ABOUT THE AUTHOR

#1 New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing romances as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career when her first novel was accepted for publication, and with entirely becoming alacrity, she gave up writing about facts in favor of writing fiction.

All Laurens’s works to date are historical romances, ranging from medieval times to the early 1900s, and her settings range from Scotland to India. The majority of her works are set in the period of the British Regency. Laurens has published more than 60 works of historical romance, including 36 New York Times bestsellers. Laurens has sold more than 20 million print, audio-, and e-books globally. All her works are continuously available in print and e-book formats in English worldwide, and have been translated into many other languages. An international bestseller, among other accolades, Laurens has received the Romance Writers of America® prestigious RITA® Award for Best Romance Novella 2008 for The Fall of Rogue Gerrard.

Laurens’s continuing novels featuring the Cynster family are widely regarded as classics of the historical romance genre. Other series include the Bastion Club Novels, the Black Cobra Quartet, and the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novels. All of her previous works remain available in print and all e-book formats.

For information on all published novels, and on upcoming releases and updates on novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website: www.stephanielaurens.com.

To sign up for Stephanie’s Email Newsletter (a private list) for heads-up alerts as new books are released, exclusive sneak peeks into upcoming books, and exclusive sweepstakes contests, follow the prompts at Stephanie’s Email Newsletter Sign-up Page.

Stephanie lives with her husband and two cats in the hills outside Melbourne, Australia. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading, and if she isn’t reading, she’ll be tending her garden.

Other Titles from Stephanie Laurens

Cynster Novels

Devil’s Bride

A Rake’s Vow

Scandal’s Bride

A Rogue’s Proposal

A Secret Love

All About Love

All About Passion

On a Wild Night

On a Wicked Dawn

The Perfect Lover

The Ideal Bride

The Truth About Love

What Price Love?

The Taste of Innocence

Temptation and Surrender

Cynster Sisters Trilogy

Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster

The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

Cynster Sisters Duo

And Then She Fell

The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

Cynster Specials

The Promise in a Kiss

By Winter’s Light

Cynster Next Generation Novels

The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

A Match for Marcus Cynster

The Lady by His Side

An Irresistible Alliance

The Greatest Challenge of Them All

Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles

Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Goose

The Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novels

Where the Heart Leads

The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury’s Diamonds

The Masterful Mr. Montague

The Curious Case of Lady Latimer’s Shoes

Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair

Bastion Club Novels

Captain Jack’s Woman (Prequel)

The Lady Chosen

A Gentleman’s Honor

A Lady of His Own

A Fine Passion

To Distraction

Beyond Seduction

The Edge of Desire

Mastered by Love

Black Cobra Quartet

The Untamed Bride

The Elusive Bride

The Brazen Bride

The Reckless Bride

The Adventurers Quartet

The Lady’s Command

A Buccaneer at Heart

The Daredevil Snared

Lord of the Privateers

Other Novels

The Lady Risks All

The Legend of Nimway Hall—1750: Jacqueline

Medieval

Desire’s Prize

Novellas

Melting Ice – from the anthologies Rough Around the Edges and Scandalous Brides

Rose in Bloom – from the anthology Scottish Brides

Scandalous Lord Dere – from the anthology Secrets of a Perfect Night

Lost and Found – from the anthology Hero, Come Back

The Fall of Rogue Gerrard – from the anthology It Happened One Night

The Seduction of Sebastian Trantor – from the anthology It Happened One Season

Short Stories

The Wedding Planner – from the anthology Royal Weddings

A Return Engagement – from the anthology Royal Bridesmaids

UK-Style Regency Romances

Tangled Reins

Four in Hand

Impetuous Innocent

Fair Juno

The Reasons for Marriage

A Lady of Expectations

An Unwilling Conquest

A Comfortable Wife

The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Stephanie Laurens

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Stephanie Laurens Proprietary Limited 2018

Stephanie Laurens Proprietary Limited asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9781474082969

INTERIOR ARTWORK

IS LOCATED

BETWEEN CHAPTER 3 AND CHAPTER 4

and also can be accessed via the TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Other Titles from Stephanie Laurens

Title Page

Copyright

Artwork Note

Introduction

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

Interior Artwork

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

She’d been kissed before, but never like this—with such direct and compelling mastery that she and all her senses had surged in response. Her lips parted beneath the temptation of his; she quelled a delicious shiver as his tongue teased the slick softness, then slid between and settled to explore.

To engage and expand her senses.

Her wits had gone wandering; to where, she didn’t care.

Instinctively, she came up on her toes the better to participate in the enthralling exchange; she leaned into him, her hands coming to rest, palms flat, on his chest.

Even through the fabric of his coat and shirt, she felt the alluring heat of him. Beneath her hands, she sensed the reality of a flesh-and-blood man.

Desire bloomed. She’d never felt it before, yet she knew it for what it was and embraced it.

PROLOGUE

June 1843

London

“I’m prepared to pay off all your debts provided that you complete a particular task for me.”

The pale-faced, neatly dressed gentleman elegantly seated in one of the Antium Club’s armchairs blinked, then stared through the fug of the smoking room at the older gentleman in the armchair opposite—his uncle. “What—all of them?” His tone suggested he was having difficulty believing his ears.

His uncle nodded portentously. “Indeed. And yes, I comprehend that’s a significant sum. I also understand that you owe most if not all of that amount to... Shall we say a somewhat notorious lender-of-last-resort?” The older gentleman paused, then continued, “I assume you appealed to me because you’re desperate, and you know your brother and brothers-in-law won’t lend you a sou regardless of any threats to your continuing good health.”

The younger gentleman’s lips tightened. “Just so.” He hesitated, then asked, “What task do you need attended to?”

What could possibly be worth that much to you? The unvoiced question hung in the smoky air between them.

The older man’s expression eased, and he waved a manicured hand. “Nothing too onerous.” He paused as if ordering his thoughts, then went on, “You’re aware that I invest in various projects, that I lead syndicates who fund enterprises such as railways and gas companies and the like. All very much above board. Unfortunately, these days, there’s a welter of upstart inventors pushing wild ideas and making a lot of noise.” He frowned. “Steering investors away from such ideas—ideas that will never amount to anything—isn’t always easy. Men with money but little sense often behave like children—they get excited over the latest new thing. At present, there’s a great deal of talk about improvements to steam engines, the sort that might make steam-powered horseless carriages into a commercial reality. All balderdash, of course, but it’s making my life much harder.” His frown darkened to a scowl.

After several moments of, apparently, dwelling on the iniquities of any situation that dared to make his life more difficult, his voice lowering, the older man said, “There’s one particular invention that I’ve heard is nearing completion. It’s due to be unveiled at the exhibition to be held in Birmingham on the twenty-second of July.”

The older man’s eyes, their expression shrewd and hard, cut to his nephew’s face. “I need to be assured that that invention will fail—or at the very least, that it will not be successfully demonstrated at the exhibition, which will be attended by Prince Albert. I need to be able to hold that failure up to my investors as an example of the dangers of putting their money into such ill-envisioned, poorly designed projects. Projects that are not simply speculative but that have next to no chance of success.”

The younger gentleman steepled his fingers before his face. He studied his uncle for several long moments, then murmured, “I assume you’re asking me to interfere with—to sabotage—this invention.” When his uncle’s jaw set, and he returned the younger man’s gaze levelly, the younger man asked with patently sincere curiosity, “How do you imagine I might do that?”

His uncle sat back and fussily straightened his trouser legs. “As to that... I can tell you where the inventor lives. His workshop is at his house. As to how you gain access or exactly how to...thrust a spoke in the invention’s wheels, I will leave that to you to decide.” The older gentleman met the younger man’s eyes. “You are, apparently, a creative person—I’m sure you’ll think of a way.”

Despite his current situation, the younger gentleman was no fool. The sum of money his uncle was offering was substantial. To pay so much for tampering with a piece of machinery seemed a poor deal. Yet his uncle was known as a shrewd, ostentatiously rigid businessman, one who held on to his coin with a tight grip, and although he was a childless widower, he’d never previously shown any mellowness or warmth toward the members of his wider family.

The younger man leaned forward, his gaze on his uncle’s face. “What is it about this particular invention that makes it so”—threatening—“undesirable?”

His uncle’s face hardened. Anger flared, readily discernible in his brown eyes, yet it was not directed at his nephew but, apparently, at the invention in question. “It’s...a travesty of an investment project. It shouldn’t be allowed—not as a syndicated investment. We don’t need bally horseless carriages—we have perfectly good horses, and there’s nothing wrong with the carriages they pull. These machines—these newfangled engines—are full of not just cogs and gears but valves and tubing and gauges and pistons. How they work is incomprehensible—for my money, deliberately so.”

He drew in a breath. “Steam locomotives were one thing. Even steam-powered looms were straightforward enough. But this latest round of contraptions!” He flung up his hands in a gesture of either incomprehension or defeat—or perhaps both. Although he kept his voice low, he was all but ranting as he continued, “How am I supposed to deal with my investors? They rattle on about pressures and inclines, and because I can’t explain why it’s wrong, they won’t listen to my advice that we—all of society—don’t need these things, and they shouldn’t invest in them.”

Aha. You’re losing investors to those who are running the syndicates for these new inventions. You’re a Luddite, and you don’t understand, so... The younger man hid a smile. Now he understood that, the deal seemed much more even-handed. His life and his livelihood were under threat from his principal creditor, and this invention, the success of it, threatened his uncle’s livelihood—his uncle’s reason for being.

He might be about to undertake to do something not entirely above board, but at least, to his way of thinking, the exchange seemed fair enough.

His gaze still on his uncle’s now-distinctly choleric face, the younger man slowly nodded. “I see.” He paused, then quietly said, “Very well. I’ll do it. I’ll take care of this matter for you, and you will take care of my debts for me.” He held out his hand.

His uncle studied his eyes, then grasped his hand, and they shook.

Retrieving his hand, the younger man said, “You’d better tell me all you can about this invention.”

His uncle complied, revealing the invention’s location, the inventor’s name, and that the invention was some sort of steam engine purported to incorporate several improvements on Russell’s reworking of Trevithick’s original of 1803.

The younger man had less notion of what that description meant than, he suspected, his uncle did. However, he nodded. After rapidly replaying their earlier conversation, he asked, “Am I correct in thinking that, regardless of whether this engine actually runs or not, as long as it’s not unveiled to any fanfare at the exhibition in Birmingham, you will be satisfied?”

His uncle frowned slightly. “That should suffice. If the invention isn’t successfully demonstrated there”—he smiled tightly, coldly—“no one will believe it works.” After a second, he nodded decisively. “Yes. That will be enough.”

“Good-oh.” The younger gentleman pushed to his feet.

His uncle looked up at him. “I will, of course, be attending the exhibition myself, so I’ll be present to view the outcome of your efforts first-hand.”

The younger man inclined his head. “I’ll endeavor to please. And now, I’d best be on my way.”

His uncle murmured a farewell, and the younger gentleman made for the Antium’s main door.

He paused on the club’s front steps and looked up at the cloudless summer sky.

How hard could it be to rearrange a lever or two, or unscrew a few bolts, or swipe the notes of some absentminded inventor?

He suspected he could satisfy his uncle easily enough, after which his life and his future would be his again.

Yet as he descended the steps and set out for his lodgings, he could feel uneasiness over what he’d agreed to do swirling inside. But...

When it came down to it, he was desperate. Truly desperate. And at least, this way, no one would die.

CHAPTER 1

July 1843 Berkshire

Lord Randolph Cavanaugh—Rand to his family, friends, and associates—tooled his curricle down the leafy lanes and reveled in the fresh country air. After spending the past four months in London, he was more than ready for a change, and a long-scheduled visit to Raventhorne Abbey to catch up with his brother and sister-in-law and their children had provided the perfect excuse to leave the steadily escalating heat of the capital behind.

