The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Rand tipped his head in dismissal and turned to William John. While Felicia urged everyone to return to their beds, Rand, with William John, checked that the doors were, indeed, still shut tight. William John assured Rand that as long as the bars were set in their place—as they were—the alarm system could be relied on to give notice should anyone attempt the doors again.

  Stepping back, looking up, and smiling at the alarm mechanism, William John sighed happily. “Papa would have been so pleased.”

  Again, Rand met Felicia’s eyes, then, at her direction, William John turned off the gaslights, and he and Rand followed her up the stairs.

  Felicia paused in the hall. The rest of the household had already reached the gallery and were dispersing to their rooms. She turned to William John—and Rand, who was closing the workshop door, something William John hardly ever remembered to do.

  One glance at William John’s face informed her that her brother was overwhelmingly delighted at the perfect performance of one of his inventions and remained untouched by any apprehension over what had caused the alarm to go off.

  Rand, on the other hand, looked as concerned as she felt. It was more to him than William John that she said, “After the alarm went off, I saw a man run away from the house and plunge into the woods.”

  William John blinked.

  Rand regarded her levelly. “Heading past the rose garden?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  His jaw set. “I saw him, too.” He grimaced. “There’s so little moonlight, I didn’t get a decent look at him.”

  “Nor did I.” She saw the question forming in Rand’s eyes and stated, “And no, he didn’t look familiar in any way, but it was so quick and the light so poor, I couldn’t swear it wasn’t Mayhew, either.”

  William John frowned. “I thought we’d decided the artist was no threat.”

  “That’s what we’d concluded,” Rand agreed, “but that doesn’t mean our assessment was correct. It seems a trifle too coincidental that Mayhew appears in the area, inveigles an invitation to the Hall, visits, and hours later, in the dead of night, someone tries to break into your workshop.” He looked at Felicia. “Cast your mind back. Did Mayhew do or say anything at all that might suggest he’d noticed the workshop?”

  “No.” She frowned, thinking back yet again. “As I said earlier, I’m not even sure he saw the doors. If he did glimpse them, he certainly paid them no attention at all.” She paused, then shook herself and fixed her gaze on Rand. “Regardless, Mayhew is supposed to return tomorrow—no, today.” A quick glance at the longcase clock against the hall wall confirmed it was nearly two o’clock. “He said he would come in the early afternoon to do his sketch. If it was he who tried the workshop doors, perhaps he won’t turn up. But if he does...”

  Rand grunted and waved her and William John toward the stairs. “If he does, either he’s the innocent artist we all think him, or he possesses enough nerve to be a real threat to the invention.”

  “We still won’t know, though, will we?” William John climbed the stairs on her other side.

  “We’ll simply have to remain vigilant,” Rand replied.

  He and Felicia parted from William John at the head of the stairs. Side by side, they walked around the gallery and down the corridor that led to their rooms. Rand reached his door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then inclined his head and, through the dimness, wished her a goodnight.

  She returned the salutation and continued to her room. Once inside with the door firmly shut, she exhaled.

  Despite all the excitement and distractions, keeping her gaze from Rand’s chest, the solid muscles and impressive width imperfectly concealed behind the screen of his fine linen shirt, had required far more effort than she’d liked. Yet she’d clung to her composure and had managed well enough; she doubted he or anyone else had noticed her difficulties.

  She crossed to the uncurtained window through which she’d seen the fleeing man. Crossing her arms over her silk wrapper, she stared down at the night-shrouded scene and thought of what was to come.

  Prior to tonight, she and Rand had already started to form a...partnership of sorts. Until he’d arrived and she’d learned the truth of how matters stood, she hadn’t comprehended the significance of her brother’s current invention with respect to her own life. Given she now understood that reality, Rand was quickly coming to feature as...a collaborator. Someone whose aims coincided with her own. Someone she could rely on, at least as far as protecting the invention and steering it to a successful unveiling went.

  That some man had attempted to break into the workshop proved beyond doubt that someone—be it Mayhew or some other man—wanted to sabotage the project.

  She and Rand would have to work together to guard against that happening. His alarm mechanism notwithstanding, William John couldn’t be relied on to recognize, much less react appropriately to, a threat posed to his invention, not until an attack materialized and was actively under way. Then, he would defend his engine to the death. Meanwhile, however, he would be absorbed with correcting the issues preventing the engine from running for more than a handful of minutes without exploding.

  For all their sakes, William John needed to devote his time and his brain to that. No one else could fix the engine.

  And she and Rand would be thrown together even more in organizing its defense.

  She had to admit that a large part of her found the prospect...enticing. It promised a sort of excitement that had rarely come her way.

  More, however, as she stood staring unseeing into the darkness, she realized that, for the very first time in her life, she felt...protective toward an invention.

  Before Rand had arrived on their doorstep, she hadn’t thought of the engine much at all, and when she had, it had featured as a nuisance.

  After she’d learned the truth, she’d accepted that the engine meant something to her—to her future.

  And after this direct attack...

  She searched through her feelings for the emotions underlying them—and felt her brows rise as she considered what she sensed.

