by Allison Lane
No wonder she had felt attracted to Marcus. Somehow she had recognized a tie. Perhaps she’d heard the name as a child.
Half an hour later, she took a seat in the hotel lobby. Marcus was out but would return shortly – or so Simmons claimed. She wasn’t so sure, for if he was meeting another inventor, he might easily lose track of time. But she was too impatient to rely on a note, which he could set aside if he was rushed.
After ordering coffee, she distracted herself by watching the comings and goings of other guests.
A pale blonde wearing the entire contents of a large jewelry case swept down the stairs, accompanied by three men speaking what sounded like German. When Simmons addressed her as “your highness,” Maggie stared. She would never have guessed the buxom woman was royal. In fact, she bore a striking resemblance to the Bavarian barmaid at the Riverboat Tavern, who required no assistance to oust rowdy drunkards.
A man with the blackest skin she’d ever seen burst through the door and hurried up the stairs, knocking a descending brunette into the banister. Obviously neither slave nor servant; he was too confident. But what was such a man doing in London? And in so elegant a hotel?
He was followed by a mother and son returning from the royal menagerie. The boy pounced on a design woven into the carpet, emitting ferocious growls.
“I’m a lion!” he shouted as the street door again opened.
A lapdog wearing a diamond-studded collar rushed in, barking ferociously.
The lad screamed.
Maggie jumped up to help, but the dog halted inches from the boy’s face, looking pleased with the reaction it had provoked.
“Lady Augusta Mountrail! Can’t you control that animal?” the mother snapped.
“Prince Theodore would never hurt a soul,” declared Lady Augusta, scooping him against her bosom so she could press her face against his neck. “Would you, my sweet Teddy?”
Maggie regained her seat and gulped coffee to steady her nerves.
“One day that beast will go too far.”
“He is not as unruly as Julian.” Lady Augusta scowled at the lad, who was already feigning a new attack on a footman. “That boy deliberately tripped me yesterday. Teddy has much better manners.”
Both women had hopelessly spoiled their charges, decided Maggie as they moved upstairs, their voices drowned out by a couple arguing over an invitation to a ball.
Marcus finally returned, deep in thought. When he failed to respond to her cheerful greeting, she stepped in front of him.
He nearly ran her down. “Miss Adams! But where is Mrs. Sharpe?”
“Shopping. I must speak with you.”
“I have an appointment in an hour.”
“I will be brief.” She moved closer to the fireplace, away from Simmons’s ears. “I need information about my mother’s family.”
“Your mother?”
“Elizabeth Widmer. She and my father eloped twenty-eight years ago.”
Shock exploded through his eyes, dulling their green to gray. A surge of betrayal followed. She was too surprised by his reaction to question why she could read his eyes so easily.
* * * *
Marcus stared at Miss Adams, suspicion tingling along every nerve. And lust, damn his uncooperative body. If only he hadn’t recognized the awareness in her eyes last night. Knowing that she felt the same tug of attraction had made it difficult to sleep.
But he must set all feelings aside. Ever since Life in London had printed an exaggerated story about the Adams family that included all the old scandals, both they and the Widmers had been beset by pretenders. They had already exposed two men and a woman claiming Andrew Adams as their sire. At least this one had chosen a novel approach.
“Why did you say nothing last night?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I knew her as Catherine Adams, wife of John Adams. She died fifteen years ago. I only examined Father’s papers this morning after his family swore that John was not related. Their marriage lines name Andrew Jonathan Franklin Adams and Elizabeth Catherine Anne Widmer.”
“He sent you to meet his family, yet told you nothing about them?”
“He was dying. He begged me to visit England, said his father was George Adams, viscount, and that the papers in his desk would prove my identity. There was no time for more.”
Clever or truthful? It was too early to tell, and he wasn’t about to lay his own cards on the table until he learned considerably more about Miss Maggie Adams, late of America. She had already told him one lie. “What do you know of the Widmer family?”
