The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Then Ryder called an order, and the coach lurched into motion. Mary shifted to the window alongside which her husband was riding, and Felicia quit the rear-facing seat to sit beside Mary.

  Felicia straightened her skirts, then sat back. Her gaze passed over the trees lining the drive.

  Keep your eyes peeled.

  There—among the shadows.

  She blinked, then stared. As the carriage rolled on, she turned to look back, trying to spot what she thought she’d seen.

  “What is it?” Mary asked.

  Felicia frowned. “I thought I saw someone lurking in the wood, but...” With a sigh, she sat back and faced forward. “When I looked again, there was no one there. I must have imagined it.”

  “Shall I tell Ryder?” Mary asked. “He’ll stop, and he and the guards can search.”

  Felicia thought for a moment, then shook her head. “It might have been a curious farmworker or some such person, and it doesn’t matter now—we’re on our way.” She glanced at Mary and smiled. “Besides, we should keep as close as possible behind the steam carriage—we don’t want anyone slipping in between.”

  “True.” Mary settled against the seat. “If anyone wants to sabotage the engine, they’ll have to catch us first and then go through the guards.” Her smile turned edged. “They’ll never manage that, so, I believe, we can relax on that score.”

  After seeing the men Ryder had brought as guards, Felicia had to admit that was a reasonable assessment and conclusion.

  As they rolled out of the drive and turned onto the lane leading away from the village, then almost immediately turned right onto the lane heading north toward Oxford and Banbury beyond, she imagined how their cavalcade would appear to all those they passed.

  Imagined how the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage would look to others—like a fantastical machine from the future.

  As she swayed with the motion of the carriage, she inwardly sighed, touched by a combination of happiness and sadness as she thought of her father.

  It was an abiding pity he hadn’t lived to see this moment—to see William John complete the invention and drive it off to the exhibition. How proud her father would have been of William John.

  And, perhaps, of her.

  * * *

  Standing cloaked in shadows, Clive Mayhew watched the Throgmorton machine rumble down the drive. One small part of him cursed, but a larger part of his mind was fascinated.

  Enthralled.

  As for the rest of his mind, that had taken a firm stand, lecturing and hectoring him on his fall from grace.

  He now deeply distrusted his uncle’s stance. And despite the black cloud of despair and desperation that hung over his own head, he was nevertheless increasingly sure that for his own sake, he needed to pull back and step away from the action he’d agreed to undertake. To turn aside from that particular path to monetary salvation.

  His attempt to seize Miss Throgmorton had been calculated to bring about his uncle’s desired end without physical harm to any person or, indeed, to the machine, even though he hadn’t, at that time, set eyes on it.

  The thwarting of that attempt—the manner in which it had been thwarted—had shaken him. He’d seen the looks on both Cavanaugh’s and Miss Throgmorton’s faces, signaling their contempt and his loss of all gentlemanly status in their eyes.

  Their expressions had haunted him. Had started the voice in his head niggling, asking questions such as What sort of man are you? And some deeply buried part of him had surfaced and warned that there was no point erasing his debts if, in the process, he lost all standing in his world—and, most especially, with himself.

  He hadn’t thought of himself as overburdened with morals, yet in that moment when Cavanaugh and Miss Throgmorton had looked at him, his inner self had flinched. Had cringed. And he’d turned and run away.

  Now, as he listened to what he realized was a quite fascinating advance in steam-powered carriages hum its way toward the exhibition in Birmingham, he felt that deeply buried part of him strengthen and take firmer hold.

  He set his jaw, then softly reiterated, “I’m not going to do it.”

  He waited to see how clinging to that resolution of yesterday felt—whether it still fitted him, the man he truly was. And it did; it resonated and felt right.

  He drew in a breath, slowly exhaled, and felt immeasurably better—lighter—than he had.