However, as matters had fallen out, the trip to the Abbey in Wiltshire had coincided with an unexpected need to check up on one of the projects Rand’s firm, Cavanaugh Investments, had underwritten. For the past five years, ever since he’d reached twenty-five and come into his full inheritance, Rand had worked steadily and diligently to carve out a place—a life and a purpose—for himself. He wasn’t content to simply be Raventhorne’s half brother. He’d wanted something more—some enterprise to call his own.

Through Ryder—Rand’s older half brother, now the Marquess of Raventhorne—and Ryder’s marchioness, Mary, Rand had come to know the Cynsters. Gabriel Cynster, one of Mary’s older cousins, had long been a renowned figure in investment circles. Rand had shamelessly apprenticed himself, albeit informally, to Gabriel. After several years of learning from the master, Rand had struck out on his own. He’d made managing investments in the latest inventions his particular area of expertise.

One of his syndicate’s current investments was an exclusive stake in the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage. There’d been steam-powered horseless carriages before—Trevithick had demonstrated the principle in 1803—but none had solved the various issues that had kept such inventions from becoming widely adopted. William Throgmorton had made his name through a spate of steam-powered inventions that had refined the machines of earlier inventors, making the modified engines much more commercially attractive.

When it came to inventions, Throgmorton was a known and established name. Investing in his latest project, while still ranking as definitely speculative, had seemed a good wager, one with possibly very high returns.

Rand had known William Throgmorton for several years. Through his syndicated investment fund, Rand had supported several of Throgmorton’s earlier projects, all of which had delivered satisfactorily. Rand was entirely comfortable with his current investment in Throgmorton’s latest project.

What he wasn’t so comfortable with—what had necessitated this side trip into deepest Berkshire—was Throgmorton’s recent silence. The last report Rand had received had been over three months ago. Until March, Throgmorton had reported more or less every month.

Rand trusted Throgmorton. More, he knew that inventors sometimes became so caught up in the actual work that they lost track of time, and all other responsibilities faded from their minds. Yet over the years Rand had worked with him, Throgmorton hadn’t missed reporting before.

What was even more troubling was that Throgmorton had failed to respond to not one but two letters Rand had subsequently sent. That wasn’t like Throgmorton at any time, but now, with the Birmingham exhibition—at which the presentation and demonstration of the Throgmorton engine had already been widely touted—less than a month away, Rand needed reassurance that all was progressing smoothly with the invention, not just for himself but for all his syndicate’s investors.

The cream of British inventing would be at the exhibition. Prince Albert was scheduled to open it, and the Prince could be relied on to take a keen interest in the inventions on show. Success at the exhibition was crucial for the future of Throgmorton’s engine and also for Rand’s status in the investment community. If Throgmorton failed to deliver...

Rand pushed the thought from his mind. Throgmorton hadn’t failed him yet.

Nevertheless, Rand needed to know what was going on at Throgmorton Hall. He needed to hear of progress from Throgmorton himself, and as the man wasn’t answering his letters, Rand had decided to call in person.

He hadn’t visited Throgmorton Hall before; he’d always met William in the City. All he knew of the Hall was that it lay close to the village of Hampstead Norreys, buried in the depths of Berkshire. Aside from all else, Rand would admit he was curious to see Throgmorton’s workshop.

So instead of continuing west out of Reading and thus to Raventhorne Abbey, on reaching Reading, Rand had taken the Wantage road. He’d stopped at an inn in Pangbourne for lunch, and his groom, Shields, had consulted with the ostlers. Armed with the information Shields had gained, Rand had elected to drive on to Basildon before turning off the highway onto the narrower country lanes and steering his horses first to the west, then the southwest. He’d passed through Ashampstead some time ago. According to the signposts, the village of Hampstead Norreys lay just a mile or so on.

Rand held his bays to a steady trot. After calling on Throgmorton and reviewing his progress and receiving the assurances Rand and his investors required, Rand would have plenty of time to drive on to the Abbey. With any luck, he would arrive before his eldest nephew and his niece had been put to bed. His youngest nephew was just two years old; Rand wasn’t sure what time he would be tucked in.

Rand had discovered he enjoyed being an uncle; he and his two younger brothers, Christopher—Kit—and Godfrey, openly vied for the title of favorite uncle to Ryder and Mary’s three offspring. Rand grinned to himself; he was looking forward to spending the next few days—perhaps the next week—with Ryder, Mary, and their noisy brood.

An arched gray-stone bridge appeared along the lane; Rand slowed his horses and let them walk up and over. A small sign at the crest of the bridge informed him he was crossing the Pang, presumably the upper reaches of the same river he’d earlier crossed at Pangbourne.

“Looks like the village we want just ahead,” Shields said from his perch behind Rand. “Seems it stretches away to the right.”

Rand nodded and shook the reins. The horses picked up their pace, and the curricle bowled smoothly on.

To the left, the lane was bordered by trees, with more trees behind them—a thick forest of oaks and beeches, much like the old outliers of the Savernake that still lingered near Raventhorne.

The trees thinned to the right, where the village stretched parallel to the stream; Rand glimpsed roofs of thatch and lead through breaks in the canopies.

A sign by the road declared they’d reached the village of Hampstead Norreys. As Shields had predicted, the village street lay to the right, stretching northward, with shops and houses on either side. An inn—the Norreys Arms—squatted at the nearest corner.

Rand drew up in the lane opposite the inn. The lane led on, heading west through an avenue of trees before curving to the left—to the southwest.

Shields dropped to the lane. “I’ll go and ask.”

Rand merely nodded. He watched as Shields strode into the inn yard and spoke with the stable lad sweeping the cobbles by the inn’s side door.

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 heard 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.”

So much was riding on that outcome; until now, he hadn’t realized how much—inside, he was still grappling with the full scope of the impending threat.

He kept his gaze steady on William John’s face—refusing to give in to the impulse to glance at Miss Throgmorton to see how she was coping with what had clearly been a painful revelation—and suggested, “Why don’t you outline for me where the invention stands at present?”

To any inventor, such a request was an invitation to be seized, and William John proved he was as single-minded as his father; he eagerly complied and rattled on. Several times, when his descriptions became too technical, Rand halted the flow and asked for clarification. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, any doubts that William John was his father’s son had been laid to rest.

Whether he could accomplish what his father had not managed to achieve prior to his death was another matter.

While William John related all he had done since their father’s death, Miss Throgmorton, Rand noticed, sat back in her chair and listened intently. Her mind did not wander; judging by the steady focus of her gaze, she was able to understand William John’s explanation, possibly as well as Rand could.

Eventually, William John reached the present. “So, you see, now that we’ve finally got the flow adjusted and the mechanisms properly aligned, it’s purely a matter of getting the controls correctly reset to allow for the increased power.” He grimaced. “That’s why the boiler blew. I still haven’t got the settings right.”

Miss Throgmorton made a disapproving sound. “That was the third boiler in as many weeks.”

William John shrugged. “The adjustments to the controls are...complicated. If they’re not correct, then the pressure in the boiler continues to increase, and if we can’t release it or shut down the engine quickly enough...” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Miss Throgmorton sniffed.

Rand studied the younger man. “I have a question.” The point was puzzling. “Your father died in January, yet I continued to receive reports on his—your—progress until the end of March. From what you’ve told me, those reports were accurate, yet they were in your father’s hand...” He realized. “But they weren’t, were they?”

William John shook his head. “I’ve been writing the reports for Papa for years. I just...continued.”

Rand nodded. “Very well. My last question. When your father died, why didn’t you inform me and the syndicate of his death?”

William John compressed his lips and stared levelly back at Rand.

Rand waited. He was grateful that Miss Throgmorton also remained silent.

Eventually, without shifting his gaze from Rand’s face, William John said, “I worked alongside Papa on this invention from its inception. From an inventor’s perspective, I have just as much invested in it as he. It was and still is my hope—my very real ambition—to complete the engine and take it to the exhibition. I knew that I would meet you and perhaps some of the other investors there. I thought I could explain what had happened then and, in so doing, establish myself as an inventor in my own right.” He glanced briefly at his sister, then looked back at Rand. “As my father’s heir invention-wise, so to speak.”

Rand knew that answer was the unvarnished truth. William John was like many inventors—incapable of guile, at least when it came to inventions and inventing. In that field, they spent so much time focused unrelentingly on facts that dissembling did not come easily; indeed, most saw any form of lie as a waste of time.

Moreover, Rand could understand William John’s position. The son would need to prove himself to move out of the shadow of an established personality. Indeed, Rand’s own quest for recognition separate from the large presence of Ryder and the marquessate was what had led him to the Throgmortons’ drawing room. As much as William John, Rand needed this invention to work. He’d staked a great deal more than mere money on it; his reputation as a leader of investment syndicates was riding on this project. If he failed...his chances of attracting investors to any future syndicate would dim considerably.

While not strictly correct, William John’s approach to the situation was entirely understandable, at least to Rand.

Slowly, he nodded. “Very well. We now know where we stand.” His personal strength lay in evaluating options and finding the best way out of any difficulty. He straightened in his chair. “What we need to do next is to define the problems facing us.”

Still reeling from the impact of successive revelations, Felicia felt that defining their problems was a very good idea. That both her father and her brother had been so duplicitous, at least in her eyes, deeply troubled her; the scope of what had been going on under her nose while she’d remained entirely unaware had shaken her to her foundations. She’d always believed she had been the one steering the ship of their household, while in reality, she hadn’t even known in which direction they’d been headed.

She focused on Lord Cavanaugh as, with a slight frown—one of concentration—drawing down his dark brows, he stated, “With only three weeks to go before the exhibition, we cannot withdraw from the event—not without sustaining considerable damage to all our reputations. A withdrawal at this stage would signal to everyone that the invention had failed. That, of course, is the one result we would all prefer to avoid.”

His lordship’s gaze rested on William John. Felicia had already noticed that Cavanaugh had eyes of the warmest mid brown she’d ever seen—like heated caramel or melted toffee.

“I believe,” he continued, “that in the circumstances, we must hold to our goal of getting the steam engine working per your father’s plans and successfully unveil the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage at the exhibition. If we fail to do so”—he shot Felicia a glance, then returned his gaze to William John—“William John’s future as an inventor will be ruined before he truly starts. You will become an investment pariah”—again, Cavanaugh glanced Felicia’s way—“and as I understand it, you don’t have the capital to undertake further inventing of this nature on your own.”

William John grimaced. “All you say is true. That’s why I’ve forged on so doggedly—I have to get the engine working perfectly and present it at the exhibition.”

Cavanaugh inclined his head. “But there’s more at stake than just your future.”

Felicia nearly laughed—humorlessly—at the surprise that showed in William John’s face. As she well knew, inventors never thought beyond the invention. Beyond their work.

She felt Cavanaugh’s gaze touch her face again, then he said, “Forgive me if I mistook the implications of your earlier exchange, but it seemed to me that absent the funds advanced to support this latest invention, this household would not be solvent.”

Felicia met Cavanaugh’s eyes and grimly nodded. “No need to apologize—you’re quite correct.” For an instant, she allowed herself to hold to the steady warmth in his gaze while she rapidly reviewed the household accounts. “Put simply”—she looked at William John—“if this latest invention isn’t a success, the family will be financially ruined. We do not have sufficient income from other sources to continue the upkeep of the Hall.” She allowed her gaze to weigh on her brother. “We would be forced to sell up.”

William John flinched. “Really?” He met her eyes as if willing her to say she was joking.

“Yes.” It was past time he faced the truth of the dire straits to which inventing and inventions had driven them.