“Only what you mentioned last evening. I had no inkling I was connected until now – assuming that we are speaking of the same Widmers. I did not even know my parents were English until the day Father died. He claimed Mother had been promised to his brother, but chose to elope. I suppose that’s why they moved to Halifax.” She shrugged.
“Andrew fled after stealing a fortune in jewelry and banknotes to cover yet another gaming debt,” he said flatly.
“You lie.” Her fingers curled, and for a moment he thought she would strike him. “Father was a hard worker, who abhorred any waste of time or money. A more honorable man would be difficult to find.”
“Hard worker?”
“In Halifax, he worked on the docks, loading and unloading cargo. I don’t recall those days, but I remember his years as a trapper, and those he spent cutting timber. There were other jobs as well. He died of injuries suffered when a tunnel collapsed in the mine.”
“When was that?”
“The seventeenth of March. I only wish he’d died outright, like the others. He lingered for several days.”
He pressed her hand in sympathy, sending another wave of desire rampaging through his groin. Andrew was innocent of the theft, though it was too soon to admit it. Mentioning the charge had been a test to see how much she knew. They had exposed one impostor by convincing him that Andrew’s heir must repay that stolen fortune. “You say they never spoke of England?”
“Why should they? Our life was nothing like this.” She gestured at the ornate lobby, with its frieze-covered cornices, Greek statues, and gold-leaf adornment. “We looked forward, not back. Father claimed that clinging to the past made it difficult to plan for the future – you should understand, for you said much the same thing at dinner. I can only recall two references to their youths. When Father was teaching me to ride, he mentioned his own teacher, Frank. And Mother claimed that the portrait in her locket depicted her mother, for whom I’m named.”
“Maggie.”
“That’s what she called me, but my full name is Margaret Anne Hartley Adams.”
He hid his surprise. It was unlikely that she would have known Margaret’s family name, unless she’d uncovered a copy of Debrett’s Peerage in the American wilderness. But he must investigate before accepting her. “Your father wished to renew ties with his family?”
“No. He had no interest in returning. But he did not want me to be alone in the world, so he asked me to heal the breach with his father and learn about my ancestors.”
Unless he had heard…
Marcus suppressed the thought. March was too early for news to have reached America. Yet an impostor would know that. Miss Adams had sailed only a month ago.
But grief saddens her eyes every time she mentions her father…
“What other papers did he leave you?”
“Proof of my birth and their deaths. A note from the captain who wed them that mentioned their name change. Several letters from his father, written while he was in Paris in 1783.” She shrugged.
She was hiding something. Ice formed in his stomach, confirming how much he wanted her to be real. Maggie was nothing like the other impostors. They had radiated greed from the first contact. “May I see them?”
“Of course.” Rising, she led him upstairs.
The documents seemed genuine. He had seen George’s hand often enough to recognize it now. The marriage lines were scrawled on letterhead from the
Mariner Queen, captained by Joseph Barnsley.
“You mentioned a locket?”
She pulled it from beneath her bodice.
His doubts fled. He had seen that locket a thousand times, in the family portrait commissioned to celebrate his grandfather’s marriage. The group had included his great-grandparents, his newlywed grandparents, his Great-uncle Henry, Great-aunt Margaret, and Henry’s firstborn. His grandmother had worn the family rubies, but Margaret had eschewed the family emeralds, insisting on the locket Henry had designed to enclose her betrothal miniature. This locket. Elizabeth had taken it with her when she’d eloped.
For the first time, he stared at the miniature itself. The face was identical to the one in the family portrait.
“It would appear that we are cousins, Maggie,” he said, shaking his head.
“Cousins?”
“Second cousins, to be precise.” He pointed to the miniature. “She married my grandfather’s brother.”
“Good heavens!” She laughed. “I’ve never met a real relative before. So tell me about my family.”