  He was, thank heaven, a complete failure when it came to illicit and underhanded sabotage. In reality, he felt more comforted than bothered by that conclusion. How he would pay his debts, he didn’t know, but he would find some way—some legitimate way. Some way that wouldn’t make him ashamed to be Clive Mayhew.

  Perhaps he could grow serious about his sketching. His family had never encouraged him to think his sketches worth anything, but Cavanaugh and the Throgmorton ladies had thought them better than merely good. The London News used his sketches here and there, but they didn’t want art so much as recognizable depictions of this or that, and they didn’t pay much. Perhaps he should gird his loins and offer his private portfolio to some art dealer and see what might come of it?

  One way or another, he would find a way.

  The mounted guards and the traveling coach had followed the steam carriage and were now long gone. The Hall’s household had returned indoors, and the stableman had retreated to the stable. Clive turned and quietly made his way out of the wood, eventually emerging onto the lane.

  Now what?

  He stood in the lane and debated. Given his new direction, his first move should be to free himself from all ties to his uncle’s scheme. “I’d better tell the old codger that I won’t be doing his dirty work.”

  He grimaced at the thought of going back to London. He rather fancied remaining in the country until he had added substantially to his portfolio, so he would have some hope of securing cash quickly on his return to town, the better to keep Quire at bay, at least long enough to test the waters with some art dealers.

  He’d been gazing, unseeing, along the lane the steam carriage, the horsemen, and the traveling coach had taken; as, frowning, he refocused, he realized he didn’t have to go to London—his uncle would be at the exhibition in Birmingham in two days’ time.

  His resolution firmed. “I’ll go to the exhibition, find him, and tell him—then I’ll see if I can get a closer look at the Throgmorton engine and whatever other machines are on show.”

  He’d recognized the tug he’d felt as the steam-powered engine, gleaming in the well of the carriage, had puttered past. It was the same tug he felt when he saw certain buildings in certain landscapes. For some odd reason, his artist self was attracted to the new machines.

  “Who knows?” Turning, he continued down the lane toward the track along which he’d left the gig he’d hired. “Sketching mechanical inventions might be the next big thing.”

  * * *

  Later that night, Felicia lay in the bed in her room in the Reinedeer Inn in Banbury and listened to the creaks as the timbers of the old inn settled. The footsteps that, earlier, had tramped past her door had faded, and silence had descended on the upper floors. If she strained her ears, she could dimly hear the distant sounds of revelry issuing from the taproom.

  Relaxing between the crisply laundered sheets, she let her mind wander. In retrospect, the day had passed in a curious mix of excitement and enforced patience.

  She, Mary, and Ryder had not only taken turns riding beside William John in the horseless carriage, but also, at her brother’s insistence—after he’d taught Rand how to drive the engine to the point that Rand had tooled the steam-powered carriage along the winding lanes with increasing confidence—they had each been taught to steer and manage the engine. To their considerable surprise, it hadn’t proved that difficult, and each of them had thoroughly enjoyed their moments behind the steering wheel.
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  Passing through villages had also been a thrill; people had dropped what they were doing and rushed to watch the horseless carriage putter past. More often than not, the steam carriage had been cheered on, certainly by the children, who had thought it a great lark to run alongside and shout questions. Only a few ancients had scowled and raised their fists. Most other adults had contented themselves with staring in wonder, then, once the steam carriage had passed, shaking their heads and returning to their interrupted tasks.

  In contrast to the thrills and excitement, riding in the closed coach for hours on end had been enervating. It had also left her with plenty of time to imagine possible attempts to sabotage the engine while they were resting overnight at the inn.

  But when the traveling coach had rocked to a halt in the inn’s yard and she and Mary had been helped down to the cobbles by Rand, she’d seen the steam carriage being pushed into a barn and heard Ryder issuing orders to his men, setting a rotation of groups of four men at a time to watch the carriage. On top of that, William John had looked around the barn, seen the hay bales stacked along one side, and announced his intention of sleeping there, within sight and sound of the precious invention.