After a second, Cavanaugh went on, “And, sadly, the repercussions do not end there.”

Felicia looked at him, puzzled as to what else might be at stake, but his gaze seemed to have turned inward.

“While this project is not my first as the head of a syndicate, it is the most prominent of my investment projects to date. It’s the project my coterie of investors are most interested in seeing succeed. If we”—he refocused on William John, then included Felicia with his gaze—“do not deliver on the promise of that investment, do not live up to the assurances of success I gave, then my carefully nurtured reputation as an investment syndicate leader will be...severely compromised.”

Only now that he’d considered the possibility—if not likelihood—of the Throgmorton steam engine failing had Rand realized just how much he’d staked on its success. “Of course, on top of that, my own funds will take a sizeable hit.” But that was the least of his worries.

Silence fell—a moment of staring into the abyss as they all dwelled on the consequences of failure.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was William John who first stirred and said, “Well, we’ll just have to make sure the engine works as advertised.”

Rand took in the young inventor’s unwavering determination and had to wonder...

Regardless, there seemed no other way forward, yet long acquaintance with the species had taught Rand that where time was a factor, even when deadlines loomed, inventors could not be trusted to keep their focus.

He felt as if the circumstances were forming up around him and all-but-physically herding him into taking on a role he never had before. Into taking a large step beyond the comfort of the arenas in which he was knowledgeable and embarking down a path of unknown risks and unforeseeable challenges.

Nevertheless...

He glanced again at Miss Throgmorton, then looked at William John. “I agree. At this point, I can’t see any alternative way forward—not for any of us—other than to persevere, get the engine working, and present it successfully at the exhibition.”

William John nodded, his expression resolved and sure.

Rand glanced at Miss Throgmorton. If they were to have any hope of succeeding in time, they would need her support as well.

Felicia met and returned Cavanaugh’s gaze. Only when he faintly arched his brows did she realize he was waiting for—asking for—her agreement. She blinked, then cleared her throat and said, “I agree. There seems no other viable way to proceed.” Until the last moments, she hadn’t realized just how dire—how absolute and inevitable—the consequences of failure would be.

Only now did she fully comprehend what was hanging over their heads.

Yet another revelation she would need time to fully assimilate.

Cavanaugh nodded. “So we three are resolved.”

Rand shifted his gaze to William John. “Given how much is riding on the outcome, I’ll remain and assist you as required, at least until you get the engine going. I can’t work on the mechanics as you do, but I am very good at managing time and resources, and we’ll need everything running smoothly if we’re to succeed in attaining our mutual goal.”

Far from being put out by the thought of having someone looking over his shoulder, William John’s face lit with eagerness. “I’ll be delighted to explain the engine to you.” He paused, his mind clearly going to the invention, then he grimaced and refocused on Rand. “The boiler will be too hot for us to dismantle it today, but I can show you the workshop and explain what does what and where our current problems lie—if you’d like that?”

Rand nodded and pushed out of the armchair. “That sounds an excellent place to start.”

He glanced at Miss Throgmorton. A faint frown on her face, she was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the low table. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up, and he caught her green eyes. He inclined his head. “Until later, Miss Throgmorton.”

She dipped her head in reply. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’ll have a room prepared for you.” To her brother, she added, “I’ll see you both at dinner.”

William John waved vaguely and headed for the door.

Rand followed and wondered just what he’d let himself in for.

CHAPTER 2

Rand followed William John into the front hall. The younger man led the way to the wooden door Rand had earlier noted.

Someone had shut the door, no doubt against the still-definite smell, but apparently oblivious, William John lifted the latch and started down the stairs. “Our laboratory-workshop takes up most of the lower level of the house. My father set it up when he was a young man, and it’s been in use ever since.”

Descending the spiral stairs on William John’s heels, Rand asked, “How do you get heavy machinery into the workshop?” The stairway was too narrow to get even a smallish engine down.

“Ah. As I said, it’s a lower level of the house—not a cellar. The land behind the house is lower than in the front, so we have a pair of double doors that open to a paved courtyard at the rear of the house—we just roll the engines in and out.”

They rounded another curve, and William John halted. “Damn!”

Rand stopped two steps up and looked over William John’s head at the drifting murk blanketing the enclosed space below them. A noxious stench, sulfurous and metallic, rose from the cloud. The miasma wafted, veiling benches and the large bulk of an engine, plus any number of other contraptions dotted about the wide, stone-walled chamber.

“I forgot the door was shut.” William John clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and plunged into the fug. He rushed across the room to a pair of large wooden doors, fumbled with the latch, then pushed the doors wide.

The cloud of heavy gases shifted, then settled again. William John stood on the flagstones outside and frantically waved his arms, attempting to encourage fresh air to flow in, but his efforts were largely ineffectual.

He dragged in a breath, then rushed back through the haze to the stairs. Climbing to where Rand had waited, William John sighed. He looked down and across the room. “Perhaps we’d better leave any inspection until tomorrow.”

Rand grunted in agreement. “I doubt inhaling tainted steam will do either of us any good.” He turned and led the way back up the stairs.

William John followed; even his footfalls sounded disappointed. “My man, Corby—well, he used to be Papa’s, so he’s accustomed to dealing with explosions. He’ll see to getting the place tidied up first thing tomorrow.”

Rand merely nodded. He emerged into the front hall to find the butler hovering.

At the sight of Rand, the butler—middle-aged, tallish, of average build, with thinning brown hair and a stately manner—came to attention and bowed. “Lord Cavanaugh. Welcome to Throgmorton Hall.” The butler straightened. “I regret we were somewhat distracted when you arrived. My name is Johnson. Should you require anything during your stay, please ring and we will endeavor to meet your needs. Miss Throgmorton asked for a room to be prepared. If it’s convenient, I can show you to your room now.”

Rand realized he felt as if, in driving up the Throgmorton Hall drive, he’d stepped into some strange and unpredictable world; a butler who, despite appearing strictly conventional, referred to dealing with an in-house explosion as being “somewhat distracted” seemed all of a piece. “Thank you.” Taking a few moments to reassess the situation appealed to his naturally cautious self. “I would appreciate shedding the dust of my journey.”

Johnson bowed again. “Indeed, my lord. I’ll have a maid bring up some water. If you’ll follow me?”

Rand turned to William John; the younger man was standing, frowning at the floor. “I expect we’ll meet at dinner.”

“What?” William John blinked owlishly, refocused on Rand, then his face cleared. “Oh yes. I’ll look forward to it.”

Rand resisted the urge to shake his head, nodded instead, and followed Johnson up the stairs. One thing he’d already ascertained: William John was as vague and as given to fits of absentmindedness as his father had been.

The room the butler led Rand to was a pleasant bedchamber located in the northwest corner of the first floor. Comfortably furnished, with upholstery, curtains, and bedspread in a striped fabric that was neither masculine nor feminine, the room felt airy and was blessedly uncluttered. The bed was a half tester, wide and well supplied with pillows. Two side tables flanking the bed, an armoire, a tallboy, a desk with a straight-backed chair set beneath one window, plus a small dressing table tucked into a corner with a stool before it, rounded out the furniture.

Two windows looked out over the grounds, one facing north, the other west. Late-afternoon light streamed into the room through the west-facing window. Noting that his bags had already been unpacked and his brushes and shaving implements laid ready on the dresser, Rand dismissed the hovering Johnson, then crossed to look out of the west window. As he’d expected, that window afforded an excellent view of the drive leading to the forecourt, plus the woodland beyond, and, farther to the north, the shrubbery.

After surveying the scene, he moved to the other window. From there, he could see the eastern edge of the shrubbery and the stable and stable yard more or less directly ahead. Farther to the east lay a structured garden. From the profusion of blooms and their sizes and colors, Rand suspected it was a rose garden.

As he watched, a lady walked purposefully from the rear of the house toward the arched entrance of the garden, a basket swinging from her hand. Despite the distance, Rand recognized Miss Throgmorton.

He’d been acquainted with William Throgmorton for over four years. Rand had known William had a son, of whom he was quite proud.

The old inventor had never mentioned a daughter.

Rand watched as Miss Throgmorton halted in the middle of the garden, dropped her basket, then set about attacking the tall bushes with what, from her rather vicious movements, he assumed was a pair of shears.

He focused on her, his senses drawing in to the point he didn’t really see anything around her. Just her, her lithe figure topped by her flaming red-gold hair, lit to a fiery radiance by the warm rays of the westering sun. Regardless of the distance, he sensed the vitality that animated her; for some reason, she all but shone in his sight, a beacon for his senses.

A magnetic, compelling, distracting beacon.

How long he stood and stared he couldn’t have said; footsteps approaching along the corridor had him shaking off the compulsion and turning to face the door.

After the briefest of taps, the door opened, and Shields—Rand’s groom, who, in a pinch, also served as his gentleman’s gentleman—came in.

“Ah—there you are.” Bearing an ewer, Shields nudged the door closed, then advanced to set the ewer on the dresser. “I’ve unpacked, and I brushed that blue coat of yours for the evening. If that’ll suit?”

Rand nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Are we staying for a while?” Shields asked.

Rand frowned. “A few days at least.”

Shields grunted. “Just as well we were on our way to Raventhorne, then. At least we’ve both got clothes enough for a stay.”

Putting his back to the view, Rand leant back against the windowsill. “What are your thoughts on the household here?”

“Despite what we saw when we drove up, it’s a well-run house. Calm and well-ordered, even if a mite eccentric. The staff are longtimers, all of them—and if they’re not that old, then their parents were here before them. Very settled, they are, and... I suppose you’d say they’re content.”

“The explosions don’t trouble them?”

“Seems they’re used to them—and apparently, there’s never been anyone hurt. Just lots of noise and nasty smoke.”

Rand nodded. A well-run household and contented staff were excellent indicators of the qualities of a house’s master. Or mistress, as the case might be.

He straightened from the sill and turned to look out of the window again.

“Country hours here, so dinner’s at six.” Shields retreated toward the door. “Do you need me for anything else?”

Rand shook his head. “Not today.” His gaze flicked to the stable. “How are the horses?” He’d purchased the pair only two months ago; they were young and still distinctly flighty.

“They didn’t approve of the bang and the smell, but the stable’s well away from the house, and they settled happily enough.”

“Good.” Rand paused, then said, “I doubt I’ll need the horses for the next few days at least. Other than keeping an eye on them, I won’t need you for much, but let me know if you see or hear anything that strikes you as odd.”

“Aye. I’ll do that. I’m off for my tea, then.”

Rand heard the door open and shut. His gaze had already found and refocused on Miss Throgmorton.

She was still attacking the roses.

Rand wavered, prodded by an impulse to go down and speak with her. About what, he wasn’t all that clear. Judging by the energy with which she was clipping, she was still distinctly exercised over what his arrival had revealed.

She’d had no inkling of Rand’s or the syndicate’s existence. More, Rand sensed her antipathy toward inventing—an attitude that had reached him perfectly clearly during their meeting in the drawing room—had a deeper source than mere female disapproval of such endeavors.

Yet her support would be vital in keeping her brother’s nose to the grindstone, and they all needed William John to finish the invention within the next three weeks.

Rand wasn’t sure how much he could actively help William John—that remained to be seen—but at the very least, he could ride rein on the younger man and ensure he remained focused on solving the issues bedeviling his father’s machine. William John had already shown strong signs of the absentminded mental meandering Rand had observed in many other inventors.

In his experience, time was the one dimension to which inventors rarely paid heed.

Yet in this case, time was very definitely of critical importance.

Rand refocused on Miss Throgmorton.

He drew out his fob watch and checked the face, then tucked the watch into his pocket and headed for the door.

He had time for a stroll before dinner.