He complied, offering humorous anecdotes of various Widmers, though he refused to divulge more until he could swear he had verified every fact. The family would demand absolute proof before accepting her. Only after she was fully acknowledged as a Widmer would he approach the Adams family on her behalf.
-3-
Maggie waited until the footman finished laying the table before she sat down. She’d not seen Marcus in three days, but he had given her much to ponder. Her mother’s parents were both dead – Margaret barely a month ago. If only she hadn’t delayed two months before starting this journey. Yet travel would have been even more difficult if she’d left before the weather cleared. It had been hard enough as it was.
Her mother had been the youngest of six children, so there were numerous relatives on the Widmer side. Marcus had asked her not to contact them until he could speak with his ailing grandfather, the current Lord Widmer. She assumed that was where he’d been.
But she’d made no such promise concerning the Adams family, who already knew of her claims. So she’d written to her Uncle William and to his heir, Robert, explaining about her father’s name change and asking to meet his English family before she returned home.
Now she smiled. In addition to breakfast, the footman had brought replies from each of them.
But William’s response triggered her temper.
My brother forfeited his place in the family when he embraced a life of crime, he’d written in a slashing hand. Even if you are not an impostor, I would never acknowledge his whore’s brat. Should you set foot on my property or solicit others to support your claims, I will see you arrested.
She frowned.
Life of crime… Marcus claimed Andrew had stolen a fortune in jewelry and banknotes.
My only crime was eloping… She believed her father, but he’d known that he would be arrested for the theft. Thus someone must have arranged evidence against him.
The past no longer mattered. William’s antagonism proved he had not forgiven Catherine’s defection. To remove the sting, he’d convinced himself that she was unchaste. So he would never heal the breach.
She blinked back tears. Though she had only promised to make peace with George, William’s rejection hurt.
Sighing, she opened Robert’s letter.
He apologized for his brusque response to her first note, then invited her to dine with him at the hotel. Shortly before his death, Grandfather searched for Andrew so he could beg forgiveness. Life is too short to cling to grievances. Perhaps in time, my father will also set aside his pique and welcome you. He concluded with three pages describing the original rift.
She frowned. Robert could be no older than she, yet he wrote as if he had known Andrew intimately. His depiction bore no resemblance to her father. This Andrew was a rakish dandy and gamester, who was always in debt. He’d created further scandal by publicly insulting a powerful arbiter of fashion while in his cups. After George confined him to the estate in an attempt to reform him, Andrew had turned to thievery to support his excesses, then stolen his brother’s bride.
Maggie snorted. The claims were patently ridiculous. Why would George have sought forgiveness if they were true?
Rereading both letters raised other questions. William obviously believed the charges, for he considered his brother a criminal. Since George had sought forgiveness, he must have found evidence that seemed to exonerate Andrew. Both men reacted logically.
But Robert’s behavior was strange. Like his father, he believed Andrew guilty of every crime short of murder. Yet he applauded his grandfather’s decision to seek forgiveness for driving Andrew away. Even blood shouldn’t be that thick. If one of her managers embraced such irrational logic, she would fire him.
Marcus had said little about Robert, his reticence proving his skill as a diplomat and adding to her suspicions. Now that she thought about it, he had said little about any Adams, though he must know them well. The two family seats shared a boundary.
The only way to learn the truth was to accept this invitation. At least the dining room was public. And Robert would be easier to handle than most of the gentlemen who called on her. He knew nothing of her situation. Whatever his faults, he was no Patrick Riley.
Patrick had been her first serious suitor. His charm had captured her imagination, spawning dreams of an impossibly Utopian future. But when he’d failed to win her father’s support for his suit, he’d tried to abduct her. She had learned a valuable lesson that day. Never again had she disregarded her father’s advice or believed any man’s compliments. In the ten years since, she had become adept at looking beyond the surface to the avarice that always lurked beneath.