  She would defend the invention as if it were...hers, in a way. Hers to protect—like a mechanical child. A mechanical nephew—the fruit of her brother’s brain.

  Given her until-recent attitude to inventions, that struck her as odd, yet she couldn’t deny or dismiss the protectiveness that had surged inside her when she’d heard the alarm and seen the man fleeing across the lawn.

  She’d known the invention had been attacked, and her response had been instant and instinctive.

  She’d been—and still was—prepared to fight to ensure the engine, her father’s last project, succeeded.

  Not from any especial devotion to her father or even her brother. Not purely because her future might well hang on the engine’s success. But primarily because someone had dared to attack the engine—and through that, attack them. Her, William John, their household—and Rand Cavanaugh.

  Her features eased; she considered that conclusion, then allowed a smile to bloom.

  Now, she understood her reaction.

  Her people—those she considered her responsibility—had been threatened. Of course she would fight to defend them.

  Reassured and feeling more settled, she lowered her arms and turned from the window.

  She climbed beneath the covers, lay down, and settled her head on her pillow.

  No matter how unthreatening and innocent Clive Mayhew appeared to be, she would continue to be on her guard against him. If he truly was innocent, it wouldn’t matter. If he wasn’t...

  She closed her eyes and relaxed into the softness of her feather mattress. She thought of Mayhew’s visit later that day as sleep drifted closer.

  On the cusp of dreams came the reflection that she was exceedingly glad that Rand had thought to come to the Hall, that he’d opened her
eyes to the reality of what was going on, and she was beyond words relieved that, over dinner, he’d said he would stay, not just until the engine was fixed and running smoothly but until they’d successfully unveiled it at the exhibition.

  He would be there, by her side, throughout this unforeseen adventure.

  She slid into sleep thoroughly pleased about that.

  CHAPTER 6

  On his way to the breakfast parlor that morning, Rand paused in the front hall as Johnson emerged from the direction of the kitchen. “Johnson, has that letter I left last night gone out?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” With a covered dish in his hands, Johnson half bowed. “I sent both letters off with the stable lad first thing this morning. The post is collected from the village promptly at nine o’clock.”

  Rand smiled. “Thank you.” So his letter to Ryder was on its way. Perhaps it was just as well he hadn’t known of the attack to mention it, not if he wanted to avoid a visit from his sometimes-overpowering big brother.

  He followed Johnson into the breakfast parlor. Felicia and William John were already at the table. After exchanging a “Good morning” with Felicia, Rand helped himself from the sideboard, then circled the table to claim the chair he’d sat in the previous day—the one facing Felicia. The light streaming in through the windows at his back illuminated her expressive face. He could, he felt, stare at it for hours.

  He wasn’t entirely surprised when, once he’d settled and essayed his first mouthful, she shot him a look and stated, “Regarding Mayhew’s visit this afternoon, I’ve decided it would be best to continue to be on guard. We can’t be certain he wasn’t the man who attempted to break into the workshop last night.”

  For once, William John was listening. He frowned, his expression suggesting he wasn’t convinced of Mayhew’s involvement.

  “I agree.” Rand reached for the mug Johnson had filled with coffee. “But regardless of whether the perpetrator was Mayhew or not, the attack last night is proof incontrovertible that someone—someone in the vicinity—is set on gaining access to the Throgmorton engine. Given how close we are to the exhibition, we have to assume that person’s intent is to sabotage the invention and prevent it from being successfully presented at the exhibition.”

  William John grimaced. Pushing away his empty plate, he sank his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the tablecloth in front of him. “I know Papa had an invention sabotaged years ago, while he was transporting it to the factory that had commissioned it, but he managed to fix it.” William John looked up and met Rand’s gaze. “In that case, the blackguard was a competing inventor. Are there other inventors in direct competition with us over the steam engine? I haven’t heard of any, but since Papa’s death, I haven’t been corresponding with any others in the field.”

  Rand took a full minute to evaluate what he knew and how best to explain it. Eventually, after glancing at Felicia and noting that she, too, was waiting for his reply, he said, “I don’t know of any directly competing inventors. As far as I know, the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage is the only such invention being unveiled at this year’s exhibition. In the eyes of most inventors and investors, the concept of a steam-powered horseless carriage has proved unviable—precisely because of the problems you and your father have worked to address. I haven’t heard of any other inventor who is still pursuing that dream—at least, not in England. And I doubt the Throgmorton engine will have come to the attention of inventors on the Continent—not yet.”

  He paused, considering, then concluded, “Overall, I think it unlikely that some other inventor is behind last night’s attack.” He drew breath and went on, “That isn’t to say there aren’t others who have a vested interest in eradicating any suggestion that steam-powered horseless carriages might yet be a viable proposition.”

  Felicia frowned. “If not other inventors, then who?”

  “Other investors—and that’s just one group.” Rand felt his face harden. “With steam-powered vehicles, you would also have to consider the owners and operators of the railways—and they are an exceedingly powerful lot. Then there’s the toll-road operators, who have taken a hard stance against steam-powered vehicles—they would infinitely prefer the notion vanished without trace.” He paused, then met Felicia’s eyes. “And as for the politics...who knows who has interests that such an invention—a successful one—might threaten?”

