‘What do you think?’ she asked, beaming as she halted beside him.
‘I think I just made the most colossal mistake of my life.’
Obviously too excited to be abashed by his comment, she only laughed. ‘Now you’re just being pettish. I thought I looked quite well—the style not so exaggerated as to draw the eye, but the suit well enough put together not to invite comment.’
Well put together. More like excellently put together. So excellently, he was seized by the desire to march her back into the storeroom and remove all those garments. Slowly, one by one, his hands cherishing her calves, thighs, belly...
Sweat broke out on his brow.
Dragging his thoughts from the physical, as he forced himself to make a more objective inspection, he realised she was right. Her ensemble was stylish enough, but not too stylish, the garments neat and well made, but not extravagant enough to draw unusual notice. She’d got the tone just right, appearing to be exactly what she sought to be: a young, well-to-do but not flashy ton gentleman.
‘I suppose you’ll do,’ he admitted at last. ‘As long as none of the engineers looks at you too closely.’
As long as no gentleman’s eye lingered on the unusually rounded swell beneath the neatly tied cravat or the extravagant curve of hips under her jacket.
‘You’ll be there to deflect attention and make sure no one gives me a second glance,’ she replied. ‘I’d worried over how to camouflage my excessive amount of hair, but I’ve managed to sweep it up underneath and pin the top down over the fullness, most of it hidden under the wide neck of the cravat, so if I remove my hat carefully, I think I can get by. I can’t thank you enough for this! But shouldn’t we be going? It would be better not to be the focus of too many glances by arriving late.’
Nodding, Crispin paced to the end of the alley and waved to his tiger, who turned the horses and brought the equipage to them. About to offer her a hand up, he remembered just in time and watched instead as she grabbed the strap and jumped up herself.
‘Wonderful,’ she murmured to him after he’d climbed up and set the team in motion. ‘So much easier than if I’d been wearing skirts!’
He gave her a warning look, jerking his chin towards the tiger perched behind them and hoping the clatter of wheels on the cobblestones had muffled her words. ‘Better start being bashful and monosyllabic now.’
Nodding, she slid a finger across her mouth in a ‘my lips are sealed’ gesture—which, alas, only recalled his attention to that tempting mouth.
Clearly unaware of the havoc her apparel was causing him, as merry as a child given a bag of sweetmeats, she grinned at him, her eyes dancing and her whole body almost vibrating with excitement.
While his vibrated with tension of a different sort.
Or rather, two sorts—the sensual response he must hold in check, and dread over how this episode would end.
* * *
All too soon, they arrived at the institution’s headquarters, a fine Georgian building in Westminster. The game begins, he told himself as he watched her hop down, then climbed down himself. After sending his tiger off to a nearby posting inn with enough coins to buy himself some ale and a meat pie, Crispin turned towards Miss Cranmore.
She’d been practising keeping silent during their drive, but now he could feel her anticipation as they stood facing the entry stairs. ‘Ready?’
‘Beyond ready,’ she answered.
Reminding himself not to offer her his arm, he walked up the steps beside her, having to check a grin when, halting before the entry door, he heard her long, awed sigh. ‘Don’t you dare swoon on me,’ he murmured.
She turned to him with a chuckle. ‘That wouldn’t be very politic, with me in trousers. No, I shall be serious, respectful, and defer completely to you.’
‘If only you had deferred to my request not to go ahead with this enterprise,’ he retorted.
‘Don’t be a spoilsport. Shall we enter?’
He anticipated that two of the greatest hurdles would be getting past the attendant who took their hats and canes and then the member taking their tickets. To his relief, both events occurred without incident, Miss Cranmore’s hair remaining securely hidden as she doffed her hat, and neither man sparing her a glance.
They proceeded into the vestibule in front of the assembly room where the lecture would take place, Crispin halting at the edge of the room so that Miss Cranmore would be able to stand behind him by the wall, partially shielded from view. The few engineers already present, who stood around chatting, nodded to acknowledge their arrival.