* * *

In the rose garden, Felicia deadheaded roses with a vengeance. With her left hand, she gripped the next rose hip; with her right hand, she wielded the shears. Snip! She dropped the clipped hip into her basket and reached for the next.

She’d hoped the activity would allow her to release some of the emotions pent up inside her. And, in truth, simply being out of the house and breathing fresher air had eased the volcanic anger, fueled by hurt, that had welled within her on learning of her father’s and brother’s subterfuge.

Snip.

Her father was dead; she couldn’t berate him. As for her brother...while she could berate him, she and the household—not to mention the too-handsome-for-his-own-good Lord Cavanaugh and his syndicated investors—needed William John to keep his mind on his work. Berating him wouldn’t help.

Snip.

Besides, she knew her brother well enough to know he would feel no real remorse; encouraging her to believe that the funds she’d been drawing on to keep the household running had been royalties from previous inventions would have seemed to her father and William John to be the easiest path.

They wouldn’t have wanted her to worry over using money received from others for an invention they hadn’t yet got to work.

Their sleight of mind still hurt.

And she was now quite worried enough, and in that, she wasn’t alone. Even William John was uncertain. Unsure.

He’d been growing steadily more nervous over recent weeks—more nervous than she’d ever known him. She’d wondered why. Now, she knew.

This time, her father and brother had embarked on a gamble that might not pay off.

She nudged the basket along with her foot and reached for the next dead rose.

Unlike previous projects, where she’d insisted they worked only with capital they already possessed and also left untouched a cushion of funds on which the household could fall back on should the project fail, this time, there was no cushion. No funds to fall back on.

No way to keep going.

Snip.

This time, if the invention failed, they would have to sell the Hall and let the staff go. There’d been Throgmortons at the Hall for generations; everyone would be devastated. The loss of their home would hurt William John even more; without his laboratory-workshop, he would be rudderless. As for her...she had no idea what such a future would hold for her, other than that it would be bleak. She’d had her Season in London and hadn’t taken—and she hadn’t taken to life in the capital, either; it had been far too superficial for her taste. Now, at the age of twenty-four, the best she could hope for was a life as a paid companion or as an unpaid poor relative in one of her distant cousins’ households.

If she’d been a different sort of female, she might have given way to despair, but she didn’t have time for any such indulgence. As far as she could tell, there was one and only one way to avoid the abyss that had opened up before them—William John had to get the dratted modified steam engine to work.

Snip.

If she wanted to save the household, the Hall, William John, and herself, she needed to do all she could to keep her brother’s mind focused on that task and ensure that all possible burdens were lifted from his shoulders.

William John was a year older than she was, but it had long been she who managed everything around him.

A distant step on the gravel path circling the house had her raising her gaze. Lord Cavanaugh—he who, from her year’s experience of London society, she had instantly recognized as belonging to the too-handsome-for-his-own-good brigade—was crossing the lawn. He wasn’t out strolling; there was nothing idle about his stride. He’d seen her and, apparently, was intent on speaking with her.

While ostensibly clipping another dead rose, she watched him approach. Over six feet tall, with wide shoulders, a well-muscled chest, narrow hips, and long, strong legs, he cut a powerful figure, well-proportioned and rangy. Also distinctly mature; she judged him to be in his early thirties. He was still wearing the clothes he’d arrived in—a fashionably cut coat over a fine linen shirt, a neatly tied ivory cravat, tightly fitting buff breeches, and top boots. The subdued style, exquisite cut, and expensive fabrics marked him as a gentleman of the ton’s upper echelons, yet it was his features that had prompted her to give him the label she had; his dark, walnut-brown hair, the thick locks fashionably trimmed, framed a face of cool calculation tinged with the autocratic arrogance often found in those of the higher nobility.

He was a marquess’s son, after all.

The long planes of his face were spare, even austere, with sharp cheekbones on either side of a patrician nose, and firm, chiseled lips above a squarish chin. Straight dark-brown eyebrows and surprisingly thick dark lashes set off those eyes of molten caramel that she’d already discovered were unwarrantedly distracting.

Those eyes were currently trained on her. Trapped under his gaze, to her irritation, she felt her lungs contract until breathlessness threatened. And the closer he came, the worse the effect grew.

Her father’s cousin, Flora, who lived at the Hall and was nominally Felicia’s chaperon, had already been won over by Cavanaugh when, in the immediate aftermath of the recent explosion, he’d attentively assisted her to the bench by the front steps.

Flora had heard his name when he’d introduced himself; as soon as she’d caught her breath, rather than join Felicia, Cavanaugh, and William John in the drawing room, Flora had rushed upstairs and combed through her correspondence.

Flora’s correspondents numbered in the multiple dozens, all ladies like herself for whom keeping abreast of everything to do with the haut ton was a lifelong occupation.

Courtesy of Flora, Felicia now knew that Lord Randolph Cavanaugh was the second son of the late Marquess of Raventhorne and was wealthy and eligible in every way—no real surprise there—but to the consternation of the grandes dames, Lord Randolph tended to avoid the ballrooms and, consequently, was as yet unmarried. That, she had to admit, was surprising and had raised a question—purely a curious one—in her mind. What would it take in a lady to interest Lord Randolph Cavanaugh?

The object of her purely idle curiosity reached the entrance to the rose garden. From the corner of her eye, she watched as, his gaze fixed on her, he ducked beneath the archway and slowed to a prowl. He pretended to glance at the roses, then, as he halted a yard away, returned his gaze to her.

She really did not like the way her nerves were tightening in response to his focused look. Before he could speak, she briefly glanced his way. “We keep country hours. Dinner will be served at six o’clock.”

One of his dark brows faintly arched. “So I’ve been informed.”

His voice was deep, a purring rumble.

Lips and chin firming, she reached for another rose hip. Anything to force herself to look away from him—to give herself a reason for doing so. Admittedly, in the drawing room, he’d almost flabbergasted her by asking her opinion—asking for her agreement in forging on as they were—yet she wasn’t at all sure that had she disagreed, he wouldn’t simply have ignored her stance.

Gentlemen like him might well possess ingrained manners and act on them without thinking. That didn’t mean he’d actually cared about how she felt, and she would be a fool to further encourage him.

Snip.

“I saw you out here and thought I’d get some air—and kill two birds with one stone.”

Inside, she stiffened. Air she understood, but what else was he thinking to slay?

When he didn’t immediately offer up a clue, her wits—unaccountably skittering in myriad directions though they were—came up with the answer. She debated for only a second; better she keep the reins of any conversation in her hands, and she stood to learn as much about him from his questions as he stood to learn from any answers she deigned to give. Pausing in her pruning, she slanted him a glance. “What do you wish to know?”

A faint smile edged his lips—and her eyes and her senses found another point of distraction. Luckily, he’d relaxed somewhat and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he glanced down as if marshaling his words.

Rand had looked down to hide his satisfied smile. Her response to his vague allusion confirmed his initial assessment that Miss Throgmorton was a lady of uncommon intelligence. That was hardly surprising given she was William Throgmorton’s daughter, but it was one of the points he’d wanted to verify. Her being intelligent would make working alongside her in managing William John and the completion of the steam engine a great deal easier.

Regardless, he took a second or two to consider his next words. She was...prickly. Somewhat unaccountably, and the reason for that was a part of what he needed to learn. He drew breath and, without looking up, said, “Forgive me if I misread, but during our meeting in the drawing room earlier, I got the impression that you were...shall we say, opposed to inventions? Whether specifically your father’s and brother’s or in a more general sense, I couldn’t tell.” He looked up and met her green eyes—summer green, the soft green of summer grass. “However, given the present circumstances, I’m curious as to your attitude, and why you seem to have taken against inventions.”

And if, therefore, you’re going to get in my way. Mine, my investors’, and William John’s.

He didn’t say the words, but as her eyes narrowed on his, he felt confident she understood.

She stood with her shears held laxly in one gloved hand and stared into his eyes. Then her lips firmed, and she turned back to the rose bushes. “I am not against inventions.” She reached for a dead rose. “It’s inventors I have little sympathy or time for.”

She paused, the fingers of one hand cradling the withered bloom; her shears remained raised, but didn’t sweep in. He could almost hear her debating whether or not to explain her stance to him. He knew when she accepted that, given the circumstances, he had reason to ask and, possibly, a right to know.

“There’s a truth I learned long ago.” Her tone had hardened; her diction was clipped. “When it comes to anything that impacts on their inventing, inventors like my father and my brother are inherently, innately selfish. They live and breathe their work and are deaf and blind to all else about them—to house, estate, staff, friends, family. Everything. Were the house to literally crumble about them, they wouldn’t notice—would pay it no heed whatever—not unless and until it directly interfered with their work. Only then would an issue other than the invention itself become important—important enough for them to afford it an iota of their attention.”

Now that Felicia had finally faced the question no one before had ever thought to ask her, and had started to answer and, in doing so, had opened the box into which for so many years she’d stuffed all her resentments, she discovered that continuing was easier than curbing her tongue. “I saw what my father’s unswerving devotion to his inventions meant for my mother. She was a Walpole, higher born than Papa, but theirs was a love match—and of that I am sure, that there was love on both sides to the very end. Yet my father’s inventions always came first. Throughout all my mother’s life, Papa’s inventions kept eating up all their funds, leaving Mama cut off from society—even the small circle of local society. She couldn’t entertain, sometimes not for years. People were kind, but she wouldn’t attend dinners on her own, and Papa would never make the time to accompany her. For years, we lived under the most straitened circumstances, with Mama’s constant role being to pinch and scrape and eke out the funds left after Papa’s depredations, just to keep up appearances and make sure there was food on the table. Not that Papa or William John ever noticed what they were eating. Our staff, bless them, have stuck with us through thick and thin, but through most of my parents’ marriage, times were far more thin than thick.”

Cavanaugh shifted. “Your father is considered a very successful inventor. I know he had many successes.”

She made a scoffing sound. “He did, indeed, but, monetarily speaking, virtually all his successes were minor. All brought in some funds, but it was never enough to cover my father’s—and more recently, William John’s—hunger for the latest valve or piston or cylinder or gear. There’s always something they simply must have. The drain on our funds was—and still is—never ending.”

She sensed rather than saw him lift his head and glance around—at the well-maintained house, the grounds, the gardens.

“Yet you seem to have managed well enough.”

She laughed cynically. “Up to now.” She paused, then in a quieter tone went on, “I saw what inventions made of my mother’s life. I learned that the obsession with inventions isn’t something even love can triumph against. When she fell ill, at her request I took up the reins of managing the household. Unlike Mama, I have a good head for numbers—and I was more than up to the task of arguing and nagging my father until he agreed to set aside funds for keeping up the house. Mama died eight years ago. Papa’s successes mostly occurred after that, and I managed to cling to sufficient funds to keep the good ship Throgmorton on an even keel.” She paused, then snipped another dead rose. “At least, so I thought.”

After a moment, she turned, dropped the dead rose into her basket, then raised her gaze and met Cavanaugh’s eyes. “I might as well confess that I hold a deep and abiding antipathy toward inventing—the process. Had I known how matters stood, if it had been up to me, after Papa died, I would have drawn a line under the steam engine project and returned the unused funds to you and your syndicate.” She paused, then inclined her head and swung back and shifted to face the next rose bush. “That said, I know William John wouldn’t have agreed, and quite aside from being male, he’s also older than me.” She cut another dead rose and more evenly said, “In addition to the reasons he gave—of wanting to establish himself—I suspect he feels a certain filial obligation to get the engine working as my father envisaged as a form of tribute to Papa—a final triumph.”

His gaze fixed on her profile, Rand murmured, “I can understand that.”

“It might be understandable, but is it sensible?” She snipped another rose, resurgent tension investing the movement.

