The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

He beamed at her. “You’ve done it again!”

  She found herself grinning back. She glanced at Rand and saw him grinning, too, transparently relieved and delighted. An undeniable spurt of triumph rose and washed through her.

  William John was muttering, then Flora harrumphed and said, “I’m very glad you’ve worked out your problem, but luncheon is still waiting. At least it’s a cold collation and won’t be spoiling.”

  Along with a still-smiling Rand and a muttering William John, Felicia—reluctantly—turned away from the diagrams and started up the stairs in Flora’s wake.

  Three steps up, Felicia glanced back—at the board, the gleaming bulk of the engine, the clutter of the workshop. Facing forward again, she finally understood something of what had driven her father and still drove her brother. That moment of triumph when one solved a critical issue and got things right...however fleeting, that feeling of euphoria was addictive.

  They trailed into the dining room and sat about the table, helping themselves to the various dishes and, in short order, settling to eat.

  An atmosphere of pleased satisfaction reigned, and for a while, they all savored it in silence.

  Rand ate and thought—and couldn’t shake, much less sate, his burgeoning curiosity. Eventually deciding there was no reason he couldn’t ask, he looked across the table and caught Felicia’s gaze. “I own to being curious about your talent. Were you much involved in your father’s work?”

  She blinked at him. “No. I wasn’t involved at all.” She glanced at William John, then added, “I was never...asked. As I mentioned earlier, I haven’t set foot in the workshop for years. Yesterday was the first time in...a very long time.”

  William John’s expression was entirely serious when he said, “Obviously, it’s been far too long since you were there. Thank God you ventured down yesterday.”

  “Indeed.” Rand looked from William John to Felicia, then back again. He hesitated, but the point was too important not to be addressed. “I’ve worked with a lot of inventors over recent years. Many work in teams, often of just two members, sometimes three. Rarely more. Your father was one of the exceptions—he worked alone for most of his life. But you two... If I was assessing your inventive strengths, I would say that while William John has clearly inherited your father’s aptitude for engineering and assembling mechanical devices, you”—he nodded at Felicia—“have inherited your father’s brilliance in conceptualization and design.” He looked at William John. “Those are distinctly different sets of skills, and both sets are essential for successful invention.”

  William John leaned forward, his gaze going to Felicia. “Rand’s right. I couldn’t see what the problems were until you pointed them out. I can fix them once I know what’s amiss, but I couldn’t identify them—and you could. And you did that not just once, but twice.” William John sat back and grinned broadly at Felicia. “You, dear sister, are an inventor, too.”

  Felicia felt she should scoff—at least humph and dismiss the notion as nonsensical—yet the warmth of that moment of triumph still lingered in her veins, seductive and alluring, and as she glanced from William John to Rand and read the sincerity in their expressions and open gazes, seduction on a different level bloomed.

  They—both of them—saw her and her abilities, her instinctive skills that she’d neglected and ignored for so long, as valuable. As worthy of nurturing, worthy of inclusion. Worthy of encouragement and support.

  She knew how she’d gained those skills—she’d absorbed them during her earlier years when she’d run free in her father’s workshop, side by side with William John. Even after she’d been effectively excluded and had stopped going downstairs, she’d been forced to listen to her father discuss his inventions ad nauseam—of course she’d taken a lot in.

  If, now, Rand and William John thought she could contribute to the invention in a real and meaningful way...

  It seemed that an entirely unexpected and novel path was opening up before her.

  Do you want to take it?

  Something in her leapt at the thought.

  She blinked and looked down at her plate. Apparently, she truly was her father’s daughter—the notion of working alongside William John in the workshop was powerfully attractive.

  Both Rand and William John—and to a lesser extent, Flora—were waiting for her reaction to William John’s assertion. When she didn’t deny it, Rand evenly said, “We’ve less than two weeks before the exhibition. I suggest that from now on, we consider you, Felicia, as a contributing partner in our efforts to get your father’s last invention working well enough to present it to the world.”

  She looked up, and Rand was waiting to capture her gaze.

  “Would it be possible,” he asked, “for you to make time to assist in the workshop?”

  William John leaned forward as she glanced his way. “In case we stumble over another obstacle and need your insight.” He looked like an eager puppy begging her to come and play with him.

  She felt her lips twist in a reluctant smile. She drew in a breath and inwardly acknowledged the instinctive compulsion to agree that had leapt to life inside her. But she wasn’t yet ready to fling restraint to the winds and unreservedly embrace this unexpected twist of fate—this new role that Fate seemed to be offering her.

  Yet...she held William John’s gaze, recognizing his sincerity, then she looked at Rand. “We all need the Throgmorton steam engine working perfectly as soon as may be. If you require my help, I’m sure I can manage an hour or so to assist in whatever way I can in that endeavor.”

  His expression satisfied, Rand inclined his head.

  Flora looked bemused.

  William John beamed and slapped his palms to the table. “Well, then. That’s settled.” He pushed to his feet and looked at Rand. “We’d better get on.”

