CHAPTER 5
As dusk turned to darkness outside the windows and the clocks throughout the house chimed for ten o’clock, Rand sat at the desk in his bedchamber and penned a letter to his half brother, Ryder, and Ryder’s wife, Mary.
The couple had known Rand had been on his way to visit them; not appearing and not sending word wasn’t an option.
Even if Ryder wasn’t inclined to worry unduly, Mary would fret, and then Ryder would act—most likely by asking questions in London—which wouldn’t be helpful. Aside from avoiding such an outcome, Rand wanted to make his excuses to his nephews and niece and assure the whole family that he would join them at Raventhorne Abbey as soon as the problems with the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage were resolved.
As his nib softly scratched across the paper, Rand felt increasingly sure that he wouldn’t be free to visit the Abbey until after the twenty-second of the month—after the exhibition at which the invention was to be unveiled. Until then...he expected to be living on tenterhooks.
They had to meet that deadline and meet it successfully. Any alternative would harm him, his investors, the Throgmortons, and their household—it was as simple as that.
Not that he communicated any of his anxieties to Ryder and Mary. Forging his own path meant doing things himself, and while Ryder, as the Marquess of Raventhorne, possessed significant power, and Mary, as a Cynster, had her own brand of power, too, in the arena Rand had chosen as his own, that sort of power was, if not entirely impotent, then as near as made no odds.
Increasingly, these days, men like Rand were being judged by their achievements. One’s birth helped, but the achievements mattered more.
He reached the end of his missive, signed his name, then blotted the page. He folded the sheet, inscribed Ryder’s direction, and used the stick of wax supplied to seal the flap, pressing his signet ring to a melted blob, then waving the letter to cool the seal. That done, letter in hand, he turned down the lamp, rose—and froze, staring out of the window into the country dark.
Had he just glimpsed a figure drifting through the near-black shadows edging the lawn?
He stared, but could no longer see anything to suggest someone was out there. The figure—if figure there had been—had been moving southward. If there was someone there, they would now be out of his sight.
Rand frowned. Slowly tapping the letter against his fingertips, he stood looking through the window while he reviewed the reasons his mind might be playing tricks on him by imagining a figure flitting through the woods.
Despite his and, indeed, Felicia’s initial suspicions of Mayhew, they all—meaning Felicia, Flora, Johnson, Shields, and, reluctantly, Rand—had agreed that the man had shown no sign whatever of being anything other than what he purported to be—an artist keen on sketching the Hall.
They’d discussed the matter over the dinner table, then called in Johnson and Shields for their views of Mayhew. Johnson had served the Throgmortons for decades and was well aware of the threat to the family a seemingly innocent man might pose, and Shields, as a Londoner, had been born suspicious, yet neither man saw Mayhew as harboring any sinister intent.
Grudgingly, Rand had accepted that his heightened instincts were, in this case, heightened for another reason entirely—one that had nothing to do with any threat to the Throgmorton engine.
In accepting that...
He snorted softly and turned from the window. He opened the door and walked along the corridor into the gallery, then descended the stairs. A salver for letters for the post was sitting where he’d assumed one would be—on the side table in the front hall. He left his letter on the salver, on top of one written by either Felicia or Flora, judging by the delicate writing.
As he was about to turn away, his gaze fell on the door to the workshop. It was closed, and he’d checked the bar across the double doors on the lower level himself before he’d followed William John upstairs for dinner.
The workshop was secure. The invention was safe.
There was no danger to anyone—at least, not tonight.
Yet his nerves—his instincts—were still twitching.
His lips setting, Rand turned and went up the stairs.
Five minutes later, he settled in the bed, closed his eyes, and—somewhat to his surprise—fell instantly asleep.
* * *
A clanging commotion jerked Rand awake. The noise didn’t stop. Whatever it was continued to clatter and bang.
He leapt from the bed. As he grabbed his trousers, he glanced at the window—and, in the faint silvery light shed by a crescent moon, saw a man fleeing across the lawn to dive into the wood.
Cursing, Rand thrust his legs into his trousers and shoved his feet into his shoes. He shrugged on a shirt and headed for the door.
The clanging was slowing, but hadn’t ceased.
Still buttoning his shirt, he strode down the corridor—and saw Felicia, swathed in a silk wrapper and carrying a candlestick, in the gallery ahead of him.
He caught up with her as she started down the stairs. Going down three and four at a time, he waved at her. “Stay back!”
On reaching the hall tiles, he glanced over his shoulder—only to see her hurrying down.
She pinned him with a furious glare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Cursing anew, this time under his breath, he turned and strode on. He hauled open the door to the workshop—the clanging had come from there, but had almost stopped, fading in a rather curious way.
All below him lay in inky darkness.
Tight-lipped, he swung around, seized one of the candles left on the hall table, lit the wick from the candle Felicia—her expression stoic, but concern leaping in her eyes—held steady. Then he turned once more to the workshop stairs.
