Then Shields passed the boy a coin and hurried back. The curricle tipped as he clambered up behind Rand. “We follow the lane on,” Shields reported. “Apparently, the drive to the Hall lies just around that curve ahead, and there’s no way we’ll miss it. There are stone gateposts with eagles atop, but no gate.”
Rand dipped his head in acknowledgment and gave his pair the office. They obediently stepped out, and he guided them on.
Sure enough, just yards around the curve to the southwest, a pair of stone gateposts marked the entrance to a well-tended drive. Rand slowed the horses and turned them onto the smooth, beaten earth. As the carriage bowled along, he glanced around, taking in the cool shade cast by the surrounding trees and the shafts of sunlight that filtered through, dispelling the gloom. The drive was bordered by woodland—primarily beech and oak, but with occasional poplars with their shimmering leaves randomly interspersed here and there. After the warmth of the summer day, the tree-lined drive formed a pleasant avenue; indeed, all he’d seen of the area suggested it was one of those pockets of quietly contented, lush and green, rural countryside that could still be found dotted about southern England.
No house or building had been visible from the lane. Eventually, the drive emerged from the woodland into a large clearing in which Throgmorton Hall stood front and center, dominating the space between the trees.
The Hall was a three-storied block clad in the local pale-gray stone. Rand suspected the house’s Palladian façade had been added to an older building, yet the remodeling had been well done; Throgmorton Hall projected the image of a comfortable gentleman’s residence. The house faced west, and the long-paned white-framed windows of the lower two stories and the dormer windows of the upper story overlooked a wide swath of lawn. More lawn ran away to the south, dotted with several large old trees and ultimately bordered by the woodlands, which, as far as Rand could see, completely encircled the house.
He’d slowed the horses to a walk. As they drew nearer the house, to his left, he spotted a shrubbery backing into the woodland, with a decent-sized stable tucked tidily beyond it.
The drive ended in a large oval forecourt before the steps leading up to a semicircular porch shielding the large front door. A small, circular fountain stood in the center of the forecourt, directly opposite the door.
Rand drove his curricle into the forecourt and around the fountain and drew up beside the edge of the lawn opposite the front steps. He set the brake, then handed the reins to Shields and stepped down. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.” He spotted a lad coming from the stables. “Perhaps an hour—maybe two. Do what you think is best.”
Shields grunted.
Rand left him to deal with the horses and carriage and set off across the forecourt.
He’d taken only two paces when a muffled boom! fractured the slumbering silence.
The sound came from inside the house.
Rand checked, then his face set, and he ran toward the house.
Wisps of vapor seeped out from around the door, then the door was wrenched open, and people—maids, footmen, and others—came streaming out, along with billowing clouds of steam.
Even as he raced toward them, Rand registered that none of those coughing and waving aside the steamy clouds seemed the least bit panic-stricken. He slowed as he neared the steps. Those escaping from the house looked at him curiously—then an older lady came tottering out, one hand clutched to her impressive bosom.
Rand leapt up the steps. “Here—take my arm.”
The lady blinked at him, then smiled. “Thank you. No matter how often it happens, it’s always a shock.” The rest of those who had emerged from the house had gathered around the fountain and stood looking expectantly at the door. The matronly lady pointed down the steps to a bench set before the flowerbed along the front of the house. “I usually sit there and catch my breath.”
Swallowing the many questions leaping to his tongue, Rand assisted the lady down the steps and guided her to the bench.
She sat with a heartfelt sigh, then looked up at him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, but thank you.” She looked past him at his curricle, then raised her gaze—now openly curious—to his face. “I take it you’ve just arrived.”
“Indeed.” Before Rand could give his name, a commotion in the open doorway drew his and the lady’s attention.
Someone was attempting to propel a slender gentleman outside. He was clad in a long, gray inventor’s coat and sported a pair of goggles, now hanging about his neck. The coat was smudged in several places, the gentleman’s dark-brown hair was sticking out from his head in tufts, and he appeared rather dazed.
The person behind him prodded more violently, and staggering somewhat, the gentleman stumbled out of the steamy interior onto the front porch.
He was followed by a young lady. Scowling ferociously, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at the hapless gentleman.
Rand blinked, then looked again.
Slender, of middling height, with a pale complexion and fine features, clad in a sky-blue gown and all but vibrating with reined emotion, courtesy of her stance, the young lady looked every inch a virago with rose-gold hair.
Rand had never seen a more fascinating creature.
“That’s it!” the virago declared. Her voice was pleasingly low, yet presently carried the razor-sharp edge of frustrated ire. “Enough!” she continued, still addressing the gentleman, who was shaking his head as if to clear smothering clouds from his brain. “You have to stop! You can’t keep blowing the wretched contraption up!”
The gentleman frowned into the distance. “I think I know what went wrong.” He turned toward the virago, clearly intending to argue her point. “It was the feed—”
As the gentleman swung to face the young lady, his gaze landed on Rand, and his words died.
The virago followed the gentleman’s gaze. She saw Rand and stiffened. Her expression blanked, and she lowered her arms to her sides. Along with the apparently dumbfounded gentleman, she stared at Rand.
