Two Beaux and a Promise Collection (18 page)

Ignoring the elegant lobby, she stiffened her spine and marched to the desk.

“Good day, Mr. Simmons.”  She prayed the nameplate was his. “Mr. Louillier at the Clarendon believes you have a suite available – all he could offer was a single room. I trust you can accommodate me.”

She glared in the way that usually cowed her employees, giving him no chance to assess her gown. It worked.

“Of course, madam.”

She nodded regally. “Margaret Adams, of Halifax.”  This lie had little to do with promises. She could hardly admit being an American. War had raged between England and the United States for two years.

She signed the register and paid a week in advance, then sent Alice to deal with their driver. Exhaustion swept over her in a debilitating wave. The journey had been grueling – jolting along corduroy roads, canoeing down rivers, leading pack animals through dense forest. Eventually she’d caught a fishing boat to Halifax, where she’d boarded a ship for England.

But now that she was finally here, the uncertainty she had been ignoring returned. How was she to approach her family?

Deep in thought, she headed for the stairs and promptly ran into a gentleman.

“Pardon me, madam,” he said stiffly, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.

Flames burned her cheeks. “It was entirely my fault, sir. Are you all right?”  Odd sensations radiated from his hand. “I should have been paying attention – though it could have been worse. I might have sent you sprawling.”  She winced at her babbling, for the words were embarrassingly true. She had been beset by clumsiness since leaving for England. Only last week, she’d nearly knocked the first mate overboard.

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” he asked coolly.

“That wasn’t what I meant!”  New heat flushed her face. She shook her head in an effort to restore wits scattered by his touch. Where had her sangfroid gone?  He was only a man.

But
what
a man!  His clothes were more fashionable than evening wear in Pittsburgh. A striped waistcoat peeked from under a dark blue coat stretched across powerful shoulders. Gray pantaloons showed off muscular thighs and impeccably polished boots. His eyes were an odd shade of green – something between old moss and a pale stone she’d once found along the river. Only his hair countered his elegance, framing his face in a riot of dark curls. She suppressed a ridiculous urge to test its softness.

“The accent is American,” he said after quizzing her from head to toe. “But from neither Philadelphia nor Boston.”

“Canadian,” she countered, meeting his gaze in a test of wills.

He blinked, his eyes lightening with laughter. “Intelligent.”

“What is your point, Mr.—”

“Widmer. Marcus Widmer. Forgive me. Your nationality is your own business, though this demonstrates why I resigned from diplomatic service. My tongue sometimes runs on its own.”

“Maggie Adams, from Halifax.”  She offered her hand as if meeting a business acquaintance, then chided herself as he gravely shook it. “What can you tell me of the Grand Regent?  I had expected to stay at the Pulteney or the Clarendon.”

“You and half the aristocracy.”  He offered his arm to escort her upstairs. “All the better London hotels are crowded because of Napoleon’s abdication. In June, we entertained a host of foreign dignitaries, including several heads of state. In July, innumerable dinners honored Wellington. Now London is holding the public festivities. They will conclude tomorrow, but you should be careful when you venture out. Excitement often leads to rowdiness, and this heat has done nothing to soothe tempers.”

She nodded, though London was cooler than August at home.

“As to your question, I’ve lived at the Grand Regent since it opened last month. The service remains what Americans call spotty, but the prices are reasonable and the food is outstanding. Would you dine with me this evening?”

“My companion and I will be delighted,” she replied without thinking.

* * * *

Maggie shut the door to her first-floor suite, leaving Mr. Widmer to continue upstairs. What had possessed her to accept an invitation from a man to whom she had not been introduced?  Recklessness was alien to her nature, but something about him scattered her wits. She still felt uncomfortably warm.

Or was it merely exhaustion? 

She frowned, turning the encounter over in her mind. She’d spotted a flash in his eyes that usually denoted avarice, though that was unlikely. His examination would have convinced him that she was beneath him socially and probably naïve. Thus the only thing he could covet was her body. This invitation was probably the first step in a seduction.

