“If it can be done, it will certainly be a magnificent achievement,” Crispin D’Aubignon, Viscount Dellamont, murmured to himself as he stood reviewing his notes outside the office of Richard Cranmore, the engineer surveying the final leg of the proposed Great Western Railway.
With the substantial return he’d earned on his investment in the Liverpool & Manchester, he was always looking for other promising railway ventures. If he received the answers he anticipated from the engineering assistant he would be consulting in just a few moments, he’d be ready to sink some money into this new scheme.
Review completed, he walked in to find the bare outer office deserted. Not surprising, since the firm’s main headquarters was back in London and this suite of rooms had been rented only for the duration of the local survey. But the front door had been left unlocked, which indicated there should be someone on the premises.
Proceeding toward the inner office, he called out, “Hello! Is anyone here?”
He’d been about to add his name and the reason for his visit when he reached the doorway and stopped short.
Seated behind the desk of the inner office was a woman. Not just a woman, he realized as she looked up at him inquiringly, but a young and very attractive one.
Though her gown wasn’t as outlandishly elaborate as those in the first stare of fashion, he recognized the material as expensive and the cut and fit as expert. Glossy dark hair with glimmers of auburn glistened from the elaborate arrangement of curls pinned to her head, and the eyes turned up to him were a beautiful green, framed by long dark lashes. The pale skin of her face looked petal-soft, her nose aquiline and lovely. Lush lips and a temptingly curved figure produced an immediate jump in his pulse and a prickling awareness in the rest of his body.
No gently-born woman worked, and offices employed only male clerks. So what sort of woman could she be? The chere-amie of one of the engineers?
Before he could settle his rattled brain and produce speech, she said, “Can I help you?”
A little embarrassed to have been caught frankly staring at her, Crispin stammered, “V-viscount Dellamont. I’m here to consult with a Mr. Gilling?”
Surprise widened her eyes. “Lord Dellamont? Excuse me, but I was expecting someone…older. Most potential investors are,” she explained. “Austin—Mr. Gilling—should arrive shortly. Indeed, when I heard someone walk in, I thought it was him.”
She rose from behind the desk, her tiny waist emphasized by the wideness of her skirts. Though she was rather tall for a woman, the top of her head should just about reach his chin, Crispin thought. He could wrap both arms almost completely around that small frame, if he were to embrace her.
And ah, would he like to embrace her! Just who was this enticingly lovely woman?
“If you’d step back into the front room, you can wait there,” she was saying. “I apologize that our reception area is so…bare. Not expecting to be in Bristol long or to be receiving investors or clients here, my father didn’t consider it worth renting the quantity of furniture and comforts we have at the London office. Would you like a cup of tea? I can send Father’s assistant to the shop at the corner.”
“No, thank you.” Though the girl made a “shooing” motion, directing him toward the outer room, Crispin lingered, compelled to find out more about this lovely creature.
Then the significance of what she’d just said registered. “Your father?” he repeated. “You are…Richard Cranmore’s daughter?”
“Yes. Since there is no one to perform proper introductions, I’ll introduce myself. Marcella Cranmore, my lord.” She gave him a curtsey that was long on grace and exaggerated deference.
If she were truly the respected engineer’s unmarried daughter, that would make her a member of the rising merchant elite—who were known for their straight-laced morals. No chance of a casual, pleasurable encounter with a woman of that background, regrettably. The price of getting to know this young woman better would be marriage—which should prompt him to terminate the conversation immediately.
Just then, the outer door opened and a young man of about his own age bustled in. “Ah, Austin, there you are,” the young woman said, gifting the newcomer with a dazzling smile.
The engineer returned a fond one of his own. After sparing Crispin only a cursory glance, he said, “Sorry I’m late, Marcella. Some problems with the equipment at the site—it’s rather hard to access. But your father was insistent that I return as soon as possible, since he was expecting a visit by some fancy nob who’s already dropped a pile of blunt buying shares in other railroad ventures.”
The lady’s smile wavered. “Viscount Dellamont?”
“Yes, that was the name.”
She inclined her head toward Crispin. “He’s already arrived.”
Gilling turned toward him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Lord Dellamont?”
“I have that honor,” Crispin said drily.
Though the young man’s face colored, he gave Crispin a quick bow. “Pleased to meet you, my lord. Austin Gilling, Mr. Cranmore’s assistant chief engineer. No offense meant, I assure you.”
“None taken.”
“If you would be gracious enough to wait a few minutes longer, I need to have Miss Cranmore record some of the measurements we’ve just taken. After that, I will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“Let me send for that tea, my lord. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible while you wait, and then Mr. Gilling will give you his full attention,” Miss Cranmore said, giving him a placating smile—as if he were a querulous child who needed soothing.
“If Mr. Gilling is going to be giving you pertinent figures about the approach slope, I’d like to sit in on the discussion.”
“The figures are of a highly technical nature. We wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time, boring you with mathematical details,” she replied.
“Whose significance I couldn’t possibly comprehend?” he suggested, not sure whether he was more amused or offended by her treating him like a rich, self-important, clueless dolt.
Her overly-gracious demeanor slipped a bit. “Are you a trained engineer then, my lord?” she asked with some asperity.
“No. But since I have, er, ‘dropped a good deal of blunt’ in several other railway ventures, I’ve made it my business to become more acquainted with some of the technical issues involved with constructing them.”
“I really can’t see why—“ Gilling began, but Miss Cranmore waved a hand, motioning him to silence.
“If it would please you to know the figures, you are certainly quite welcome to listen. We have no objection to our investors becoming more knowledgeable about the technical aspects of our engineering projects. It can only increase their appreciation and admiration for the work my father’s engineers accomplish.”