As she was doing now. Robert’s welcome did not ring true. Perhaps he was befriending her merely to annoy his father – in which case, he was harmless. But maybe he wanted something.
“My cousin Robert has invited us to dine with him this evening,” she said when Alice joined her. “We will meet him in the lobby.”
“Why?”
Maggie shrugged. “I don’t trust him. Why would he heap flattery on the daughter of someone he considers so vile? Most people believe the adage about the sins of the fathers.” She handed over his letter.
“But how would he know about Pittsburgh?”
“Perhaps Grandfather’s agent traced Father.” She frowned, tapping the other letter against the tabletop. “No. In that case, Uncle William would also know.”
Alice examined both missives. “I see what you mean. Robert’s flattery does not match his opinions – unless he admires Andrew’s supposed excesses. We must be cautious.”
“So I thought. And it would be best to wear our oldest gowns.”
Memories of Patrick still prodded her mind, so she stopped ignoring them. Her intuition had served her well in the past. Now it was convinced that Robert was a fortune hunter.
* * * *
They arrived downstairs a quarter hour early, taking seats in the first parlor. Robert found them barely five minutes later.
No one would suspect they were related, Maggie decided, taking in his appearance. He might share her father’s dark coloring, but his physique was nothing alike. Nor was his taste. Satin pantaloons and a gaudy waistcoat encased his slight frame. A blatantly padded jacket with enormous buttons emphasized his narrow shoulders. The ribbon on his quizzing glass was so long that it was tangled in the forest of fobs at his waist, so he fumbled bringing the glass to his eye.
He had greeted an acquaintance outside the parlor with studied ennui, but the moment he identified her, his manner changed.
“My dear Maggie,” he exclaimed, dropping his glass as he bent to clasp her hand to his breast. The glass bounced painfully on her knee. “Had I suspected such beauty, I would have rushed to your side days ago.”
She bit back a scathing response. Her intuition had been right. Not only was he lying, but he was doing it poorly. Patrick ha
d delivered his flummery with far more conviction. But at least this proved that her attraction to Marcus had nothing to do with being second cousins. Robert shared even closer blood, yet she already wished herself elsewhere.
“Mr. Adams,” she replied coolly, retrieving her hand. “May I present my companion, Mrs. Sharpe.”
“Charmed.” He did not even glance at Alice as he reclaimed her hand, gripping it so tightly that only a struggle would free her. “Shall we dine?”
Annoyance flashed in his eyes when she stood, for she was taller by at least an inch. And temper tensed his arm when she deliberately stumbled, nearly tripping him. But he suppressed it, flashing another false smile. “I would have recognized you anywhere,” he claimed, heading for the dining room. “You’ve the look of your father.”
“Nonse—” She strongly resembled her mother, but scrabbling claws interrupted her protest, drawing all eyes to the grand staircase. Teddy jerked the lead from Lady Augusta’s hand and hurled himself at Robert, barking loudly.
“Ignore him,” Maggie said quickly. “He won’t bite.”
Robert ignored her instead. His foot struck, tossing the dog against a chair several feet away. “Quiet, you stupid beast!”
Lady Augusta screamed.
“What did you do that for?” demanded Alice.
Robert ignored her.
Teddy backed toward his mistress, snarling.
“That animal should be shot for insulting a gentleman,” snapped Robert as he strode toward Lady Augusta. For a moment Maggie thought he meant to strike the woman, but again he kicked at the dog.
This time Teddy was ready. He ducked the foot, sinking his teeth solidly into the other ankle.
Robert lost his balance and crashed to the floor.
“Serves him right,” muttered Lady Augusta, scooping up Teddy. She stalked off, murmuring soothing sounds into the dog’s ear.
Maggie let Simmons help Robert to his feet. The incident had been illuminating. Robert’s eyes had revealed fury and arrogance, but no fear. Even if Teddy had been attacking, he was too small to inflict serious damage. Most people would have tried placating the animal, but Robert had treated him like an annoying insect.
