But because of that fact, he meant to take advantage of this opportunity to find out what inspired a girl of her beauty to spend her evening solving geometric equations with her father.
‘You needn’t rush, my lord,’ she said, at last turning her attention back to him. ‘Please, finish your tea.’
‘Thank you, I shall.’
‘You seem...rather well versed in angles and gradients. Have you studied them?’
Crispin smiled. ‘My classics education at Oxford didn’t prepare me to evaluate the nuts and bolts of technological advances like railway engines—but the machines fascinate me. I’m convinced the new industrial age represents the future of wealth and economic expansion, and railways the future of transportation.’
‘And so you are eager to invest in them.’
‘I was fortunate enough to have a great-aunt who left me a small bequest. After I left university, I travelled to the north to investigate the companies beginning the transition from using horse-drawn vehicles on rails to harnessing the new steam engines designed by Mr Stephenson for the Stockton and Darlington. My modest investments in that and several similar ventures were rewarded. So I now follow rather closely the bills introduced into Parliament for the construction of new lines, riding the countryside myself to evaluate the proposed routes.’
‘I have to admit, you seem much more knowledgeable than most of our aristocratic investors.’ Her face blushing a little, she added, ‘I’m afraid I may have been...rather too dismissive upon first meeting you.’
‘Thinking I was a useless fribble with more money than comprehension?’
‘A dandy, anyway,’ she added, her flush deepening. ‘If I gave the impression that my opinion of you was derogatory, I do apologise.’
Crispin suppressed a smile. She’d made it rather obvious that was indeed her opinion of him, but he wouldn’t embarrass her further by pointing that out—and risk having her speedily dismiss him. Because he was even more curious about her now than he’d been upon first meeting her, and wanted to know more.
For how long would he be able to lure her into talking with him?
Chapter Two
‘If it won’t be interrupting your work too much, I think I’d like another cup of tea,’ Crispin said, testing the waters.
An annoyed expression briefly crossed her face before she summoned another smile. ‘Of course, my lord. Let me pour for you.’
She was obviously eager to get back to her calculations. But, as he’d hoped, the need to humour a potential investor won out over her desire to resume her work.
Which would be...calculating angles and slopes. How unusual was that? He couldn’t wait to learn more.
‘Apology accepted. But if you don’t mind my asking—what are you doing here, copying down measurements in your father’s office? Your mother must be unusually tolerant to allow her daughter to work somewhere outside her home. And you seem to know a fair amount about angles and elevations yourself.’
Her flush deepened. ‘If you must know, Mother doesn’t know I do that. She allows me to go into Papa’s London office—she thinks just to fetch him tea and bring him supper when he works late. And she allowed me to accompany him to Bristol to make sure he ate properly and didn’t work too hard while he was surveying the route. To be honest, she’d have palpitations if she knew I spoke with engineers and met with prospective investors.’
‘Without a chaperon, too!’ Crispin added with a smile, enchanted by her wide-eyed honesty.
‘Not entirely!’ she protested. ‘My maid attends me at the hotel and if I go out in town. But the poor dear is bored to death at the office, so by mutual agreement, when I come here, she cedes her duty of watching over me to Papa’s long-time assistant. Timmons worked for my grandfather before he came to Papa, and has known me since I was a child.’
‘You must have a pretty firm grasp of geometry and natural science, if you do calculations.’
She nodded. ‘If you think Papa overindulgent, I must confess I took shameless advantage of his grief. He intended to train my brother to succeed him, you see. But my brother Richard died of a sudden fever when he was twelve. I was ten years old then, and at first, I just wanted to console my father, since he seemed to find my presence comforting. But I’ve always been as fascinated by technical details as you seem to be, and gradually, when I asked him questions about his drawings, he began explaining them and showing me the mathematical principles involved in creating them.
‘I lost a year with him when Mama insisted on sending me away to a fancy female academy—where I learned nothing at all useful—but fortunately, after I escaped from that, I was able to wheedle my way back into Papa’s office and quietly slip back into consulting with him.’
‘And do you consult with engineers and investors in the London office?’ he asked, fascinated.
‘I serve them tea sometimes, if they call when I’m there to help Papa. He says I can help charm investors. But there are too many people coming and going in the London office, so I can’t get away with staying there all day. Mama would object anyway, as she likes me to accompany her on her shopping and visiting. Such a boring waste of time! Which is why I love being in the country!’ she added with a radiant smile. ‘I’ve been able to have dinner with Papa and go over the figures every day.’
Crispin tried to imagine his sisters, his mother—or indeed, any female of his acquaintance—looking so enraptured at the idea of spending the evening with her father, solving geometry problems. And failed utterly.
‘How I wish Papa would allow me to accompany him to the job sites—but even he isn’t indulgent enough to do that,’ she continued. ‘Oh, if only females were allowed to study at university! Papa could have trained me to become a professional engineer...if I’d only been a son,’ she ended on a wistful note.
‘I’m sure your parents felt blessed to have such a helpful daughter.’