Before Rand could formulate any answer, she shot a sharp glance—one a very small step away from a glare—his way. “After Papa’s death, the only reason I gave way and acquiesced to William John continuing to work on the steam engine project was because there was money still coming in—as I thought, from royalties from earlier inventions.”

She turned back to the bush; he could only see her profile, but even that looked flinty. The next dead rose fell to a savage slice of her shears.

“Both Papa and William John lied to me about the source of those funds. They didn’t just encourage me to believe something that wasn’t true—they lied. Directly. Several times each. They intentionally deceived me”—Rand almost winced as she took off another dead rose—“so that I would think there was enough money—sufficient money, at least—to be made from inventions after all. They bought my support with lies.”

Rand suddenly found himself skewered with a green gaze that was all daggers.

“You can imagine how I feel about that.”

He could.

“And”—she turned back to the rose bushes—“how I therefore feel about everything to do with inventors and inventing.”

He’d wanted to know, and now, he did. Rand looked down, studying the edge of the flagstone path while he absorbed all he’d heard, all he’d sensed behind her words, and readjusted his strategy.

He knew too many inventors to doubt anything she’d said. The emotional and physical neglect she’d described wasn’t uncommon but an all-too-frequent outcome of inventors’ single-minded focus on their works.

As for her hurt on learning she’d been lied to... He knew all about betrayal by one’s nearest and dearest, those a man—or a woman—should have been able to trust.

The realization left him feeling a closer kinship with her than he’d foreseen.

Unfortunately, he could do nothing about what lay in her past, any more than he could do anything about what lay in his.

Experience had taught him that forward was the only practical way to go.

He raised his head, studied her for an instant, then quietly said, “Just for the record, although I might fund inventions and intend to work alongside your brother in bringing his current project to fruition, I would definitely notice if the house started to crumble in even a minor way.”

She glanced at him sidelong and briefly met his eyes. “You’re an investor, not an inventor.”

He smiled tightly. “Indeed.” He didn’t want her tarring him with that brush.

She gave a small humph and turned back to snip another dead rose.

Rand studied her face, the flawless complexion—milk and honey with a golden tinge courtesy of the summer sun—framed by a wealth of tumbling red-gold locks that made his fingers itch.

And I would definitely notice if you were unhappy or distressed or under pressure of any sort, especially if it was due to something I’d done.

The words remained a quiet statement in his mind; he was too wise to utter them.

He straightened and caught the swift glance she threw his way. “Thank you for confiding in me.” He held her gaze. “I can’t promise that this will pan out as we all hope, but rest assured I will do everything I can to ensure the weight of your father’s last invention is lifted from you, your family, and the household as soon as possible.”

Openly, she searched his eyes. “Do you think it’s possible? That at this late stage, William John can sort out the mechanisms that to date have eluded him?”

He didn’t look away. “I can’t say. However, I can guarantee that our only option is to forge ahead and do everything possible to assist William John in that endeavor.”

She looked toward the house. For a moment, he thought she would merely nod in dismissal, but, instead, she raised her chin and said, “Thank you for the assurance of your support.” She paused, then went on, “While I might not be overjoyed about the project continuing, I understand the situation and accept that it must. That, as matters stand, we all need this invention to be a success.” Finally, her eyes touched his again, and she gracefully inclined her head. “Rest assured that I’ll do nothing to make the road to success more difficult.”

Rand tipped his head in response. “Thank you.” That was the assurance he’d come to the rose garden hoping to get. He stepped back. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She murmured an agreement and returned to trimming the roses.

Rand turned and walked out of the rose garden, then he slid his hands into his pockets and strode across the lawn. On his way to the rose garden, he’d passed the still-open doors of the workshop; a breeze had sprung up, and the sulfurous fog had almost cleared. He turned his steps west. Circling the house would afford him time to sort through his thoughts as well as giving him the lie of the land.

Speaking of which, he should learn Miss Throgmorton’s given name. Not that he expected to get all that much closer to her, fascinating creature though she was. She was intelligent, prickly, and capable—more than clever enough to manipulate any man.

Precisely the sort of clever lady he’d long ago barricaded his heart against.

And if his heart wasn’t involved...given the circumstances, pursuing any sort of relationship with her was entirely out of bounds.

Yes, he was aware of the visceral tug he felt in her presence, but that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it.

Aside from all else, he was there, walking the lawns of Throgmorton Hall, for one burningly urgent reason. He had to ensure the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage made its debut in appropriate style at the upcoming exhibition.

If he failed...

Unlike the Throgmortons, he wouldn’t be ruined, but the setback would be severe.

Clearly, he and William John would get no active help from Miss Throgmorton, not that he could imagine how she might actively assist. But she’d agreed to manage the household around them, around the completion of the invention, and that was really all he could hope for from her.

He walked on, boots crunching on the gravel of the forecourt as he approached the front door, through which he’d left the house.

As he started up the porch steps, he inwardly admitted he would have preferred Miss Throgmorton to be more engaged with the project—to be an invested supporter, rather than a highly reluctant one.

But he’d gained a clear statement of commitment, and having heard the reasons behind her attitude to inventing, that was realistically all he could hope for.

It’s enough to go on with. The words rang in his mind as he opened the door and walked into the front hall.

CHAPTER 3

Felicia swept through the door of the breakfast parlor at her customary hour of eight o’clock. Dinner the previous evening had been an entirely uneventful and rather stiff affair; she’d still been grappling with the ramifications of the revelations Cavanaugh’s arrival had brought, William John had been frowning and muttering over what had caused the explosion, and Cavanaugh had seemed disinclined to push further regarding the invention, perhaps wanting to wait until he’d seen it. He’d spent more time chatting with Flora than with anyone else.

As usual, Felicia found William John already at the table, frowning direfully at several diagrams while he sipped his coffee, but she nearly jumped when Cavanaugh rose from his chair farther around the circular table.

Her eyes wider than she would have liked, she managed to smile with reasonable composure and wave him back to his chair. “Good morning, my lord.” I didn’t expect to see you before noon. “I trust you slept well?” She headed for the sideboard.

“I did, thank you.” He resumed his seat. “The bed was comfortable, and after the constant noise of the capital, the silence of the country at night is a welcome relief.”

She glanced briefly his way. “You live in Mayfair?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t need to know. She gave him her back and concentrated on helping herself to a portion of kedgeree—and tried to drag her wits away from their sudden obsession with whether her bodice was straight and her hair properly pinned.

“I have lodgings in Jermyn Street.”

Of course he did. The street inhabited by all the most fashionable bachelors.

“That said, I spend most of my time in my office in the City.”

Turning, she approached the place opposite him. Johnson arrived with a teapot and a fresh rack of toast; he quickly set them down and pulled out and held her chair for her. She thanked him with a smile, sat, then glanced again at Cavanaugh. “I suppose you have to meet and discuss projects with your investors.”

He lowered his gaze to his plate of ham and eggs. “That, and meet with my contacts so that I hear of any new inventions looking for funding.” He raised his gaze and, across the table, met her eyes. “That takes more hours than I like, but it’s essential to keep on top of the field. Inventions arise more or less unheralded—one has to keep one’s ear to the ground.”

She nodded and, fixing her gaze on her plate, sampled the kedgeree, then settled to consume it. To her irritation, she was keenly aware of her every movement. Was there a bit of herring on her lip? She must be careful not to overload her fork.

Such thoughts—such awareness of her appearance and how a gentleman might be seeing her—were so alien, they jarred.

What was the matter with her?

Whatever it was—whatever affliction Cavanaugh had inflicted on her—she needed to ignore it.

Feeling his gaze on her, she very nearly squirmed.

“You know,” William John said, “I think you’re correct.” He leaned across to show Cavanaugh a diagram. “If I move the inlet valve to here, then the gauge should be more sensitive to the changes in pressure.” William John frowned. “Theoretically, anyway.”

Cavanaugh shrugged. “At times, one simply has to try things and see if they work.”

Slowly, still frowning, William John nodded. “Once we have the workshop cleared and the boiler replaced, we’ll try it. That, however, won’t be the only change we’ll need to make.”

Accustomed to her brother’s ramblings, Felicia, nevertheless, pricked up her ears at his use of “we.” Ever since their father’s death, with respect to the steam engine, William John had always spoken in the singular.

She continued to eat her kedgeree and sip her tea, and surreptitiously watched as Cavanaugh made another suggestion, and William John readily discussed the pros and cons...freely, without the slightest reservation.

In less than twenty-four hours, Cavanaugh had won her brother’s confidence, something she knew was not easy to do.

Clearly, she would be wise not to make assumptions about Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, and already, he’d surprised her twice.

She was surprised again when Cavanaugh turned to her and asked if William John’s proposal to commandeer the footmen and gardener for cleanup duties in the workshop would inconvenience her.

She was tempted to say it would, but she’d promised to assist as she and the household could. She shook her head. “There’s nothing on their plates this morning that they can’t do later, once they’ve finished in the workshop.”

Cavanaugh turned back to William John and continued—artfully, gently, almost imperceptibly—to steer her brother, again and again drawing his peripatetic mind back to the issue at hand and keeping him firmly on the shortest path to completing the necessary modifications to the engine.

Felicia had to be grateful for that; if left to himself, William John had a tendency to follow whatever vague notion popped into his brain. From comments he’d let fall, she’d long ago formed the opinion that her brother’s brain was literally awhirl with thoughts, even more so than their father’s had been.

Now Cavanaugh had won William John’s trust, Cavanaugh was in a position to harness William John’s undoubtedly able mind and keep it focused on fixing the engine.

Watching the pair, for the first time since learning of the true nature of what faced them all, she felt a smidgen of hope.

With Cavanaugh at the helm, they might just win through.

Finally, William John slapped his palm on his pile of diagrams. “Right, then!” He looked at Felicia for the first time since she’d entered the room and grinned. “It’s time we got working.”

The enthusiasm in his eyes...she hadn’t seen that for quite some time. She found herself smiling back, then she set down her empty teacup, pushed back her chair, and rose as both men came to their feet.

She turned and made for the door; she had her usual morning meeting with Mrs. Reilly, the housekeeper, to attend, then she needed to take stock of the kitchen garden with Cook and decide if they should try for another crop of peas.

Cavanaugh and William John followed her into the front hall. William John made straight for the door to the workshop stairs, but Cavanaugh hesitated. When, heading for her sitting room on the other side of the hall, she glanced his way, he caught her eye. “Don’t you want to see how things are in the workshop?”

She slowed, her gaze steady on his. “No. I don’t go down there. I haven’t been down since I was twelve years old.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed there was some tale behind that.

She summoned an entirely meaningless smile, turned, and walked on.

Rand watched the fascinating—and now enigmatic—Miss Throgmorton walk to the door of the room opposite the drawing room, open the door, and disappear inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

He shook aside the feeling of...he didn’t know what. Ridiculous to feel that, now, he needed to find out what had happened when she was twelve years old that had kept her out of her father’s workshop ever since.

With a shake of his head, he strode after William John and started down the stairs.

He had to admit that William John’s performance in the breakfast room had certainly borne out his sister’s view; William John had been utterly oblivious to her presence. He hadn’t even looked her way when Rand had asked her about the footmen.

Rand was well aware that inventors—most of them—behaved in exactly that fashion, that their minds were so blinkered they were aware of nothing beyond their invention. Yet since he’d spoken with Miss Throgmorton, his eyes had been opened to the harm that trait could cause.

There was, sadly, nothing he could do to alter or even ameliorate that.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, raised his head, and surveyed the challenge before him.

William John and the Throgmorton steam engine.

That was a challenge he could do something about.