Then, as he’d feared and anticipated, one man detached himself from the group and came over to them.
‘Lord Dellamont, isn’t it?’ he asked. When Crispin nodded, he continued, ‘I thought I recognised you. I sat in the gallery near you during Parliament’s debate about the Great Western. Did you decide to invest in it?’
‘I did.’
‘A chancy endeavour. But Isambard Brunel and Richard Cranmore are excellent engineers. I’d give good odds for it being successfully built, although it remains to be seen if construction costs can be kept low enough to make it profitable. But here, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Forsythe, Reginald Forsythe, a member of the Institution’s Board of Directors. How pleased I am to welcome such a forward-thinking investor to our lecture today—and your companion, of course,’ he added, gesturing to Miss Cranmore.
‘John Mathews, my young cousin from the country. He’s still at school, but has become infected by my enthusiasm for railways.’
The three exchanged bows, Crispin checking a smile over how correct Miss Cranmore’s was, just the right angle and degree of bend. She must indeed have been practising in front of her mirror.
Several other gentlemen come over to join them, Forsythe performing the introductions, before talk turned into a general discussion about the tunnels, bridges and viaducts the assorted engineers were building or in the process of designing.
Crispin asked a question here, made a comment there, ensuring the conversation flowed briskly. As he’d hoped, the fully engaged gentlemen completely ignored the shy young man standing behind him.
He didn’t dare look at her himself. She was probably bursting to take part in the conversation. He didn’t want to do anything that might encourage her to abandon her prudent silence.
Once he’d decided they’d chatted long enough, he said, ‘The lecture will begin soon. We’d better take our seats, don’t you think?’
With a murmur of agreement, the group set off. Ever conscious of the potential for discovery, Crispin chose chairs at the side of room furthest from the entry door, where they would not be immediately seen by everyone who came in or went out, in a shadowy corner furthest removed from the pale afternoon light filtering in through two large windows.
A few minutes later, the chairman of the lecture series rose to welcome them and introduce their speaker. A stir went through the room—Crispin heard Miss Cranmore’s sharp intake of breath—as the guest lecturer walked in.
A tall, genial, grey-haired man, George Stephenson greeted the group, nodding to several he recognised in the audience. Speaking in his north country accent with the assurance of vast expertise, he launched into a discussion of the factors to be considered in the design of bridge spans, noting the advantages and disadvantages of construction wholly with stone versus a combination of stone and iron.
It was definitely a lecture for a professional practitioner, including terms and calculations with which, despite Crispin’s investigations into railway building, he was not entirely familiar. But when he stole a glance at Miss Cranmore, she was gazing raptly at the speaker, occasionally nodding at something he said, evidently comprehending every word.
Crispin’s already elevated opinion of her intellectual gifts rose even higher.
After a while, the ever-present worry of dis
covery abating as the lecture continued, Crispin relaxed enough to be able to focus on the speech himself. Though he hadn’t sufficient training to appreciate all the mathematical details involved in the construction of arches and spans, he found them as fascinating at Miss Cranmore. Who, when he once again glanced her way, looked as if she were trying to memorise the lecturer’s words so she might rush home and transfer his comments to notes on paper.
At length, Stephenson concluded his talk to enthusiastic applause. When the committee chairman stood and announced their speaker would entertain questions from the audience, Crispin leaned over to murmur, ‘We would be wise to take our leave now, before everyone files out.’
Miss Cranmore gave a little sigh, but nodded. ‘I’d love to stay until the last possible minute, but you’re correct. It would be better to get away while our luck still holds.’
Several other members had also stood and begun moving around, so they attracted no notice as they walked around the back edge of the room and out the entry door. In the deserted vestibule, they collected their hats and canes from the attendant.