  Rand had exchanged a look with her, and neither they nor Ryder and Mary had argued.

  Although there’d been plenty of light still remaining in the day, none of them had felt any desire to wander the town. Instead, they’d eaten an early dinner in the splendor of the inn’s Globe Room, which dated from Elizabethan times—as did a great deal of the half-timbered inn—then they’d spent an hour going over their plans for the next day and their arrival in Birmingham.

  She was dwelling on their decision to take the road through Stratford-on-Avon, rather than swing farther north to the larger highway through Warwick, when a soft knock sounded on her door. She hesitated for only a second, then thrust back the covers and, the wooden floor cold beneath her bare feet, pattered across to the panel. “Yes?” she softly inquired.

  “It’s me—Rand.”

  She unbolted the door and held it open while he slipped inside, then she closed the panel and slid the bolt home again. She turned to him as his hands closed about her waist, hard palms burning through the fine linen of her nightgown.

  He looked into her eyes and arched a brow. “Do you mind if I stay?”

  She smiled and raised her arms to drape them over his shoulders. “Of course not.” As she stepped into him and stretched up on her toes, her lips hungry for his, she murmured, “I hoped you would come.”

  As she pressed her lips to his, she felt his curve, then they firmed, and the kiss deepened, and he waltzed her and her greedy senses into the flames of what was becoming a familiar and welcome fire.

  He’d shared her bed for the past four nights, and she’d already grown accustomed to having him there.

  As he steered her back until her legs met the mattress, she gave thanks that Flora had deemed the presence of Mary, Felicia’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, as well as that of Rand, her all-but-announced fiancé, sufficient chaperonage in the circumstances and had elected to remain and hold the fort at the Hall.

  Mentally blessing Flora for her sense, Felicia set her fingers to Rand’s neckerchief. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”

  He didn’t bother replying, instead devoting himself to rectifying that situation.

  Then he drew her into his arms, kissed her with undiluted passion, closed his fists in the folds of her nightgown, then he broke from the kiss, stepped back, and drew the garment off over her head.

  Hot as a flame, his gaze streaked over her. Before the nightgown even hit the floor, flicked loose from his fingers before he reached for her, she was in his arms, crushed to him, skin to naked skin, and they were burning.

  With that delicious flame she’d come to crave.

  He took her down to the bed, and they rolled across the sheets, seizing and savoring, seeking and claiming.

  Neither felt any need to rein in their rampant desires; both gave the moments their all—their undivided attention and their unstinting commitment. Him to her, and her to him.

  Through gasps and smothered cries, through moans and achingly guttural groans, giving and taking and sharing.

  At the end, when, exhausted, wrung out, and deeply sated, they lay side by side on their backs in the bed, they each turned their head and met the other’s gaze—sank into the emotions dwelling there—then softly smiled.

  She rolled onto her side, into him. He raised one arm and draped it about her, drawing her closer, and she settled her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his still-thudding heart.

  A minute passed, then he reached down and drew the coverlet over their cooling limbs.

  She settled her head, then murmured, “We’re nearly there. I’m still not sure this isn’t a dream.”

  He pressed a kiss to her hair. “No dream. We—William John, you, and I—have worked for this. One more day, then we’ll see what success we can wring from our endeavors.”

  Her thoughts returned to her earlier consideration of the next day’s route. After a moment, she ventured, “Do you think, as we approach Birmingham, that the danger to the steam carriage—the potential for attack—might increase?”

  Rand didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. However, after considering the likely scenarios, he murmured, “I can’t say for certain, but I think there are several points that will work in our favor and make it unlikely that any attempt at sabotage will be essayed at this late stage—at least, not on the road. Just as we are, all the other inventors with exhibits will be coming into Birmingham tomorrow. As the exhibition hall doesn’t open until noon, I doubt any inventors will have brought their inventions into town early—fearing tampering before they get their invention safely into the hall. But all exhibitors must have their inventions in place by six o’clock, so all the other inventors will be converging on the exhibition hall, as focused on getting their inventions onto the hall floor at much the same time as we will be—I can’t imagine any will have time to spare to think about causing problems for us.”