Although the workshop doors had been closed during the night, they’d been propped open again at daybreak, and the air inside the laboratory-workshop was now fresh and clear.

Rand paused on the last stair and scanned the chamber. With no wafting cloud to obscure his view, he took in the racks and shelves that filled every available foot of wall. Every inch of storage space was crammed with cogs, tubes, pistons, valves, pipes of every conceivable sort, and a cornucopia of engine parts. Two large, moveable racks were hung with a plethora of tools. The paraphernalia for welding was piled on a large trolley.

There were no windows; given the likely frequency of explosions, that was probably a good thing. Instead, a gantry with multiple beams hung from the ceiling; it was rigged with gaslights that, once lit, would shed strong, even light over much of the room.

A large, rectangular frame, roughly five feet long, three feet wide, and reaching to chest height, held pride of place, positioned squarely in the center of the space between the stairs and the double doors. Suspended within the frame was the steam engine designed to power the Throgmorton version of John Russell’s modification of Trevithick’s horseless carriage.

Although presently smudged with soot and grease and liberally sprinkled with coal dust, the engine was a gleaming mass of copper and steel pipes and cylinders, of connections and joints and screws. The body was smaller than Rand had expected, between three and four feet long and possibly the same in width, and about two feet in height. Regardless, the combination of solidity and complexity made it an impressive sight.

There was no carriage, only the engine; the frame supported the engine’s body at bench level so William John could easily poke and prod and tinker, as he was presently doing, crouched on the other side of the frame.

Unfortunately, it was obvious that the engine wouldn’t be working anytime soon. The gleaming boiler that was essentially the heart of the contraption was ruptured, its sides peeled back like a banana skin.

Frowning slightly, Rand stepped down to the workshop floor. The flagstones were littered with bits and pieces of metal. One of the tool racks had been tipped back over the welding equipment, and tools lay scattered amid the debris.

Something metallic crunched under Rand’s boot, and he halted.

William John straightened and, across the wreck of the boiler, smiled at Rand. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Rand couldn’t stop his brows from rising. “I’ll have to take your word for that.” He glanced around, peering deeper into the far reaches of the chamber that extended beneath the house. “Where’s the carriage part of it?” He glanced at William John. “It is built, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” His gaze almost lovingly cataloguing what remained of the engine, William John went on, “We keep it in the stable, tucked safely away. We won’t bother putting the engine into the carriage until we have the engine working perfectly.”

Rand hid his relief and nodded at the blown boiler. “That certainly appears wise.” He hesitated, then said, “Your sister mentioned you’d blown several boilers over the past weeks.”

William John frowned at the engine. “We—Papa and I—redesigned the feed of heat off the burner to the boiler. We increased the efficiency and therefore the steam generated, but that’s led to difficulties with the mechanisms downstream, especially the controls. We can achieve smooth and significant acceleration, but deceleration...” His frown deepened. “Papa died before we’d fixed the problem, and up to now, everything I’ve tried... Well, I’ve improved the system to the point we can accelerate and decelerate once, but further acceleration seems to be cumulative, and then...” William John gestured at the ruptured boiler. “I still haven’t got it right.”

Footsteps coming down the stairs had both William John and Rand glancing that way. “Ah,” William John said, “this will be Corby, plus Joe and Martin, the footmen.”

A dapper-looking man of fifty or so appeared. He halted, and the two footmen Rand had previously seen halted on the stairs behind.

The older man bowed to Rand. “My lord.” Then he looked at William John. “Are you ready for us to tidy the place, sir?”

“Yes, please, Corby.” William John’s wave encompassed the entire workshop. “Sweep, tidy, and clean. All of you know where most things go. As usual, if you find any bit of metal or tool that you don’t recognize, just leave it on the bench”—William John pointed to a workbench set to one side—“and I’ll sort it out later.”

Rand watched the footmen walk deeper into the chamber and return with brooms and brushes. Corby pulled out a bag of rags tucked behind some piping. While the footmen started sweeping, Corby commenced lovingly wiping the pipes and cylinders of the engine, removing the grime that coated them.

Rand looked at William John. The younger man was frowning vaguely at the engine and muttering under his breath. Rand circled the engine and halted beside William John. “Explain to me how the engine works. Start at the point where you turn it on.”

All vagueness dropping from him, William John eagerly and enthusiastically complied.

Rand put his mind to ensuring he understood. When William John went too rapidly, he stopped him and hauled him back.

William John traced the path of the steam from the ignition of coal in the box beneath the boiler, through the various modifications he and his father had made to the way the steam was generated within the boiler before it moved through the complicated series of pipes, cylinders, and valves to the piston chambers—also modified—that would ultimately drive the twin shafts to turn the horseless carriage’s wheels.

The explanation took time. They walked from one side of the engine to the other as William John pointed to this and that.

Relatively early in the exercise, Shields came down the stairs and offered his services to Corby, who readily accepted and set Rand’s man to wiping off the grime deposited on the various racks of equipment.

While William John declaimed and Rand questioned, Rand noticed their four helpers paid closer and closer attention. He had to admit the mechanism of the engine—that such a thing could work—was enthralling.

“And finally”—William John indicated a set of levers mounted on a panel attached to the frame—“these are the controls that allow us to manage the output.”

“And that,” Rand said, “is where things are going wrong.”

“Yes, but not with the levers themselves. They’re fairly simple and should work perfectly, at least in what they do. It’s the result of what happens that’s out of...well, control.” William John frowned. “Once we have a new boiler in place, I’ll be able to show you what I mean.” He pointed at a row of gauges that were mounted on the engine, facing where Rand assumed the driver would sit. “I’ve a suspicion it’s something to do with these gauges and the valves they’re connected to that’s causing the buildup of steam in the boiler, but until we have the new boiler in, I won’t be able to investigate.”

Rand bit back a comment to the effect that they didn’t have time to investigate anything. Fix, yes. Explore and investigate, no.

William John turned to survey the state of the workshop. Rand followed his gaze, noting that the floors were once more clear of debris, the tool racks and welding equipment had been straightened and wiped clean, and the engine was now gleaming and free of all smuts.

William John smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen—if you’ve finished with your tidying, let’s make a start on removing this.” With one hand, he thumped the side of the ruptured boiler.

Both footmen and Shields, plainly curious, put away their implements and readily drew near. Corby tucked his rags away and joined the group.

Rand stepped back and watched as William John, wielding a wrench and directing the others on what he needed them to do, set about releasing the gaskets that locked the ruptured copper boiler in place amid the plethora of tubes and pipes.

When it came to doing anything to his invention, Rand had to admit that William John remained unrelentingly focused. No hint of vagueness intruded as he loosened this nut, then that, all the while telling Shields, Joe, and Martin just where to put their hands as they supported the boiler as well as the various loosened pipes, tubes, gauges, and valves. Corby hovered, handing tools to his master as and when required.

Leaving them to their task, Rand drifted to the open double doors. Pausing on the threshold, he looked out and around. The paved area before the doors was level with the floor of the workshop, with only a narrow drain set between two rows of flagstones to allow rain to drain away rather than spread under the doors and into the workshop. Straight ahead, a walled kitchen garden lay on the other side of the paved area. Beyond it, a swath of lawn was bordered by the surrounding woodland. To the right, lawns stretched away, eventually joining the south lawn, while to the left, a gravel path, more than wide enough for a carriage, ran along the side of the house and around the northeast corner.

Rand raised his gaze and, beyond a short stretch of lawn, saw the end of the stable block; presumably, the path was an extension of the section of the drive that linked the forecourt and the stable. He could appreciate the foresight; once the engine was working, the path would make it easy to bring the carriage-body to the workshop.

On turning back into the workshop, he spied a series of pulleys and thick chains piled with a conglomeration of heavy beams and iron struts in a corner near the doors. Presumably a part of the mechanism by which the engine would be lifted out of its supporting frame and lowered into the carriage.

Rand surveyed the workshop—the racks and shelves, the purpose-built frame and benches. It was clear the Throgmorton males had spent considerable time and thought—and expense—on their favored domain. Despite Miss Throgmorton’s plaint that the rest of the house was invisible to her father and brother—something Rand suspected was true—he doubted the men’s devotion to their workspace had contributed to keeping Miss Throgmorton out of it.

That she hadn’t been down there for over a decade...he had to wonder why.

With a rattle and a clang, Shields and Martin hauled on cables connected to a smaller set of pulleys attached to the ceiling above the engine. William John and Joe held back tubes and pipes, and, with a screech of metal on metal, the ruptured boiler rose out of the body of the engine.

“Excellent.” William John released the parts he’d been holding, seized the freed boiler, and guided it away from the rest of the engine, toward the open space before the doors. “Let’s set it down here. Gently, now.”

Shields and Martin let the cables out slowly, and the boiler lowered to the floor.

“Right.” William John signaled, then released the webbing that had cradled the boiler. Straightening, he looked down at the twisted metal.

Rand joined him. “It looks like the seams gave way.”

William John humphed. “Indeed.” He crouched and ran his hands over the sides of the boiler. “I wonder if we can beat it out and resolder...”

Rand stared at the crumpled, folded-back metal. “No. We can’t.” He’d learned enough from other inventors about the risks one ran in resoldering such things—namely an increased risk of re-rupturing. “The second soldered seam will be weaker than the first.” William John looked up, and Rand caught the younger man’s eyes. “We don’t have time to take that risk. If it explodes again, we’ll have lost days and got no further. We need a new boiler.”

William John stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. “Yes. You’re right. I keep forgetting...”

About the exhibition and their deadline. From their earlier discussions, Rand had already realized that. He turned his mind to the logistics required. “I assume you have a cart we can use to ferry the boiler to the nearest blacksmith’s. He can reuse the metal, which will get us a better price on the replacement.”

His gaze on the destroyed boiler, William John waved toward the stables. “Struthers—our stableman—knows which cart to use.”

“Shields?” Rand glanced at his man.

Shields nodded and made for the double doors. “I’ll fetch it.”

Rand looked at William John. “Where is the nearest blacksmith?”

With a sigh, William John straightened. “In the village. The forge is at the far end of the village street.” He frowned. “Mind you, I’m not sure Ferguson will agree to do the job. He wasn’t best pleased last time, when he made this one—I only just talked him around.” William John glanced sidelong at Rand. “We might have to beat out and resolder this one after all.”

Rand didn’t bother wasting breath restating his refusal to hear of any such thing. It was increasingly apparent that there was an ongoing need for someone to steer William John—to unrelentingly herd him along the surest path to success. Rand turned to the doors as the distant rattle of a cart’s wheels reached them. “We’ll see,” he replied. And was determined that they would.

After they’d loaded the ruptured boiler into the back of the cart, Rand took the reins and, with William John beside him, drove out along the drive and into the lane leading to Hampstead Norreys.

Throughout the short journey, William John remained sunk in his inventor’s thoughts, occasionally muttering about pressures and gauges.

When they reached the intersection with the village street, Rand turned the plodding horse and set it walking northward, through the center of the village. Although Hampstead Norreys was by any measure a small village, in addition to the inn, it possessed a Norman church in a well-kept yard and several shops. Rand noted a large and prosperous-looking general store and post office, a bakery, a butcher’s shop, a shop that, from the goods displayed in the window, he took to be a haberdashery, and a gentleman’s outfitters.

The blacksmith’s forge lay at the far end of the village, separated by a row of old trees from the shops along the west side of the street.

Rand drew the cart to a halt in the yard in front of the smithy.

William John blinked and returned to the here and now. He shook himself and climbed down from the cart.

Rand set the brake, tied off the reins, and joined him.

A large man with heavily muscled arms came slowly out from the shadows of the smithy. Behind him, in the depths of his workshop, a furnace glowed and spat the occasional spark. Wiping his hands on a rag, the man nodded to Rand, then, with significantly less enthusiasm, nodded to William John. “Mr. Throgmorton. What is it today?”