Crispin was about to walk out when Miss Cranmore halted, requiring him to pause beside her. ‘It’s the Menai Bridge,’ she said, pointing at a framed print on the wall. ‘Papa told me about it. Quite a feat of engineering!’
‘Looks impressive,’ he agreed.
‘Thomas Telford designed it to link the island of Anglesey to the mainland. The island’s principal source of income was the sale of cattle, and before the bridge, with the current so swift ferry crossing was difficult, they often tried to have the poor beasts swim across the strait—losing many of their valuable animals. So the bridge was a boon not just to the cattlemen, but to their herds. It was one of the first bridges to incorporate both stone supports and iron suspension elements.’ She sighed. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
She spoke of the bridge with the awed admiration other women might express when viewing a beautiful gown or a necklace of sparkling gems. How truly singular she was!
Approaching voices spurring him from his contemplation of her, he said, ‘We’d better keep going. The members are starting to emerge, so we need to make our escape.’
Nodding, she quickly walked out beside him, then slowed her pace as they strolled to the nearby hostelry where he retrieved his phaeton. Flipping his tiger another coin and then taking the reins, Crispin said, ‘You can have the rest of the day to yourself, Tim. Take a hackney back when you’re ready. I’ll drive the team home.’
‘Don’t you need me to walk the team for you when you stop...somewhere?’ the boy asked with a glance at Miss Cranmore.
‘No. I’ll be bringing them straight back to the stables after I drop my, um, cousin off at his lodgings.’
The boy grinned. After tipping his hat to them, he said, ‘Good day to you then, my lord—and to you, miss.’
While Miss Cranmore’s eyes widened in shock, Crispin groaned as the lad strolled off, whistling. ‘Tim is a former street rat who doesn’t miss much,’ he told her, not altogether surprised the tiger’s sharp eyes had penetrated her disguise. ‘Fortunately, he’s in my employ, so he won’t say anything. Even so, I didn’t want him to make note of the building to which I bring you back.’
Miss Cranmore gave a dismissive wave, apparently already recovered from that momentary worry. ‘I’m sure he will cause no trouble. In any event, the risk was all worth it. Wasn’t Stephenson’s lecture glorious? I could have listened to him for ever! I only wish he’d brought a slate so he could have worked out for us some of the problems of slope and turn radius he was describing.’
‘I actually understood more of it than I’d expected. I suppose you comprehended everything?’
She shook her head excitedly, confirming his appraisal of her abilities. ‘Oh, yes. How I wish I could attend all the Institution’s lectures! But I must not be greedy. I’m already for ever in your debt for allowing me this one glorious, marvellous afternoon of freedom. In fact,’ she added, turning to him, ‘you needn’t drive me home. I should like to walk. Maybe I’ll even stop at a tavern and order some ale. Because I can! It’s such a delight to stroll about in trousers. I never realised just how cumbersome and confining it is, being restricted by yards of skirts and petticoats. To say nothing of the even greater restrictions on where a female can go and what she can do. I feel so...free!’
Laughing, she wiggled her legs, then leapt in the air and spun in a circle. ‘I must figure out a way to wear trousers more often.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ he objected with a shudder, trying to keep his gaze focused on her face and not on those beguiling legs. He was certainly not going to tell her that his irrepressible sister often wore breeches when riding at Montwell Glen.
‘I’ll be sending up prayers of thanks for the rest of my days that we got though that episode unscathed. And if females started wearing trousers, the effect would be disastrous. Men all over London would be walking into lampposts, too distracted to pay attention to where they were going while they stared at all those nether limbs.’
She stopped short and looked over at him. ‘Have you been staring at my nether limbs?’
‘Blatantly. I was so overcome, I hardly heard a word of the lecture.’
That was skirting dangerously close to the truth, but given his teasing tone, she didn’t believe him—thankfully. ‘Liar. How can I ever thank you enough for providing what will remain one of the highlights of my life! I’m even prepared to admit I probably couldn’t have carried it off—at least, not as successfully—without your help. Now, I intend to find that tavern and enjoy an ale, so with my final thanks, I’ll set off.’
