Delaney Kingsley shifted in her chair. She didn't look at Rowan. She looked directly at the bulldog across the table.
She didn't look angry. She looked confused, in a polite, aristocratic way.
"My cousin mentioned that the alternative route—the one you would have to take if you do not use the Hamilton land—runs through the marshlands near Basingstoke," Delaney said. Her voice was smooth, like velvet over steel.
Lord Sterling blinked. He wasn't used to women speaking in this room, let alone about geography.
"That is correct, Miss...?"
"Kingsley," Delaney supplied. "Now, I am not an engineer, my Lord. But my father often spoke of the Basingstoke marshes. Didn't the Southern Line try to build a trestle bridge there five years ago?"
She paused for effect. She tilted her head.
"I believe it sank," she said softly. "Swallowed whole by the mud. Cost the investors... oh, what was it? Fifty thousand pounds?"