The idea hurt. “Take care, Maggie,” she murmured aloud. No one had ever piqued her interest so quickly. He exuded a powerful masculinity, which made him dangerous. If she hoped to keep her wits sharp, she must rest before dinner.

But first, she had promises to keep. She found pen, ink, and pressed paper in the sitting room’s writing desk. Moving aside an oil lamp held aloft by a Greek maiden, she addressed a brief letter to her grandfather. With luck, he would be in London for the festivities.

Alice arrived as she was sanding the page. “What a wonderful hotel,” she exclaimed. “They even have a dumbwaiter to haul the heavier luggage upstairs. I must include one when I build.”

“Don’t introduce too much ostentation,” Maggie warned. “The Grand Regent would overwhelm Pittsburgh. Most of those passing through cannot afford luxury.”

“I know. I intend to start small, but I’ve every intention of serving the affluent. Pittsburgh has grown large enough to need a quality hotel, and mine will be the best.”  She ran her fingers over a black lacquer cabinet decorated with chariots and swans. “Mr. Simmons was soothing an irate dowager just now. He has a knack for knowing exactly what to say. I wonder if he would share information on hotel management with a mere female.”

Maggie sealed the note, listening to Alice’s chatter with half an ear. She doubted that the stiff Mr. Simmons would help, though if anyone could convince him to do so, it would be Alice Sharpe. Her former governess was the most persistent woman she had ever known.

* * * *

Marcus berated himself all the way to his third-floor room. What was it about Maggie Adams that had prompted him to act the fool?  Quitting the government had nothing to do with any lack of diplomatic skill. He had been a valued member of delegations to several countries. Never had he revealed any fact without purpose. So why had his tongue run away with him today?

Wrong question
, his conscience announced.

The problem had not begun today, he admitted. He had behaved recklessly since quitting his position two months ago – arguing with his family, taking up residence in a hotel, allowing a pleasant flirtation with the maid to grow into a lusty liaison…

What a stupid idea that had been. Betsy expected him to set her up as his mistress, so breaking off the affair would invite retaliation – not that he’d considered doing so until half an hour ago, but one look at Miss Adams had banished any desire for others.

Maggie Adams. American, despite her denials. She was magnificent – tall enough to reach his nose, blue eyes, dark hair. Her manner might be almost masculine, but it formed a piquant contrast to the most delectable body he’d seen in years – his mouth watered at the image of cradling her breasts, of caressing her hips, of—

“Down!” he ordered his unruly passions. They were another change since quitting diplomacy. During the years he’d slaved to earn his superiors’ respect, he’d been too focused on business to bother with more than an occasional encounter. Now he could rarely go a day without needing a woman. Yet Miss Adams was unobtainable. He could neither seduce an innocent nor court a foreigner. Inviting her to dinner had been stupid, but the words had emerged without thought – another new trait, and one he would rather do without. Now he must spend an entire evening lusting after someone he could not have.

Pushing the problem aside, he reviewed his afternoon meeting with Trevithick.

He was fascinated by inventions, especially those newfangled machines his grandfather derided. Diplomacy had never stirred his senses like the thought of operating his own business. Unfortunately, his talents lay in organization and oversight, so he needed a creative partner.

His family was appalled. Gentlemen did not dabble in trade. Nor did they display vulgar interest in things mechanical. Never mind that as the younger son of a baron’s younger son he had no hope of achieving the title. Never mind that his interests did not run to agriculture, the church, government service, or even the military. As a gentleman, he was expected to emulate his ancestors.

“No,” he vowed, pacing the floor. A large legacy from his maternal grandmother and a smaller one from his Great-aunt Margaret allowed him to follow his dreams. Change was inevitable, despite the hidebound thinking of men like his grandfather. A new order was coming. He must be part of it.

He had encountered progress wherever he’d gone. In Italy, Volta was producing electricity by immersing metal plates in a chemical solution. In Russia, a tinker had raved about his French cousin, Appert, who could pack meat in metal cans that kept it fresh for months. In the United States, he had watched gins separate cotton from its seeds in a fraction of the time slaves needed to do the job.