“Wait!”
Rand looked around to see William John, the skirts of his dressing gown flying about him, a lighted candelabra in his hand, come hurrying down the stairs.
Johnson appeared behind his master, and Shields, Corby, and the two footmen came thundering down in their wake.
“It’s all right,” William John assured them all. “If they’d got through, the sound would have changed.”
“What was that racket?” Felicia asked.
William John grinned. “It’s an alarm Papa and I rigged up. It goes off if anyone tries to force the workshop doors.” He pushed past Rand and started down the workshop stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Everyone clattered down the stairs, even Mrs. Makepeace, Cook, Mrs. Reilly, Mr. Reilly, and their four daughters—the maids of the house.
In the workshop, William John threw the switch that, with a buzzing hum, set the gaslights blazing. He stood back and surveyed the doors, then laughed. “It worked perfectly.” He pointed to a structure mounted on the wall high above the double doors. “See there? That’s our alarm.”
Rand had noticed the contraption earlier, but had assumed that, it being connected to the bars that secured the doors, it was merely some mechanism to lift them that was no longer in use. He came to stand beside William John and studied the mechanism of gears and levers, and what appeared to be several saucepans with their handles cut off. He debated asking how it worked, but feared William John would immediately demonstrate. If the noise had been so loud it had hauled the entire household from their beds, then in the stone-walled workshop, the cacophony would be horrendous. Nevertheless...he glanced at William John. “Very effective.” He had to give credit where it was due.
“It was, wasn’t it?” William John beamed. “I’ve been wanting to test it for an age, but there’s nothing like a true test of an invention to give one confidence.”
Rand shared a glance with Felicia, who had halted on the last stair, then dryly murmured, “Indeed.”
Felicia turned to the others, arrayed on the stairs behind her. “All’s well. Someone must have tried to force the doors, but no one got through.”
“Should we check outside?” Shields looked at Rand, as did both footmen.
Remembering the figure he’d seen fleeing into the night, Rand shook his head. “Whoever they were, they’ll be long gone.” And with so much woodland all around, their chances of catching anyone were slight. “But I believe we must treat this as the sign it unquestionably is. Someone knows of the Throgmorton engine and has, tonight, targeted it.”
Rand glanced at Felicia.
She nodded slightly, in support.
He looked at the others and went on, “We’ll need to mount a guard—despite the alarm mechanism, several men, acting together, might think to push past it and damage the engine before fleeing.” He focused on Shields, Corby, and the footmen. “We’ll need two men here at all times during the night.”
Corby exchanged a glance with Shields, then volunteered, “I’ll draw up a roster. We’ve Struthers and his lads from the stable, too, so it shouldn’t be too much for anyone.”
Rand nodded. “After the recent excitement, I’m sure we’ll be safe for the rest of the night. Whoever it was who tried to break in will need to regroup.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. All except William John, who was still admiring his successful alarm mechanism.
Rand tipped his head in dismissal and turned to William John. While Felicia urged everyone to return to their beds, Rand, with William John, checked that the doors were, indeed, still shut tight. William John assured Rand that as long as the bars were set in their place—as they were—the alarm system could be relied on to give notice should anyone attempt the doors again.
Stepping back, looking up, and smiling at the alarm mechanism, William John sighed happily. “Papa would have been so pleased.”
Again, Rand met Felicia’s eyes, then, at her direction, William John turned off the gaslights, and he and Rand followed her up the stairs.
Felicia paused in the hall. The rest of the household had already reached the gallery and were dispersing to their rooms. She turned to William John—and Rand, who was closing the workshop door, something William John hardly ever remembered to do.
One glance at William John’s face informed her that her brother was overwhelmingly delighted at the perfect performance of one of his inventions and remained untouched by any apprehension over what had caused the alarm to go off.
Rand, on the other hand, looked as concerned as she felt. It was more to him than William John that she said, “After the alarm went off, I saw a man run away from the house and plunge into the woods.”
William John blinked.
Rand regarded her levelly. “Heading past the rose garden?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
His jaw set. “I saw him, too.” He grimaced. “There’s so little moonlight, I didn’t get a decent look at him.”
“Nor did I.” She saw the question forming in Rand’s eyes and stated, “And no, he didn’t look familiar in any way, but it was so quick and the light so poor, I couldn’t swear it wasn’t Mayhew, either.”
William John frowned. “I thought we’d decided the artist was no threat.”
“That’s what we’d concluded,” Rand agreed, “but that doesn’t mean our assessment was correct. It seems a trifle too coincidental that Mayhew appears in the area, inveigles an invitation to the Hall, visits, and hours later, in the dead of night, someone tries to break into your workshop.” He looked at Felicia. “Cast your mind back. Did Mayhew do or say anything at all that might suggest he’d noticed the workshop?”