Giving Gilling a warning look, as if to remind him he was dealing with an investor whose plump pockets they needed to fund the project that would pay his salary, she said, “Do step back into the office, then. Mr. Gilling, will you bring another chair? And please let me send Timmons for that tea, my lord.”
“If you wish to have some,” Crispin said, curious about what was going to happen next.
And even more curious about why the daughter of a successful, well-known engineer would be sitting at a desk in his temporary office. Her father, he knew, had made a comfortable fortune building railroads and bridges. Even were it not highly unusual to have a female clerk in their office, the family was certainly well enough off that his daughter need do nothing more taxing than help her mother run the household, visit friends, and spend her father’s blunt on clothes and fripperies while her parents lined up prospective suitors.
The tea order dispatched to the assistant who ducked in when Miss Cranmore called him and an extra chair brought by Gilling to the desk, Miss Cranmore resumed her seat behind it, Gilling taking the one he pulled up beside her. While she extracted a notebook from the desk drawer, the engineer pulled a pad from his waistcoat pocket. Once she had taken out her nib pen and opened the inkwell lid, she nodded to Gilling.
“Have you and Father finished all the measurements of the slope leading up from the river?” she asked.
“We have one more section to complete—the slope is rather steep there, so the work goes slowly. We’re having to break the hundred-foot segments into many smaller increments for the forward tape man to be able to keep it level at his chest. Are you ready for the numbers?”
She dipped her nib in the ink. “Ready.”
For the next few minutes, Gilling read off a list of lengths while Miss Cranmore copied them into her log book.
“That’s all I have for now,” Gilling said. “After I speak with Lord Dellamont, I’ll head back out to rejoin Mr. Cranmore. We hope to finish the rest of the measurements today and then can begin figuring the angles necessary to construct the grade.”
The assistant arrived with tea, Miss Cranmore pouring while Gilling put away his notebook. “So, my lord, what would you like to know?” he asked.
“The countryside immediately outside London is flat enough, but as one journeys westward, especially after Chippenham, the land becomes increasingly hilly, with several rivers and a canal to cross. How do the engineers propose to deal with these?”
Gilling angled a look at him. “You are familiar with the terrain?”
“I’m not a professional surveyor, of course, but before investing in any venture, I prefer to ride the route myself. Evaluating the difficulties it may pose and therefore the chances of it being successfully completed. I have to admit, when I first looked it over, I was rather skeptical.”
“And are you still skeptical?” Miss Cranmore asked.
“That’s why I wanted to talk with Mr. Gilling.”
“The route is challenging,” Gilling admitted. “The stations at both Temple Meads and Bath will be elevated and require the construction of viaducts. In addition to bridges crossing smaller waterways, there will be a major bridge to carry the track over the River Avon. The Kennet and Avon canal will have to be diverted, and one major tunnel constructed through Box Hill outside Corsham, on the highest point of the route.”
“Which, I understand, will be the longest tunnel ever attempted?” Crispin said.
“True. But the engineer in overall charge of the project, Mr. Brunel, worked on tunnels with his father, also a superior engineer. No one in England has more experience.”
“How steep will the gradient be?”
“For the majority of the line, no more than 1 in 1000. The Box Hill tunnel will be steeper, of course, but manageable.”
“What about the stone underlying the tunnel? Will it be able to support having so long a cavern carved out of it?”
“Mr. Brunel believes so. He intends to sink shafts along the route to examine the geology of the rock, of course, before the construction begins.”
“How about curves going up and down the grades?”
“No angles more acute than ten degrees, except perhaps in steeper areas where switchbacks will be necessary. But the engine’s speed will be slow enough in those instances not to pose a danger.”
Crispin nodded, the majority of his concerns alleviated. “I think that answers most of my questions.” He ought to head out himself, but he couldn’t quite master his desire to chat further with the intriguingly accomplished Miss Cranmore.
Giving in to that impulse, he said, “I know you’re anxious to get back and complete your work, Mr. Gilling, so don’t let me keep you any longer.”
Gilling nodded back. “The Great Western will be a boon for its investors, I assure you, Lord Dellamont. Mr. Brunel intends to create not only a direct link between London and Bristol, but by constructing of a fleet of fast, transatlantic iron ships, to New York as well.”
If Brunel were successful in doing all of that, an investor’s return on this venture could be huge, Crispin thought. “Thank you, Mr. Gilling. I shall keep it all in mind.”
“Will you be back in the office later, Mr. Gilling?” Miss Cranmore asked as the engineer put his tea cup back on the tray and then rose from his chair.
“I don’t know. It depends on how long the final measurements take.” Dragging his chair back against the wall, he added, “Your father said not to wait here for him, that he’d meet you back at your lodgings.”
“Perhaps you will join us for dinner, then?” she suggested, giving the engineer another of her lovely smiles.
“I would like that,” he replied, returning another smile of his own. “But I’ll need to make calculations on the data we collected today so I can recommend to your father the best way to proceed along the final approach while keeping the angle of rise within acceptable limits.”
“Father and I will be working on the figures as well. We could compare notes,” Miss Cranmore said.
He nodded—as if it were a common occurrence to have a lady figuring angles and slopes. “Thank you for the invitation. I shall certainly join you if I can.” Turning to Crispin with a bow, he said, “Thank you for coming by, Lord Dellamont. Mr. Cranmore is gratified by your interest in our project, as I’m sure Mr. Brunel will be also. My lord, Miss Cranmore.”
Giving them another bow, the engineer walked out. Miss Cranmore, Crispin noted, followed the engineer’s progress out of the office with a wistful look on her face.
Crispin found himself unaccountably annoyed—and a little bit jealous—of the engineer for the favor with which he was treated by this lovely young woman. Which made no sense. They were in no way competing for Miss Cranmore’s attentions. After this one meeting, he would never see her again.
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 they 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 coloring 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 apologize.”
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?