Instead of appreciating the compliment, her eyes flashed. ‘Blessed that I am a female, useful only for directing a household and looking ornamental? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot agree.’
She fell silent, obviously struggling to get her anger under control. After blowing out a breath, she smiled again. ‘What of your family?’ she asked, redirecting the conversation. ‘You’re a...’ she checked the notepad on her desk ‘...a viscount, are you not? Does your family appreciate your interest in railways?’
With a bitter smile, Crispin heard in his ear the contemptuous voice of his father stating his opinion of this new project—an echo of his views about all the others. ‘Not in the least,’ he said drily.
At his tone, she angled her head at him. ‘Ah. So, like so many of the gentry, they feel investing in commercial projects should be beneath you? Although if you are a viscount in your own right you can please yourself, whatever your family might think.’
‘It’s a courtesy title,’ Crispin admitted. ‘My father, the Earl of Comeryn, is...not indulgent. And you’ve summed up rather neatly his opinion of my activities.’
After enduring years of family brangling, his frustration at his father’s unwillingness to cede to his heir any meaningful control over the estate he’d one day inherit—and the Earl’s constant criticism and interference in the few areas he had allowed Crispin to participate—had finally propelled him to quit Montwell Glen and strike out on his own after leaving university.
‘He should at least be pleased that you made good investments. If you invested with the Stockton and Darlington, you should have had an excellent return.’
Crispin hesitated, needing to choose his words with care. He couldn’t tell her that instead of being pleased and proud when his son doubled or tripled his initial investments, the Earl had declared himself embarrassed. Because, the Earl proclaimed, regarding his son disapprovingly, a gentleman earned his living from the land—not from trading with ‘a handful of vulgar, nouveau riche co
mmoners’.
He suspected his father would be not so secretly pleased if this next venture failed. Every time he pressed Crispin for details about his proposed investments, the Earl confidently predicted that this time, his disgrace of a son would lose his capital and be forced to come back, cap in hand, to beg for the support of his long-suffering family.
He also suspected much of his father’s ire derived from his inability to keep his wayward son firmly under his control. The Earl resented that Crispin had been able, not just to escape the family, but to remain financially independent, disproving his father’s predictions of his failure.
‘So he doesn’t approve,’ Miss Cranmore said when Crispin remained silent. ‘That’s foolish as well as unfortunate. But at least you are independent and able to do what you wish, regardless of your father’s views. Not hampered on every side by the restrictions of gender that prevent you from doing anything useful.’
‘Truly? I thought most women believed having a home, a husband and a family to raise was the best use of their time.’
‘I’d rather have mathematics,’ she said bluntly.
Surprised and rather amused by her answer, he said, ‘I expect your mother, if not your father, has a different view of the matter.’
Miss Cranmore sighed. ‘I shall stave off marriage as long as I possibly can, despite Mama’s urging and her lofty expectations.’
He could certainly relate to that desire, Crispin thought, repressing a grimace. He, too, intended to delay as long as possible setting up a household. Duty required him to marry a woman society considered suitable to become the next countess, the same requirement that had led his father into the disaster of his parents’ union. Having only recently escaped the tension, tears, and continual upheaval of his familial home, he hoped for a good many years of calm and quiet before he was forced to give up the independence and serenity he so valued and become saddled with a wife.
‘I can’t blame you there,’ he said wryly. ‘Being pushed into marriage to gratify a family’s desire for wealth and prestige is detestable. Are you certain that’s what your mother wants?’
‘I’m afraid so. Whereas I have no interest in attaining an “elevated” status. Or in wedding at all, really, unless...’ Her voice trailed off, her eyes taking on a faraway look.
Crispin remembered her longing gaze following Mr Gilling.
‘Unless it’s to the right gentleman?’
Her face flushed again, letting him know he’d hit his mark. When she looked up, lips parted to reply, her gaze met his and something potent and physically charged flashed between them.
It startled her as much as it did him, for she continued silently staring at him. For a long moment, the air between them almost shimmered.
Ah, what a treasure she would be...for the right man, he thought, mesmerised.
Before he could think what to say next, a shuttered look replaced her earlier delightfully candid expression.
Setting down her cup, she said, ‘Thank you for taking the time to chat, my lord. Technology is the way of the future, and railways are the future of transportation. You are wise to have recognised that, and you won’t be sorry you invested in it. Especially not this project. Father would not have undertaken it if he hadn’t believed wholeheartedly in Mr Brunel’s vision. If you speak to the solicitor at Papa’s London office, he’ll be happy to assist you in buying shares. Now, I’m sure you have many demands on your time, and I won’t hold you any longer.’
Standing, she put her cup back on the tray, which meant he had to rise as well. He tried to think of another angle of discussion that might prolong the conversation, but she was already walking towards the office’s back door. ‘We’ve finished, Timmons,’ she called into the back room. ‘You may collect the tray.’
Turning back to him—and remaining by the doorway, a safe distance away—she said, ‘I hope you will invest in the venture, my lord. Papa’s company will not disappoint you.’