All had spurred his enthusiasm, but he was proceeding cautiously. He had so many interests, it was difficult to decide which to pursue, and his inheritance was not large enough to recover from mistakes. He knew too many men who had lost fortunes by backing unworkable schemes – like that canal venture Rutherford had embraced last year. If he decided to build transportation systems, he would avoid canals. Trevithick’s engine would one day prove faster.

Of course, Stephenson was also working on an engine, which rumor claimed was superior to Trevithick’s. Which inventor had the most practical design?  Was it realistic to think people would accept miles of unsightly rails?  At least canals appeared natural.

Maybe he should consider steam-powered ships instead of land vehicles. They were closer to becoming economically viable. Or perhaps he should look at manufacturing instead of transportation.

It was a daily argument that always made his head spin.

Setting aside Trevithick’s proposal, he pulled out others and reread their claims. But for once, his mind would not stay on business. It kept drifting to a certain blue-eyed American.

* * * *

Maggie ignored the dining room’s ostentatious decor and concentrated on Mr. Widmer. She still wasn’t sure what to think of him. Why was he escorting her to dinner?  Seduction didn’t fit his demeanor this evening. His warmth did not exceed propriety. Nor was he showering her with false flattery, as did those seeking her influence with her father. Could he possibly wish to be friends?

Her heart turned over. It was an insidiously attractive idea, but one she must suppress. Even if it were true – and no one had ever approved her outspoken manner – friendship would lead to sorrow when she returned home. And risking a deeper attachment was stupid. She could never remain here, nor would he consider leaving. One day in London confirmed that the English considered themselves superior to everyone else.

“Have you ever seen such huge mirrors?” asked Alice, nodding toward the oval mirrors that flanked the dining room’s entrance, each taller than a man. “I wonder if the fabled mirrors at Versailles can compare.”

“I suspect so.”  Maggie bit back a sigh. Alice was constantly comparing her various heritages – she’d been born to an Irish indentured servant and French trapper, then married an English baron’s younger son, who had tutored her in reading, writing, and social graces. But at least Alice felt connected to the past. Why had they come to England if not to find something similar for herself?

“I’ve read descriptions of the Hall of Mirrors,” said Widmer. “If I had not resigned government service, I would be in Paris now and able to see it for myself.”

“So why resign?  Did you not enjoy the work?” asked Maggie.

“Rarely.”  He smiled. “But it taught me much. Your accent, for example. It is not from Halifax. Nor does it match our former colonies. Where is your home?”

“Inland.”  His curiosity hinted at a different explanation for this invitation. Perhaps he considered her a spy.

He frowned.

She tried a partial truth. “I came to England to heal the breach between my father and grandfather, but if that proves impossible, I want no further contact with the family.”

A waiter interrupted to describe the evening’s dinner choices. But when he departed, Widmer resumed his probing. “You sound so uncertain of success that I am surprised you are trying. Or are you driven by curiosity?”

“That is part of it, for I know very little about my ancestors,” she admitted. “But what are you doing now that you no longer work for the government?”

This time he accepted her change of subject. “Creating unconscionable scandal.”  He grinned. “My family has not decided whether to disown me or lock me in Bedlam.”

Alice gasped.

“He is teasing,” Maggie assured her. “What have you done that is so shocking, Mr. Widmer?”

“I wish to establish my own business, but trade is not a proper pursuit for gentlemen.”

The waiter served plates of soup.

“Delicious.”  Alice tasted and sighed with pleasure. “Give my compliments to the cook.”

“Monsieur DuPré is a
chef
, madam,” the waiter insisted.

“He is more than a chef,” said Widmer, laughing. “He is a temperamental
artiste
with a penchant for confronting anyone who disparages his creations. Only yesterday he brandished a knife at Lieutenant Forrester when he dared request that the sole not be smothered in DuPré’s tarragon lemon sauce.”

“Then we must do justice to his food.”  Maggie sipped a spoonful of the best soup she’d ever eaten, then resumed the conversation to keep from gulping the rest. She had not eaten since breakfast aboard ship. “Why does your family condemn honest business?”

“Tradition. I should derive income only from those activities approved by centuries of Widmers – land, investments, or service to the church or the crown. Never trade.”