“No.” She frowned, thinking back yet again. “As I said earlier, I’m not even sure he saw the doors. If he did glimpse them, he certainly paid them no attention at all.” She paused, then shook herself and fixed her gaze on Rand. “Regardless, Mayhew is supposed to return tomorrow—no, today.” A quick glance at the longcase clock against the hall wall confirmed it was nearly two o’clock. “He said he would come in the early afternoon to do his sketch. If it was he who tried the workshop doors, perhaps he won’t turn up. But if he does...”
Rand grunted and waved her and William John toward the stairs. “If he does, either he’s the innocent artist we all think him, or he possesses enough nerve to be a real threat to the invention.”
“We still won’t know, though, will we?” William John climbed the stairs on her other side.
“We’ll simply have to remain vigilant,” Rand replied.
He and Felicia parted from William John at the head of the stairs. Side by side, they walked around the gallery and down the corridor that led to their rooms. Rand reached his door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then inclined his head and, through the dimness, wished her a goodnight.
She returned the salutation and continued to her room. Once inside with the door firmly shut, she exhaled.
Despite all the excitement and distractions, keeping her gaze from Rand’s chest, the solid muscles and impressive width imperfectly concealed behind the screen of his fine linen shirt, had required far more effort than she’d liked. Yet she’d clung to her composure and had managed well enough; she doubted he or anyone else had noticed her difficulties.
She crossed to the uncurtained window through which she’d seen the fleeing man. Crossing her arms over her silk wrapper, she stared down at the night-shrouded scene and thought of what was to come.
Prior to tonight, she and Rand had already started to form a...partnership of sorts. Until he’d arrived and she’d learned the truth of how matters stood, she hadn’t comprehended the significance of her brother’s current invention with respect to her own life. Given she now understood that reality, Rand was quickly coming to feature as...a collaborator. Someone whose aims coincided with her own. Someone she could rely on, at least as far as protecting the invention and steering it to a successful unveiling went.
That some man had attempted to break into the workshop proved beyond doubt that someone—be it Mayhew or some other man—wanted to sabotage the project.
She and Rand would have to work together to guard against that happening. His alarm mechanism notwithstanding, William John couldn’t be relied on to recognize, much less react appropriately to, a threat posed to his invention, not until an attack materialized and was actively under way. Then, he would defend his engine to the death. Meanwhile, however, he would be absorbed with correcting the issues preventing the engine from running for more than a handful of minutes without exploding.
For all their sakes, William John needed to devote his time and his brain to that. No one else could fix the engine.
And she and Rand would be thrown together even more in organizing its defense.
She had to admit that a large part of her found the prospect...enticing. It promised a sort of excitement that had rarely come her way.
More, however, as she stood staring unseeing into the darkness, she realized that, for the very first time in her life, she felt...protective toward an invention.
Before Rand had arrived on their doorstep, she hadn’t thought of the engine much at all, and when she had, it had featured as a nuisance.
After she’d learned the truth, she’d accepted that the engine meant something to her—to her future.
And after this direct attack...
She searched through her feelings for the emotions underlying them—and felt her brows rise as she considered what she sensed.
She would defend the invention as if it were...hers, in a way. Hers to protect—like a mechanical child. A mechanical nephew—the fruit of her brother’s brain.
Given her until-recent attitude to inventions, that struck her as odd, yet she couldn’t deny or dismiss the protectiveness that had surged inside her when she’d heard the alarm and seen the man fleeing across the lawn.
She’d known the invention had been attacked, and her response had been instant and instinctive.
She’d been—and still was—prepared to fight to ensure the engine, her father’s last project, succeeded.
Not from any especial devotion to her father or even her brother. Not purely because her future might well hang on the engine’s success. But primarily because someone had dared to attack the engine—and through that, attack them. Her, William John, their household—and Rand Cavanaugh.
Her features eased; she considered that conclusion, then allowed a smile to bloom.
Now, she understood her reaction.
Her people—those she considered her responsibility—had been threatened. Of course she would fight to defend them.
Reassured and feeling more settled, she lowered her arms and turned from the window.
She climbed beneath the covers, lay down, and settled her head on her pillow.
No matter how unthreatening and innocent Clive Mayhew appeared to be, she would continue to be on her guard against him. If he truly was innocent, it wouldn’t matter. If he wasn’t...
She closed her eyes and relaxed into the softness of her feather mattress. She thought of Mayhew’s visit later that day as sleep drifted closer.
On the cusp of dreams came the reflection that she was exceedingly glad that Rand had thought to come to the Hall, that he’d opened her eyes to the reality of what was going on, and she was beyond words relieved that, over dinner, he’d said he would stay, not just until the engine was fixed and running smoothly but until they’d successfully unveiled it at the exhibition.
He would be there, by her side, throughout this unforeseen adventure.
She slid into sleep thoroughly pleased about that.