With no excuse to linger, he had to give her a bow. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Cranmore. You’ve provided me with a wealth of interesting detail. It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you, my lord. Good day.’ She made him a curtsy.
Then, as he resigned himself to leaving, she unexpectedly gifted him with a mischievous grin. ‘You’re not nearly as useless as I thought when I first saw you.’
Before he could reply, she slipped out the back door. Chuckling, Crispin walked out.
* * *
Still not sure what had happened between them—that sudden flash of physical intensity that had startled them both—but disappointed to quit her presence, Crispin headed back to his hotel.
She was definitely unusual. Not only more candid and forthcoming with a stranger than he’d have expected, but absolutely unimpressed by his title and position. An indifference that in his experience was exceptional.
He’d certainly never encountered such obvious disdain from any gently born female on the few occasions when he’d been dragged to some ton entertainment. Instead, he recalled with distaste, the active pursuit by maidens or their mothers eager to capture the favour of a future earl had driven him to escape as quickly as possible.
That fact alone had been enough to pique him into trying to learn more about Miss Cranmore. Her obvious delight—and unexpected competence—in matters of geometry and mathematics only deepened her appeal.
And if he were nakedly honest, he’d been absurdly gratified that what had, in the end, raised her opinion of him hadn’t been his title or pedigree, but the knowledge about railway engineering for which his own father so often denigrated him. Something, unlike the status he’d been born to, that he’d accomplished solely through his own efforts.
Unfortunately, as lovely, unusual and intriguing as she was, there was no possibility of any relationship between them going forward, even if he were interested in wedlock, the only association her family would permit. Though her father’s income probably exceeded the yearly amount earned by his father’s agricultural properties, a Miss Cranmore and a Viscount Dellamont did not travel in the same social circles.
For a virtuous young maiden, friendship with an unrelated male was as impossible as the more intimate but less formal liaison her beauty and uniqueness inspired him to desire.
He would just have to count his meeting Miss Cranmore as an unexpected delight of this investment trip and put her out of mind.
* * *
Once back at his lodgings, he packed his belongings, intending on an early departure the following morning. Fortunately, his mother’s birthday was still a month away, so he could put off stopping by Montwell Glen and inviting another tirade from his father. He’d return directly to London instead and check on the progress of the bill approving the Great Western.
And catch up with his best friends from Oxford, Gregory Lattimar and Alex Cheverton—if the former weren’t in Northumberland tending to the family estate he would one day inherit and the latter at Edge Hall, the vast pile in Sussex he managed for his distant cousin, the Duke of Farisdeen.
When he himself inherited, thanks to his father, he might not have as great a command of the essentials of managing a large estate as an heir should. But, he’d promised himself, he would have amassed a reserve of ready cash to buttress the continuing declines in agricultural revenue.
That fact in itself should make his father furious.
If only he wouldn’t also inherit the Earl’s duty to provide heirs to the title—which meant acquiring a wife to go along with the estate, he thought with a sigh.
Thrusting away the unhappy memories the very idea of matrimony always invoked, he turned his thoughts back to the more pleasant matters he would need to attend to once back in London. First among them would be a stop at Cranmore’s London office so he might speak to the solicitor about investing in the Great Western.
If he put off t
hat task for a bit, might he catch another glimpse of Miss Cranmore at her father’s office?
The instant flare of interest that possibility generated should warn him such a meeting wouldn’t be a good idea. Miss Cranmore, he reminded himself, could become neither his friend nor his mistress, the only two roles he would be interested in having her fill. No matter how fascinating she might be, he had no desire to pursue the sole permissible option—making her that obligatory wife.
Despite those facts, he found himself strangely reluctant to forget her. But, he reassured himself, since it was highly unlikely that he’d ever see her again, as time passed and the strong impression she’d made faded, following that prudent course of action would become easier.
Chapter Three
A week later, in the sumptuous family town house on Tavistock Square in London, Marcella Cranmore stood stoically while her maid fussed with adjusting the final details of her dinner dress. It would please Mama to have her wear the fashionable new gown that had just been delivered, she told herself, trying to curb her impatience. She might as well look her best, since there was always the chance her father might bring someone interesting home to dine with them.
Not, sadly, Austin Gilling, whom she knew was still slowly making his way back from Bristol, rechecking measurements for the most challenging aspects of the Great Western project, the tunnel at Box Hill and the bridge over the Avon.
The image of another ‘interesting’ gentleman popped into her mind before she could prevent it. Drat, why could she not banish for good the memory of the most unusual investor she’d ever met?
Of course, it didn’t help that Viscount Dellamont was also perhaps the handsomest man she’d ever met, with his wavy dark hair, deep brown eyes sparkling with intelligence, and tall, wiry frame that exuded energy. She’d been astounded at the depth of his understanding of the engineering challenges of the Great Western project. And later, when she had time to review their exchange, she’d become guiltily aware of how forbearing he’d been of her initially treating him exactly as he’d described—as ‘a useless fribble with more money than comprehension’.
The Railway Countess Page 2