  * * *

  Clive Mayhew returned to London that evening. Burdened with his easel, folding stool, and satchel as well as his bag, he alighted from the train at Paddington Station and managed to find a hackney to ferry him to his lodgings in Mortimer Street.

  Juggling his bags and equipment, he unlocked the front door, then struggled up the narrow stairs to his rooms on the first floor.

  With a sigh and a wince, he set down the easel and stool in a corner of the shabbily furnished living room, then laid the satchel on the small table beside the single armchair angled before the hearth. He paused to light the sconce on the wall, then carried his bag through a secondary door into the bedroom beyond.

  After depositing his bag on the bare floor by the narrow bed, he returned to the living room. The rooms had been closed up; the atmosphere was musty and close. He crossed to the single window, unlocked the sash, and pushed it up. A bare breath of breeze wafted in.

  A scarred tantalus stood against the wall below the window. Mayhew checked the bottles, found one with several inches of brandy remaining, and poured one of those inches into a glass.

  Finally, glass in hand, he sank into the armchair. After downing a gulp of the poor-quality brandy and grimacing at the taste, he reached for his satchel, flipped open the flap, and drew out the sketches he’d made over the previous days.

  They weren’t bad. Not bad at all. Cruickshank at the News would pay well for them.

  Unfortunately, not well enough.

  The last sketches in the pile were the pair from Throgmorton Hall. He’d risen early that morning to finish them, sitting at the small desk beneath the window in his room at the Norreys Arms.

  He’d propped the window open and the faint rustle of the trees in the woods had, at first, been the only sound, that and the faint trickling of the nearby stream. He’d inked in the sketches, soothed by the country peace flowing all around him.

  The views of the Hall were exquisite—even if it was he who said so. As both were from the same viewpoint, they were similar, yet the changing of the aft
ernoon light had resulted in subtle differences.

  His thoughts shifted back to the household at the Hall—to Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace.

  They’d welcomed him warmly and had been genuinely interested in and impressed by his sketching.

  They’d been...nice. Honest, straightforward, comfortable people who assumed those they met were equally honest and straightforward.

  What would they think of him if they ever learned his true purpose in wrangling an invitation to the Hall?

  For long moments, he toyed with the notion of stepping back from his uncle’s scheme. It was crazy and risky—what did he know of inventions and engines? He’d agreed because it had seemed so distant and in an arena he cared nothing about.

  But meeting Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace had brought living people into the picture. Nice people.

  Clive raised his glass and, his gaze unseeing, took a long sip.

  He could honestly say that until agreeing to act for his uncle, he’d never knowingly and deliberately done another harm—at least, not as an adult. He knew right from wrong and had never intentionally crossed that line.

  Of course, he still hadn’t managed to blot his copybook, but he had tried.

  Uncertainty—fueled by welling discomfort over his covert role—rose beneath his skin, an increasingly persistent itch. He shifted in the chair and refocused on his sketches—those on his lap and the two he still held in one hand.

  Surely—surely—he could find some other way to assemble the necessary to get Quire off his back?

  He stared at the sketches of Throgmorton Hall, and the conviction that he couldn’t do as his uncle wanted grew. His wits skittered this way and that, like a mouse desperately seeking a way out of a maze.

  The sound of the street door opening jerked him from his thoughts. As heavy footsteps climbed the stairs, on a spurt of panic, he remembered he hadn’t relocked the front door.

  He gathered his sketches and set them on top of his satchel. He had only seconds to steel himself before the door to the living room opened, and two heavy, beefy mountains of men marched through.

  The latter closed the door and stood, feet apart, before it—as if Clive might rush past the other and attempt to escape.

  The first man steadily advanced, his small eyes locked on Clive. The bruiser halted by the chair. His expression impassive, he studied Clive for an unnerving few seconds, taking in the nearly empty glass, then his gaze shifted to the sketches and the satchel on the side table.

  Clive tensed—which brought the mountain’s gaze back to his face.

  Finally, the man spoke, his voice surprisingly light. “The guv’nor wants his money.”

  Gripping his glass, Clive slowly nodded. “I said I’d have it for him in a few weeks—on the twenty-fifth. He agreed to wait.”

  The mountain nodded back. “That he did, and the guv’nor is a man of his word. He just sent us around to remind you of that.”

  And to remind Clive of the detailed and quite hideously violent promises their “guv’nor,” Quire, had assured Clive would come to pass should Clive fail to meet his latest deadline.

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  The mountain studied him for another few seconds, then glanced at the sketches. “Seems like you’ve been out playing.”

  Fighting down the urge to reach for the sketches, Clive straightened in the chair. “I’ll get paid for those.”

  “P’raps.” The mountain returned his unnerving gaze to Clive. “But not nearly enough.”

  Clive inclined his head. “True. But I have other...irons in the fire, so to speak.”

  The mountain chuffed out a laugh. “Irons in the fire, heh?” The behemoth exchanged a grinning glance with his friend. “I must remember to share that with the guv’nor. He’ll enjoy a good laugh.”

  Clive’s blood chilled at the reminder of one of the more gruesome threats their master had made.