The gentleman faintly frowned. “Good afternoon. Can we help you?” His gaze flicked across the forecourt, and he took in Rand’s curricle—an expensive equipage drawn by top-of-the-line horseflesh. The gentleman’s eyes widened, and he looked back at Rand.
With a murmur of “Excuse me” to the older lady, Rand left her on the bench and climbed the steps to the porch. He halted a yard from the younger lady and the gentleman. Now he was on the same level, he realized the gentleman was nearly as tall as he was, although of slighter build. By the cast of the gentleman’s features and his bright hazel eyes, he was plainly William Throgmorton’s son. As for the young lady...despite her eyes being more green than hazel and her wonderful hair a tumbling mass of rose-gold curls, judging by the set of her lips and chin, Rand rather thought she must be William’s daughter. He inclined his head to her, then focused on the gentleman. “My name is Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. I’m here to see Mr. William Throgmorton.” He paused, then added, “I assume he’s your father.”
Silence greeted his announcement.
The gentleman continued to stare even as he paled; Rand had little doubt he’d recognized Rand’s name.
Rand glanced at the virago. Her eyes had widened in what had to be shock; as Rand looked, she paled, too.
Then her green eyes narrowed, her lips and chin firmed, and she looked at the young gentleman. “William John...?” Her tone was both questioning and demanding.
Judging by William John’s expression, all sorts of unwelcome thoughts were tumbling through his brain; they left him looking faintly terrified. He glanced at his sister, and guilt was added to the mix.
What is going on here?
Rand laid a firm hand on the reins of his own temper. He glanced past the pair into the house; the steamy haze was evaporating. Evenly, he asked, “Is Mr. William Throgmorton at home?”
He looked back at the younger man, apparently William John Throgmorton.
Finally, William John focused on Rand’s face and somewhat sheepishly said, “Ah. As to that...”
When, apparently lost for words, William John fell silent again, Rand looked to the virago.
Briefly, she raised her eyes to his, then dipped in a curtsy. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’m Miss Throgmorton, and, as you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my brother, William John Throgmorton.” She paused, then clasped her hands before her, tipped up her chin, and met Rand’s eyes. “As for our father, I regret to inform you that he passed away in January.”
It was Rand’s turn to stare. In his case, unseeing, while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head. Eventually, his accents clipped and curt, he stated, as much for himself as anyone else, “William Throgmorton is dead.”
It wasn’t a question, and no one replied.
Rand blinked and refocused on William John. “In January?” Despite his hold on his temper, incensed incredulity underscored his words.
Helplessly, William John stared back.
From the corner of his eye, Rand saw Miss Throgmorton, her gaze fixed on her brother, her expression close to an open accusation, confirm that telling detail with a decisive nod.
Rand returned his attention to the pale and blinking William John. If William Throgmorton was dead, then presumably William John was his heir—legally and financially. The question burning in Rand’s brain was whether William John was his father’s successor intellectually as well.
If he was, then...
There might—just possibly—be a way out of the fire William Throgmorton’s death, his son’s failure to tell Rand of it, and the rapidly approaching exhibition in Birmingham had landed Rand in.
The three of them remained staring at each other, weighing each other up in various ways. Then Rand drew in a long, deep breath and looked past the open door. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone crisp and rigidly even, “assuming it’s safe, we might take the discussion of our dilemma—the business arrangement my investment syndicate had with your father—inside.”
The virago glanced into the hall, then looked out at the staff and called, “All’s clear.” Then she glanced at Rand; he was perfectly certain he saw wariness in her eyes. “If you will follow me, my lord.”
She led the way inside.
With an awkward wave, William John gestured for Rand to precede him.
As Rand crossed the threshold into the well-appointed front hall and the telltale scent of overheated metal reached him, he counseled himself that his first step in sorting out this mess had to be to learn all he could about the true situation at Throgmorton Hall.
“The boiler exploded, you see.” Trailing behind Rand, William John apparently thought that part of his explanation was the most critical.
Following Miss Throgmorton across the hall tiles toward the door of what Rand assumed would be the drawing room, he glanced back to see William John deviating toward a plain wooden door—the sort usually found at the bottom of tower steps—that was set into the wall to the right of the front door and presently stood ajar.
Rand halted. Beyond the door, he glimpsed stone steps spiraling down. The metallic scent was emanating from there.
“Oh no.” Miss Throgmorton brushed past him. “You are not disappearing down there.” She clamped her hands about her brother’s arm and forcibly dragged him away from the partially open door. “The drawing room, William John.” Her tone was stern. She didn’t look at Rand as she towed her brother past him. “You need to explain what’s happened to Lord Cavanaugh.” She uttered a small humph. “I’d like to hear your version of that as well.”
Rand felt his brows rise. He fell in behind the Throgmorton siblings, inwardly reflecting that the next hour was bidding fair to being significantly more fraught than he’d anticipated.
The drawing room possessed a similar ambiance to the front hall—well lit, comfortable, and unostentatious. Unfussy, yet feminine—or at least bearing the imprint of some female hand. The armchairs and long sofa were well stuffed and covered in flowery chintz. The walls were a very pale green, and the white painted woodwork gleamed. Long windows opened onto a flagstone terrace that overlooked the long south lawn and allowed slanting summer sunlight to illuminate the room.