“Ah yes. Good morning, Ferguson.” William John waved to the boiler in the back of the cart. “I’m afraid we’ve had another accident.”

The blacksmith seemed to sigh. He lumbered up to the side of the cart and looked down at the lump of crumpled metal. He shook his head. “You will keep putting them under too much pressure. There’s ought I can do to help you, and no point at all trying to repair that.”

“Yes, well.” William John shifted. “We want you to make a new one.”

“A new one.” Ferguson frowned. “I don’t rightly know whether there’s any point in that, either. With what you’re doing to them, the seams just won’t hold.”

A thought occurred to Rand. While William John applied himself to securing Ferguson’s assistance, Rand turned his sudden notion around in his mind...and decided it was worth pursuing. Or at least, asking if it was possible.

Ferguson was still shaking his head, a craftsman patently fed up with having his creations mangled.

When William John paused for breath, Rand spoke up. “Mr. Ferguson. I’m Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. I’m the lead investor in a syndicate backing Mr. Throgmorton’s invention. I appreciate your point about the seams being necessarily a weak point in the construction of the boiler, especially as Mr. Throgmorton is putting the system under pressure. However”—Rand threw a glance at William John, including him in Rand’s question—“I wonder if it’s possible to construct a boiler that’s balloon-like—with no seams but only an inlet and outlet.”

Rand saw blankness overtake William John’s expression as his mind turned inward to evaluate the notion. Rand looked at the blacksmith. He was frowning, too, but more in the way of working out how to do what Rand had suggested.

William John blinked several times, then his face came alight. “By golly, I think that would work.” Eagerly, he looked at Ferguson. “Can you create such a thing, Ferguson?”

The big man was looking distinctly more interested. “If I was to work from a sheet and bend it...” He stared unseeing between Rand and William John for several more seconds, then he refocused on Rand and nodded. “Aye, I think I can do it—and you’re right. It’ll get around a lot of the problems Mr. Throgmorton here has been having.”

Rand smiled. “Well, then, the only question remaining is how fast you can have the new boiler ready.”

William John leapt in to describe the outlets he would need added to the top of the boiler, and, in turn, Ferguson questioned William John as to the connection between the heating system and the boiler.

Once they’d thrashed out the details to their mutual satisfaction, Ferguson looked at Rand. “As it happens, my lord, I’ve not got much on today. I can start this new boiler straightaway, but it’ll need to cool overnight before I can do the final additions—so tomorrow afternoon would be the soonest.”

Rand nodded. “I’ll add a ten-percent bonus to your bill if you can get the new boiler to the Hall by noon tomorrow.”

For the first time since they’d arrived, Ferguson grinned. He dipped his head to Rand and touched a finger to his forehead. “I’ll take you up on that, my lord.” He looked toward William John. “Tomorrow by noon, I’ll have it to you.”

“Excellent!” William John clapped his hands together and beamed.

“I’ll relieve you of this lump.” Ferguson turned and roared to his apprentices. Two hulking lads appeared, and he directed them to lift the twisted wreck of his previous creation from the bed of the cart and carry it inside.

Satisfied—and faintly chuffed at having been able to make a real contribution to the invention, however small—Rand climbed back to the cart’s box seat and untied the reins. William John, happy as a grig, climbed up and sat, and Rand turned the horse out of the smith’s yard and set it trotting back down the village street.

A wagon laden with produce of various types had drawn up outside the general store, and the driver and a lad were carting boxes and crates inside. As a gig had halted outside the butcher’s shop on the other side of the street, Rand had to halt the cart, yet with the issue of the boiler resolved and no reason to rush back, he was content to sit on the box and wait.

William John, of course, was miles distant, no doubt mentally back in his laboratory-workshop.

Rather than get too close to the wagon being unloaded, Rand had halted a short distance up the street. He was idly scanning the various denizens of Hampstead Norreys, mostly the female half of the population busy about their morning shopping, when the door to the general store opened, and Miss Throgmorton stepped out onto the pavement.

A gentleman had held the door for her; he followed close behind, and Miss Throgmorton turned to speak with him, plainly continuing a conversation struck up inside the store.

Rand frowned. “What’s your sister’s Christian name?”

“Hmm? What? Oh.” Absentmindedly, William John volunteered “Felicia,” then returned to his ruminating.

Presentiment tickled Rand’s nape as he watched Felicia Throgmorton chat animatedly to the gentleman as, side by side, they walked down the street, then crossed to the opposite pavement. The pair paused outside the bakery, exchanged several more words, then Miss Throgmorton farewelled the gentleman and went into the shop.

For a moment, the gentleman remained standing outside; Rand wished he could see the man’s expression. Then, with a decidedly jaunty air, the gentleman turned and continued down the street.

The wagon wasn’t yet ready to move. Rand elbowed William John.

“Huh?”

Rand nodded down the street. “Who’s that man?”

William John sat up and peered over the now-depleted wagon. “The one walking toward the inn?”

“Yes. Him.”

William John studied the man, then shook his head. “Never seen him before.”

“He’s not a local?”

“No. I can’t tell you who he is, but I’m quite sure of that.”

At that moment, the wagon driver came out of the store, tipped his hat, and called his thanks to Rand, then the wagoner climbed up and set his horse plodding slowly down the street.

Rand shook the reins and set the cart rolling in the wagon’s wake. Ahead, the unknown gentleman strode along, then turned under the archway of the inn.

By the time the cart had drawn level with the inn yard, the man had disappeared.

Rand faced forward. He waited until the wagon had turned left, back along the lane to Ashampstead. Then he turned the cart right, into the lane, and set the horse trotting back to Throgmorton Hall.

A personable gentleman, apparently unknown in those parts.

Rand reminded himself that it was none of his business to whom Miss Felicia Throgmorton chose to speak. However, a personable gentleman unknown in those parts who happened to strike up a conversation with the daughter of William Throgmorton might be set on gaining rather more than just Miss Throgmorton’s smiles.

And that, most definitely, legitimately fell within Rand’s purview.

CHAPTER 4

On their return to the Hall, given Miss Throgmorton was still in the village, Rand put aside the issue of the unknown gentleman and what business he’d had with her and followed William John into the workshop.

William John had explained that, despite not having the boiler and therefore no steam to harness, there were various tests and trials he could run, all part of his search to rectify the problem of the uncontrollable rise in pressure resulting from the improvements he and his father had made to the engine.

“You make one thing work better, and some other part fails.” William John shook his head. “It’s always the way, but you can never predict exactly where the new problem will be—not until you run the damned thing.”

Rand perched on a stool and, for the next hour, watched as William John changed this and adjusted that.

Finally, they heard the luncheon gong rung rather forcefully, and Rand realized he’d heard the gong earlier, but rung less stridently.

He fished out his watch, checked it, and, somewhat surprised, reported, “It’s after one o’clock.”

William John stepped back from the engine and sighed. “We worked so hard to increase the efficiency—it’s what we absolutely needed to do. But now we’ve done it, that’s upended the balance that gives us control of the power.” He frowned at the pipes and gauges. “I’m sure that’s what the problem is, but be damned if I can figure out how to correct it.”

Rand rose from his stool. “It’ll come to you.” He fervently hoped so; if not, they were sunk. “Meanwhile, we’d better appear at the luncheon table or your staff are going to complain.”

William John grinned. “They do, you know. Complain that I don’t turn up in time and dishes get cold.” He frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t know why they get upset—I still eat everything.”

Rand inwardly shook his head. He waved William John to the stairs and followed him up.

Luckily, as it was high summer, there was a cold collation laid out on the dining table, so as yet no noses had been put out of joint by their tardiness. William John led the way into the dining room. He greeted his sister with a wave and made straight for the table.

It appeared that Miss Throgmorton had already finished her meal and was making for the door.

Rather than follow William John through the doorway, Rand stepped back and waited for Miss Throgmorton to step into the corridor.

When she did and halted, he inclined his head to her, but didn’t move aside to let her pass.

Briskly, she nodded. “Good afternoon, Lord Randolph.”

Rand caught her gaze. “All of my friends and most of my acquaintances call me Rand. Given we are working together in common cause, perhaps you might use that name, too.” He summoned a deliberately charming smile. “I do get tired of being my lorded.”

Her lips curved, and she inclined her head. “Very well.”

Trapped by the warmth of his caramel eyes, a warmth that had only grown more definite with his smile, Felicia hesitated for only an instant before suggesting, “And given our connection”—she shot a glance through the doorway to the dining table, where William John was already seated—“I daresay it would be appropriate for you to use my name. It’s Felicia.”

Cavanaugh—Rand—gracefully inclined his head. “So we’re agreed.” He hesitated, as if debating the wisdom of his next words, then said, “I was in the village with William John, visiting the blacksmith about replacing the boiler.”

“I see. How did that go? I know Ferguson was losing patience over the continuing destruction of his work.”

“Indeed, but we might have made a minor breakthrough with the boiler’s construction—no doubt we’ll know once the new boiler is delivered. Ferguson promised it by noon tomorrow.”

She allowed her brows to rise. “That’s...excellent.” She very much doubted that it had been William John who had reinvigorated the blacksmith’s interest.

But rather than claim credit, Cavanaugh—Rand—continued, “While in the village, we happened to notice you speaking with a gentleman—one William John couldn’t place. I thought the man looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t see his face well enough to be sure.” Those molten caramel eyes held hers trapped. “Did he mention why he was in the area?”

She didn’t appreciate having been watched, much less being quizzed. Yet there was no reason she shouldn’t answer, especially given the arrangements she’d made with the gentleman in question. “He’s an artist from London. He does sketches for the London News, and during the summer, he’s traveling through the villages of the Home Counties, sending in sketches of country vistas and views.”

Rand nodded. “I’ve seen those sketches—they’re quite good.”

“Indeed. And the reason the gentleman approached me was that the villagers had told him about the Hall, how it sits surrounded by woodland, and he was keen to take a look at the house with a view to doing a sketch of it for the paper.” Still returning Rand’s gaze, she calmly stated, “I’ve invited him for afternoon tea. I suggested he arrive about half past two, and I’ll take him for a stroll about the grounds before tea. On fine days such as this, we—Cousin Flora and I—take tea on the terrace outside the drawing room, if you would care to join us.”

Cavanaugh—Rand—hesitated, then slowly said, “Thank you, but no.” He glanced into the dining room. “I’d better remain with William John.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Keeping his nose to the grindstone?” When Rand lightly shrugged, she let her smile widen. “I assure you, he needs no encouragement. It’s usually a battle to get him to lift his nose off said grindstone.”

Rand’s lips curved. “So I’ve discovered.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “Nevertheless, he seems given to...distraction. And we no longer have time for him to pursue every idea that comes to him.”

She nodded. “Very true.”

When Rand continued to look at her and made no move to step aside, she tipped her head and asked, “So, do you know Mr. Mayhew—the artist?”

Rand blinked. “Is that his name?”

“Mr. Clive Mayhew.” She studied Rand’s face. “Does that ring any bells?”

“No.” Rand couldn’t keep his frown from his eyes. “If he’s an artist, it’s possible I’ve met him in London. I know several artists, and I’m connected to others, so our paths might have crossed at some function.” That said, his claim to have recognized the man had been false—a ruse.

He studied Miss Throgmorton—Felicia—and wondered whether he should share his misgivings...not that he could be certain, even in his own mind, exactly what was making his nerves twitch. Was it seeing the personable Mayhew with her...or knowing an unknown gentleman had suddenly arrived in the vicinity of such a critical invention?

She held his gaze steadily—as if aware there was more to his interest in Mayhew than he’d yet owned to.

