcus led her into a small sitting room. She had been surprising him ever since he’d called for her, starting with her cool greeting and lack of questions. At first he’d assumed it was pique – after ignoring her for days, he’d arrived late for this appointment – but that no longer seemed reasonable. She’d glared when he’d produced his proofs, almost as if he’d betrayed her by verifying her claims. Maybe he should have mentioned this legacy earlier instead of leaving the job to Frankel.
He seated her in a comfortable chair. “Shall I leave?”
“No. I suspect you can answer most of my questions.”
He nodded, turning to stare out the window as she broke the seal. A quarter hour passed in silence broken only by rustling paper. He wondered what she was thinking. Would this change her plans? His groin grew heavy at the thought of having her permanently in England. He had been fighting the urge to let her hair down and run his fingers through it since helping her into his carriage.