  Felicia studied his face, his eyes, then she tipped her head, and her lips and chin firmed. “It sounds as if it’s pointless to speculate on who might ultimately be behind the attack and what their motives might be. To me, that means we need to maintain our vigilance against any and all further attack—who might be behind such attacks doesn’t change what we need to do.”

  Rand nodded. “Well said. I agree.” Shields had already reported on the rotation Corby and he had devised. Rand outlined their plan. “So as well as William John, there will always be at least one extra man in the workshop throughout the day. And at night, two men will be on duty at all times.”

  Felicia was listening intently. Rand glanced at William John. Their inventor appeared to have drifted back to mentally wrestling with tubes and valves. Rand returned his gaze to Felicia’s green eyes. “That should ensure the invention remains safe—unsabotaged.”

  She nodded, then, holding his gaze, pushed back her chair. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep a close eye on Mr. Mayhew while he completes his sketch.” She swiveled on the chair, about to rise, then paused and said, “Regarding Mr. Mayhew...just in case he is involved, presumably working as an agent for someone else, I thought I might use the hours while he’s here to tease more information from him as to his background, his connections—the usual sorts of things a lady might bring up in conversation.”

  Rand hadn’t wanted to ask, but was quick to nod encouragingly. “You never know what he might let fall, especially if he’s distracted with his sketching.”

  She cut a swift glance at her brother. “My thoughts exactly.” She rose, and Rand came to his feet.

  William John grunted as if their movement had disturbed his train of thought. He pushed back his chair and stood as well.

  As Rand rounded the table, Felicia turned to the door. “Of course, once Mayhew completes his sketch, there’ll be no reason for him to return.”

  “True.” Rand followed her into the front hall. “But even if he doesn’t openly return here, we won’t know if he remains in the area. There are too many villages and hamlets within easy reach to check.”

  “Indeed.” She nodded. “I’ll see what I can learn this afternoon.”

  With that, she sailed off to what Rand had learned was her sitting room—on the other side of the hall from the drawing room. Mrs. Reilly was already waiting by the door, a sheaf of papers in her hands. The housekeeper followed Felicia inside and shut the door.

  William John, his hands sunk in his pockets, his head down—deep in thought—had already ambled past, heading for the workshop stairs.

  Rand studied the closed sitting room door. Even more than previously, he didn’t like the idea of Felicia Throgmorton interacting with Mayhew, especially alone upon the lawn at some distance from the house. Then again, Rand wouldn’t be far away, and he most certainly would be watching like a hawk. The thick woods that circled the house were proving to be a blessing.

  He wished he could think of some alternative, but in the circumstances, it was undoubtedly wise to learn what they could about Mayhew, and in accomplishing that, Felicia stood a far better chance of success than he.

  If learning that William Throgmorton was dead and the invention Rand had so much riding on was not yet complete had been a rude shock, learning that someone was intent on sabotaging said invention was an even more unwelcome complication.

  Inwardly shaking his head, with nothing more he could usefully do at that point, Rand walked to the workshop stairs and followed William John do
wn.

  * * *

  When Clive Mayhew arrived, Felicia was seated with Flora in the drawing room, waiting to welcome him.

  Johnson announced the artist, and Felicia, with Flora at her back, walked into the front hall to find Mayhew piling an easel, a folding stool, and a rather battered artist’s satchel into Joe’s arms.

  Felicia smiled and gave Mayhew her hand. After bowing over it, then greeting Flora, Mayhew bestowed a charming smile on Felicia and stated, “If you don’t mind, I would like to commence sketching straightaway. The light’s particularly fine this afternoon, and I don’t want to risk losing it.”

  “Of course.” With a wave, she gestured toward the still-open front door. “I’ll come with you and see you settled.” She glanced at Flora. “If you’ll excuse us, cousin?”

  Flora smiled. “It’s such a lovely day. I believe I’ll take my embroidery onto the terrace. Enjoy your sketching, Mr. Mayhew.” With a gracious nod to Mayhew, Flora retreated to the drawing room.

  Felicia walked toward the door. Mayhew fell in by her side.

  “That spot not far from the old fountain was simply perfect,” Mayhew said. “I need look no farther for the perfect view.”

  “Excellent.” With a tip of her head, Felicia signaled to Joe to follow them with Mayhew’s equipment.

  With Mayhew looking about, an open, apparently relaxed expression on his face, they crunched across the forecourt and tramped over the thick grass toward the spot Mayhew had selected the previous day.

  He turned and walked backward as they neared it, his eyes narrowed as he considered the vista. His feet slowed, then he halted. “Yes. This is it.”

  The position he’d chosen lay just beyond the shadow cast by an old oak that grew at the edge of the woods. Joe came up and set down his burdens. With a quick “Thank you,” Mayhew picked up his easel and, with efficient, practiced movements, set it up, then he lifted his satchel, unbuckled the flap, reached inside, and carefully drew out a sheet of fine-grained paper.