Rand drew in a breath, glanced briefly at William John, busily eating and utterly oblivious to Rand and Felicia’s conversation, then he looked at Felicia and quietly said, “I’ve been working with investors and inventors for more than five years. I’ve learned first-hand that when an exciting invention is nearing completion, other inventors or other investors sometimes take steps to...ensure that exciting invention doesn’t come to fruition.”

Her eyes widened. “You think Mayhew has been sent to...sabotage our engine?”

Our engine. He was making headway on that front at least. “You have to admit that Mayhew suddenly appearing out of the blue...”

Her lips set; her chin firmed. “Papa was always careful. From childhood, he taught us never to speak of what he was doing or even where the workshop was—not to people we didn’t know well, well enough to trust.”

“Sound advice.” Then Rand wrinkled his nose. “But Mayhew’s an artist. I have to admit it sounds like paranoia speaking, yet...” After several seconds, he focused on Felicia’s green eyes. “Can I suggest it might be wise to avoid all mention of our current project and to steer Mayhew well away from the workshop?”

Her eyes on his, she slowly nodded. “I certainly won’t mention the engine or even inventions in general—what possible interest could that have for an artist? And if he asks, we’ll know that, regardless of being an artist, he’s here for some nefarious purpose. I can also make sure he doesn’t see the workshop, but it would help if you could ensure that all the doors are kept shut during the afternoon.”

He nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re shut and stay that way.” He still wasn’t happy at the thought of her strolling the lawns with Mayhew, but he really had no justification for suggesting she put the man off.

She’d been frowning, unseeing, past him; now, she looked up and met his eyes. Determination and a sort of female confidence gleamed in hers. “I could put Mayhew off, but frankly, if he is a saboteur trying to get access to the engine, given we—you and I, at least—are alert to that possibility, I would rather we give him the chance to show his true colors.”

He didn’t like it, but something about the resolution in her eyes warned him arguing would not be in his best interests. Not on any front.

He forced himself to incline his head. “I’ll keep watch while he’s here.”

“Hoi, Rand! Do you want any of this roast beef?”

They both turned to see William John peering at a dish on the table.

Shaking his head, Rand looked back at Felicia.

Just as she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “You’d better go, or there’ll be no roast beef left.”

He had to fight the urge to close his hand over hers, to hold it against his arm. His smile a trifle stiff, he inclined his head and stepped into the dining room, allowing her too-tempting hand to fall away. “One thing.” He halted and locked his gaze with hers. “While you’re with Mayhew...take care.”

She widened her eyes at him. “Of course.” Then her lips curved lightly, and she turned and walked on, into the front hall.

Rand watched her go, then turned and made for the roast beef.

* * *

Felicia used to think her father’s admonitions regarding his inventions and the workshop to be, as Rand had put it, paranoia speaking. Now, however, with so much riding on the success of the steam engine, she was more than willing to err on the side of caution.

She was waiting in the drawing room when Johnson announced that Mr. Mayhew had called. Leaving Flora, who she’d warned of the artist’s visit, to organize for afternoon tea to be served on the terrace, Felicia walked out to greet Mayhew.

He was glancing around, apparently taking in the lines of the front hall. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and a charming smile wreathed his face. “Miss Throgmorton.”

He accepted the hand she offered and, very correctly, bowed over it.

“I’m delighted to welcome you to Throgmorton Hall, sir.” She was more than capable of behaving in as charming a manner as he; her year in London had taught her how to be pleasantly civil while keeping gentlemen at a safe distance. Smoothly retrieving her hand, she waved toward the front door. “As I mentioned earlier, I suggest we stroll around the house before taking tea with my aunt. The light about the house is at its best at the moment. Even though it’s summer, the trees in the woodland are so tall, they cast long shadows over the lawns from afternoon onward.”

“Yes, indeed.” Mayhew clasped his hands behind his back and kept pace beside her as she walked to the front door, propped wide to let the sunshine stream in.

Felicia noted that the door giving onto the workshop stairs was firmly shut. Rand’s doing, without a doubt; William John rarely remembered.

She walked onto the porch and halted, then glanced at Mayhew. “As you can see, the shadows are already encroaching on the lawn.” She looked to left and right. “Keeping to the lawns, we can stroll all the way around the house. Which way would you prefer to go?”

Mayhew favored her with another charming smile; he seemed to have a ready supply that stopped just short of ingratiating. “I’m happy to be led by your experience, Miss Throgmorton.”

“In that case”—she waved toward the shrubbery—“let’s circle to the right.”

She picked up her skirts and descended the steps. Mayhew kept pace; she watched as he looked around—exactly as one might imagine an artist would.

He was as tall as Rand, but had narrower shoulders and was one of those men with a tendency to stoop, as if trying to disguise his height.

He scanned the woodland and the shrubbery as they approached. When they reached the arched entrance to the shrubbery, he paused to look back at the house. After several moments of studying it, he shook his head. He turned to follow her onward, saw her watching, and smiled wryly. “My apologies. I’m always looking for the right view. Sadly, that isn’t it.”

She smiled spontaneously. “No need to apologize. That is why you’re here, after all.”

He inclined his head. “You’re more understanding than many a young lady. Most imagine that they are the most...well, fascinating aspect of any view. And while that’s so in a way, I’m generally focused on landscapes and buildings. People are...more difficult to accurately capture.”

Felicia looked at him with burgeoning interest. “That’s an insightful comment.”

He was looking down as he walked. He snorted softly. “It’s simply the direction in which my talent runs.”

They circled through the shrubbery, then walked past the stables and into the rose garden. Again, he halted within the rose garden and looked back at the house.

“Now, this is a very pretty composition, but, sadly, I would have to capture it soon after dawn.” He glanced at her and gave a rueful grimace. “I am definitely not at my best before noon.”

She laughed. She was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine Clive Mayhew as a saboteur. But as they strolled on, between the beds of roses, it occurred to her that while he might be a saboteur, he might also genuinely be an artist; the one did not preclude the other. “Did you bring some of your sketches? You said you would this morning.”

“Indeed.” He patted his pocket, and a faint rustling reached her ears. “I thought perhaps I could show you—and is it your aunt?—over afternoon tea.”

“Mrs. Flora Makepeace is my father’s widowed cousin. She’ll be joining us for tea, and I’m sure she’ll be as delighted as I to view your work.”

“Now you’re just being kind, but I hope my poor efforts will be at least of passing interest.”

Felicia smiled. “I’m sure they will be. You cannot be too modest when your sketches are published by the London News.”

Was his story of being a sketch artist for the popular pictorial news sheet an invention? She glanced at his face, but his expression remained untroubled—innocent of guile.

They reached the end of the rose garden, and she led the way on, along the swath of lawn that ran behind the kitchen garden. For just a few yards—before the walls of the kitchen garden intervened—the doors to the workshop were visible to their right. She was on Mayhew’s left; she needed to keep his gaze on her. Airily, she asked, “Have you had a chance to exhibit your work in the capital?”

He flicked a glance her way and sighed. “Sadly, no—although I must confess that’s one of my most cherished ambitions.” His lips twisted cynically. “Along with every artist in the land, of course.”

“It must be quite...cutthroat.” She caught his eye. “Having to find a patron.”

His gaze on her face, he nodded, and they passed the point beyond which the garden walls hid the workshop doors.

Felicia led Mayhew onto and down the south lawn, then they followed the tree line and circled past the old fountain, now no longer in use.

Just past the fountain, Mayhew, who had been constantly glancing toward the house, halted. He stared at the front of the house, from that perspective seen at an angle. “This is the spot.” He made the pronouncement with absolute certainty. After a moment, he looked at Felicia. “Miss Throgmorton, I would very much like yours and your family’s permission to sketch your home from this angle for inclusion in a series I’m doing for the News, featuring England’s country homes in the Home Counties.”

Not once had Mayhew even obliquely referred to inventions or workshops; he hadn’t even asked about the house itself, seemingly only interested in its visible exterior—precisely as an artist with his declared interest would be. Felicia smiled and inclined her head. “There’s only my brother I need to consult, and I know he’ll see no reason to deny you.”

“Excellent.” Mayhew looked at the house. His expression eager, he went on, “That’s the west face, so I’ll need the afternoon light, as now.” He glanced at Felicia. “Perhaps I could come and sketch tomorrow afternoon—from about two o’clock, if that would be convenient?”

“I know of no reason it wouldn’t be. We lead a quiet life, and Cousin Flora hasn’t mentioned any visits, so I believe that arrangement will suit.” With a wave, she indicated the raised terrace that ran along the house’s south face, overlooking the long lawn. “But let’s join Flora and ask, just to make sure.”

They walked back to the house and up the steps to the terrace. Flora was waiting, seated at the round wrought-iron table, which had already been set with plates, cups, and saucers, with a multitiered cake stand in the table’s center. Felicia made the introductions. Flora gave Mayhew her hand and smiled in her usual soft and comfortable way, then she waved them both to sit.

Mayhew held Felicia’s chair. Once she’d settled, he claimed the third chair at the table.

Despite Flora’s overtly gentle and feminine appearance, Felicia knew her chaperon was shrewd and observant. Flora poured tea and chatted in amiable vein, professing her delight at the thought of Mayhew sketching the Hall. She confirmed Felicia’s expectation that there was no reason Mayhew couldn’t ply his pencil the following afternoon and approved of his choice of view.

Flora waited until Mayhew had sampled one of Cook’s lemon cakes and sipped his tea before leaning forward and declaring, “I have to confess, Mr. Mayhew, that I am quite impatient to see the sketches Felicia said you would bring to dazzle us.”

A faint flush stained Mayhew’s long cheeks. He shot Felicia a self-deprecating glance. “I wouldn’t describe my work as ‘dazzling,’ ma’am.” He set down his cup and reached into his pocket. “However, I have brought several of my sketches—of Ashampstead and of the river nearby. I hope you’ll recognize the view and approve of my poor talent.”

He withdrew a roll of paper about nine inches long that was wound about a thin wooden rod. Seeing Felicia look curiously at the roll, Mayhew explained, “I carry my sketches in this way so they don’t crease.”

“Ah. Of course.” Felicia watched while Mayhew unrolled several sheets of fine artist’s paper from the spool. When he handed the curling sheets to her, she eagerly took them. Flora quickly cleared a space on the table between her and Felicia, and Felicia laid the sketches down.

She and Flora stared, mesmerized by the pencil-and-ink sketches that had captured views with which they were both familiar with such accuracy and felicity that the scenes were not just instantly recognizable but the sketches somehow conveyed a sense of the atmosphere pertaining to each place. The sketch of Ashampstead village street on a market day was abustle with life, while the delicate sketch of the pool on the river Pang to the east of Hampstead Norreys invoked a sense of bucolic peace.

Once she’d looked her fill, Felicia glanced up and, across the table, met Mayhew’s eyes. “These are exquisite. You are, indeed, very talented.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Mayhew didn’t smile but lightly raised one shoulder, as if he remained unsure of his skill or was, for some reason, uncomfortable acknowledging it.

Looking again at the sketches, Felicia felt vindicated in having agreed to allow him to sketch the Hall; such an opportunity, dropped into her lap by Fate, shouldn’t be lightly passed up, and if it helped Mayhew continue and gain more confidence in his work, well and good.

“I admit,” she said, raising her gaze once more to Mayhew’s face, “to being intrigued to see what you make of the Hall, sir. It was a lucky chance that sent you our way.”

Flora added her compliments, too.

Mayhew blushed anew and, yet again, disclaimed—although with the evidence of his talent lying before Felicia and Flora, he might as well have saved his breath. Then, with all three of them transparently pleased with the outcome of Mayhew’s visit, they settled to finish their tea.

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