She truly meant to stroll off on her own. As she passed him, he caught her shoulder with his free hand. ‘Here now, you can’t go wandering around by yourself! Tim’s not the only one with a critical eye. You’ve been lucky enough to pass unnoticed so far, when you weren’t subjected to much attention, but you can’t count on that luck holding if you jaunt all over London. What if someone suspected, or someone jostled you and your hair tumbled down?’
‘The cat would be in with the pigeons then,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘Please, can I have just one ale? I cannot bear the prospect of returning just yet. Besides, I need to delay long enough to make sure Papa has finished his meeting, dropped his papers off at the office and returned home. I don’t want to risk going back in to change if there’s a chance of encountering him.’
‘Won’t he make sure the office is locked up before he leaves? How will you get in?’
She grinned and patted her waistcoat pocket. ‘I brought a key. An engineer needs to think out every detail of a project. So you see, I can’t go back just yet.’
‘Very well, but you’ll have to suffer my escort. I’m not setting you loose in London on your own. Hop in, Miss Cranmore.’
‘That sounds very formal. After all we’ve succeeded in doing today, don’t you think you should call me “Marcella”? At least when there’s no one about to overhear.’
‘Not while you are wearing men’s garments,’ he retorted.
After she climbed up, laughing, he gathered the reins and hopped into the vehicle, searching his brain for a tavern that was respectable, but not too fashionable or close to anywhere he might run into someone he knew. Any ton acquaintance he chanced to encounter would look far more closely at his ‘cousin’s’ attire than the preoccupied engineers had. And most of them knew his family tree well enough to be suspicious of some unknown relation from the country. He’d rather not have to invent some elaborate fiction that might come back to bite him.
He finally decided on a small tavern not far from Parliament that was frequented by travellers, drovers and common folk who served the members of Parliament, rather than by the legislators themselves. It also boasted a small back terrace set off from the busy road by a stand of evergreens. If his luck held, they could bring their tankards to that
sheltered spot and converse with no one nearby to watch or overhear.
He drove to the location, handed the phaeton over to a stable boy in the attached livery, then walked in with her beside him to order their ale. He felt a prickling all over his skin, so sensitive was he to possible observation, but as at the lecture, the two labourers at the bar and the few gathered at a scattering of tables paid them no attention.
Still, he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief when, mugs in hand, he was able to lead Marcella to the deserted side terrace.
‘It’s lovely here,’ she said, looking about. ‘You know the inn well, I take it?’
‘The tap man’s wife makes an excellent stew. It’s fortunate we arrived before workmen break for the day to take their supper, for it can get quite crowded. I often stop here for a bowl and a mug of ale after a Parliamentary debate, if I want to mull over what’s been presented alone, without a chattering multitude around me. The others attending the debate generally take their refreshment at more fashionable establishments.’
She was silent for a long time, her expression pensive. ‘I should have been born a boy. I did what I could to comfort Papa after my brother’s death, but nothing would have helped him recover like knowing he had another heir. Someone he could send to Edinburgh to study as he had, someone to train up and eventually turn over his business to. Oh, I’ve been terribly fortunate that he was willing to share as much of his career with me as he has. But even so, I was never...adequate. Never enough.’
Never adequate. Never enough. The words resonated through Crispin. Hadn’t he so often felt that way with a father he could never please? A mother whose unhappiness he’d tried to ease but ultimately couldn’t prevent?
She paused to take a sip of her ale. ‘After this taste of freedom, it will be even harder for me to reconcile myself to playing that lesser role.’
Disturbed by her melancholy, Crispin didn’t know what to say to console her. It was regrettable that her brilliance and drive were destined to be wasted on domestic tasks that didn’t interest her. ‘You’ll just have to marry that man who will make you happy to be his wife.’
The Railway Countess Page 15