Miss Throgmorton all but pushed her brother down to sit on the sofa, then moved to claim one of the chintz-covered armchairs—the one that faced the door. With a wave significantly more graceful than her brother’s, she invited Rand to take the armchair that faced the sofa across a low table.
Rand sat, strangely aware that he was dressed informally, wearing breeches, riding jacket, and top boots, rather than his customary trousers and well-cut coat. Why the thought popped into his mind, he had no idea. As matters stood, he had far more to worry about than the figure he cut in the Throgmortons’ eyes, and he seriously doubted William John would notice.
He focused on the younger man. He judged William John to be in his mid-twenties. Having siblings of his own, after watching the interaction between brother and sister, he would wager Miss Throgmorton was about a year younger than her transparently exasperating brother.
At present, William John was sitting upright, with his hands clasped between his knees and a slight frown on his face. His gaze was fixed on his hands.
After taking in that sight, Miss Throgmorton cleared her throat and glanced at Rand. “I apprehend you had business dealings with my father, my lord. If you would explain what those were, perhaps we might”—she gestured vaguely and rather weakly concluded—“be able to assist you.”
Rand studied her for a moment, then looked at William John. “I suspect your brother knows very well what my dealings with your father were, Miss Throgmorton. William John—it might be easier for us all if I use that name—certainly recognized my name.”
William John raised his eyes, met Rand’s, then grimaced. He looked at Miss Throgmorton. “Lord Cavanaugh is the principal investor in the syndicate that funded Papa’s steam engine.”
Felicia Throgmorton stared at her brother. “The one you just blew up? Yet again.” A sensation of coldness was welling inside her.
Gloomily, William John nodded.
The cold was dread, and it continued to spread. Felicia glanced at Lord Cavanaugh, then looked again at William John. “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘funded’?”
William John shifted on the sofa in a way that only chilled Felicia more. “Lord Randolph”—William John glanced at the lord sitting unmovingly and projecting all the menace of a crouching tiger—“or more accurately, he and the investors who band together with him in his investing syndicate, advanced Papa the funds to finish the engine and present it at the exhibition in return for a two-thirds share of the rights in the invention.”
Felicia compressed her lips into a tight line, holding back any too-aggressive response. As the daughter of a longtime inventor, she understood enough about rights and funding to comprehend the situation. But in the circumstances... Without looking at Lord Cavanaugh, she nodded crisply. “I see. So where are these funds as of this moment? How does the account stand?”
“Well, we’re only three weeks from the exhibition, you know.” William John cast an apologetic look at Lord Cavanaugh. “Most of the money’s been spent.”
She frowned. “Spent on what? Other than two replacement boilers and a few valves, you haven’t bought much since Papa died.” She glanced at Lord Cavanaugh; he was watching their exchange with an entirely unreadable—but by no means encouraging—expression on his handsome, autocratic face. Her nerves twitched, and she hurried to say, “I’m sure we can repay his lordship whatever sum was left at the time Papa died—”
Frantic gestures from William John had her looking back at him.
The cold inside coalesced into an icy knot and sank to the pit of her stomach. “What?” She hea
rd her voice rise. “We can’t?”
William John stared at her, then warily said, “The money you’ve been using to pay the bills...”
“What?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded shrill. “But...” She stared at her brother. “You—and Papa—told me that money was royalties from his earlier inventions.”
“Yes, well.” William John squirmed more definitely. “We knew you wouldn’t understand, so...”
“So you lied to me.” She felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her world. More quietly, she added, “Both of you.”
When William John grimaced and looked down at his clasped hands, she forced herself to draw in a shuddering breath and, seizing the reins of her temper in an iron grip and banishing the pain of what felt perilously like betrayal from her mind, with rigid calm, she stated, “You encouraged me to use investors’ funds for the household.”
William John blinked, then frowned and met her eyes. “We had to live.”
The presence in the armchair opposite the sofa uncrossed his long, well-muscled legs.
The graceful and controlled movement immediately drew her eyes.
Rand had been waiting; he caught Miss Throgmorton’s gaze. “To clarify, Miss Throgmorton, the terms of our investment in your father’s work included a stipend for living expenses for your father and his assistant.” With a dip of his head, Rand indicated William John. “The arrangement also included funds for the upkeep of the laboratory-workshop and so on. Consequently, that the funds were used for household expenses isn’t an issue. I assure you neither I nor the investors I represent will be in any way concerned about that.”
It was, however, telling that she had known enough to be concerned. In this particular case, it didn’t matter; in many cases, it would have.
“However”—he transferred his gaze to her brother—“as William John has pointed out, the exhibition at which it was agreed that your father would demonstrate the success of his improved steam engine is now a mere three weeks away.” He met William John’s hazel eyes. “At this point, my principal concern—mine and that of the investors I represent—is whether the Throgmorton steam engine will be operational and fit to be unveiled at the exhibition as planned.”
The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh Page 2