  The behemoth’s gaze returned to Clive’s face, and now cruelty was etched in the man’s expression. “The guv’nor said to remind you that if you fail to turn up with the entire sum, interest and all, the very first thing he’ll have us break is those lily-white hands of yours. Every single bone. He’s given you a last chance—don’t disappoint him.”

  Having delivered that chilling ultimatum, the brute turned on his heel and marched toward the door. His mate opened it and stepped back.

  The first man went out and started down the stairs. The second man, until then silent, pinned Clive with eyes that held less expression than a dead fish’s. “I’d listen to him if I were you.”

  The man turned and went out of the door and quietly shut it behind him.

  Clive stared at the panel. Only when he heard the street door shut did he manage to haul in a breath.

  Slowly, he exhaled.

  After several seconds, he raised his glass and tossed back the last of the sour-tasting brandy. Then he shuddered. He glanced at the sketches lying on his satchel. After setting the empty glass on the floor, he picked up the sketches, stowed them in the satchel, then rose, the satchel held between his hands.

  He stared at the satchel.

  He had only one talent to his name—only one way of earning a living.

  Those at Throgmorton Hall enjoyed a pleasant home in a lovely, peaceful setting. They plainly had the wherewithal to keep the place up even while throwing money at inventions.

  Having one invention fail wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.

  Not succeeding in making that invention fail would be the end for him.

  * * *

  That evening, as dusk deepened, edging toward night, Rand stepped out onto the terrace. He breathed deeply, then walked down the steps onto the lawn, slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and started pacing.

  He had no destination in mind; he let his feet wander where they would. His room had been warmed by the afternoon sun, and he’d felt a need for fresher air to clear his mind and settle his somewhat peripatetic thoughts.

  His feet took him eastward, toward the darkness of the woods. Before he reached the trees, he turned north, slowly pacing the stretch of sward that sloped gently upward from the south lawn, skirted the rear wall of the kitchen garden, then leveled off not far from the roses.

  As he walked, he glanced to the side, into the wood. The trees grew thickly in that area, directly behind the house, and the undergrowth clogged the spaces between. Although it seemed the closest concealed approach to the workshop doors, the area was near impassable; the man he’d seen fleeing after the attempted break-in had raced away to the northeast and plunged into the woods that presently lay ahead on Rand’s right.

  He’d gone searching on the morning after the scare. He’d found the path the man must have taken, but with the ground summer hard, there’d been no sign to mark the man’s passing. That path twisted through the woods to eventually join the lane a little way from where the village street ran off it. Anyone from the village, including a guest of the Norreys Arms, would have had an easy run home.

  Admittedly, the would-be burglar could just as easily have come from farther afield; at that hour, a gig or horse left in the lane wouldn’t have been seen by anyone.

  And in the small hours of the morning, no one would have seen the man returning to his lair.

  Given that, Rand had jettisoned any notion of pursuing their man by tracking him.

  His gaze on the grass before his feet, he passed the kitchen garden and continued up the slope toward the rose garden. The combined scents from the blooms wafted past on a faint breeze, teasing his senses—reminding them of the fascinating, enigmatic, and intriguing lady who tended the bushes.

  He knew himself well enough to acknowledge that he was—to his mind, surprisingly—attracted to her. Not just physically, but intellectually, emotionally, and even by dint of his busi
ness. To him, she was a lure of many facets.

  After his experience of and his consequent antipathy toward ladies clever enough to manipulate him, he’d assumed that the last lady he would feel drawn to would be one who, in his estimation, possessed a mind capable of running rings around his.

  Felicia Throgmorton definitely possessed such a brain. She might hide it, disregard it, yet he, at least, couldn’t overlook it, not after her recent and undeniably critical contributions to the Throgmorton project.

  What surprised him was that knowing she possessed such a mind in no way dampened her allure. If anything, that she could and clearly did understand inventing at a fundamental level had only increased his interest in her.

  Increased the sense that she—and she alone of all the ladies he’d ever met—somehow fitted.

  Fitted him, his life, and the aspirations and private goals he hadn’t—until the last days—thought much about.

  His attraction to her—recognition of what sort of attraction it was, its depth and escalating strength, and what, at some point, it would push him to do—had prodded him to focus on those until-now nebulous goals.

  He wanted to marry. He wanted a family. He definitely wanted a hearth and a home and a wife to share both with.

  In short, he wanted everything Ryder had found with his Mary.

  The family at Raventhorne figured in Rand’s mind as the shining epitome of his ultimate desire.

  That was what he wanted his life to contain.

  Up to now, he’d kept his attention firmly fixed on accomplishing his business goals, telling himself that even defining his more private goals could wait. He was only thirty years old, after all.

  Yet the instant he’d seen Felicia Throgmorton on the Hall’s front steps—his virago with rose-gold hair—his senses had focused on her in a way they never had with any other lady and taken his emotions and a good part of his wits with them.

  Everything that had happened since—his reactions to Mayhew and the incident of the break-in to the growing ease and understated understanding between Felicia and himself—had only further entrenched his feelings, until, now, they shone as an inner certainty.