  She shifted on his chest. “That’s the other inventors. What about people they or others might have hired—like Mayhew?”

  “That’s the second point working in our favor. The horses have grown used to the steam engine. You might not have noticed, but from after lunch, as we traveled, Ryder gradually brought his men and their mounts closer and closer to the steam carriage. By the time we traveled up Horsefair to this place, the horses were treating the steam carriage as if it was any other carriage.” She looked up, and he met her gaze. “Tomorrow, the guards will travel much closer, especially as we come into Birmingham. That will make it all but impossible to approach the engine closely enough to do it any damage.”

  He smiled. “And as we’ll make straight for the exhibition hall, there’ll be no later chance for anyone to tamper with it. The organizers of the exhibition are well aware of the potential threats—they know their reputation depends on them keeping all the inventions safe overnight and through the exhibition. They’ll have guards everywhere.”

  “So once we place the steam carriage on the exhibition floor—essentially, placing it into the organizers’ hands—we can be assured it will remain safe?”

  He pulled an equivocal face. “Theoretically, yes. But the exhibition itself is liable to be crowded, so we’ll have our own guards in place as well, to ensure the engine remains safe throughout, but until the exhibition ends and we take the steam carriage out of the hall, its safety remains the responsibility of the organizers. Once it leaves the hall, it becomes our responsibility again, but as the presentation of the invention will have been accomplished, I can’t see anyone bothering to make an attempt at sabotage then. There would be no point.”

  “Ah. I see.” She smothered a yawn.

  He settled her more comfortably against him. Within seconds, he felt he
r limbs relaxing, growing that telltale touch heavier. He brushed his lips across her temple. “Did you enjoy your driving lesson?”

  He felt her lips curve.

  “Yes. It was...exhilarating. I can understand why William John is so in alt.”

  Rand smiled to himself as her words trailed away and her limbs grew heavier yet. Seconds later, she was asleep.

  Still smiling, he closed his eyes and sensed a satisfaction that glowed bone deep, deep enough to wreathe about his soul.

  He, too, was in alt, but his contentment owed nothing to any invention.

  He owed his state to the woman in his arms and to the emotion that had prompted him to set aside his prejudice against clever ladies and understand all she was, and all she meant and would mean to him.

  Feeling her weight soft and safe and secure in his arms, still inwardly smiling, he surrendered to sleep.

  * * *

  Although, the following day, their party set out with every member infected by heightened alertness, as Rand had predicted, the journey from Banbury to Birmingham passed without incident. They maintained their vigilant cavalcade into the bustle of the busy town, passing along Digbeth and around the famous Bull Ring marketplace, around St. Martin’s Circus, then puttering and clattering all the way up New Street to Victoria Square and the Town Hall, in which the exhibition was to be held.

  The Town Hall was a memorable building. They pulled up outside, and Rand alighted from the steam carriage. After one glance at the organizers waiting with their lists before the steps, he went to the traveling coach, reaching it in time to hand Felicia down. He noted her survey of the building and murmured, “It was designed by the inventor of the Hansom Cab—Joseph Hansom. He modeled it on the Temple of Castor and Pollux in Rome.”

  Standing beside Ryder and Mary, who had joined her on the pavement, Felicia studied the colonnaded façade with a critical eye, while Rand went with William John to speak with the organizers. A ramp had been erected over one side of the steps leading into the building. After registering their arrival and receiving instructions, Rand and William John returned, and with the help of all the men, pushed the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage up the ramp and into the foyer of the exhibition hall. More organizers were waiting there to take charge of each invention. They had a small army of porters, some of whom were directed to take the steam carriage away. A small man, swathed in a gray dustcoat and with round spectacles perched on his button nose, directed six porters. “Down the aisle to the space reserved for it—number twenty-four.”