CHAPTER 7
The following day, after having had Johnson strike the gong to summon William John and Rand to the luncheon table three times, all to no avail, Felicia gathered her skirts and started down the workshop stairs.
“Ridiculous men!” She muttered more pointed imprecations as she carefully made her way down the spiral staircase. If she gave up on them and ordered the table to be cleared, then, as sure as eggs were eggs, a minute later, they would be wandering into the dining room looking for sustenance.
Truth to tell, as it was now well past one o’clock, she was surprised their stomachs hadn’t accomplished what the gong and their ears had not.
She slowed as she rounded the stair’s last curve and looked down into the workshop.
Although she’d made no effort to conceal her approach, her slippers hadn’t made that much noise. Neither man had realized she was there.
They were staring at the engine, each, in their own way, radiating frustration. William John was scowling; his hair stood up in clumps—he’d clearly clutched at it several times. As for Rand, he’d rested his forearm on the bench and was leaning on it, his expression one of focused exasperation.
She shifted her gaze to the object of their ire. It was the first time she’d given the engine at the center of their now-joint mission more than a cursory glance. The contraption was a fantastical construction of pipes and tubes, cylinders and pistons, all wrapped around a gleaming copper boiler. Pipes curved and bent, creating a knotted skein of sleek metal that glowed softly under the harsh lights.
Unexpectedly mesmerized, she stared. She was conscious of a tug, as if prompted by some inner compulsion to unravel and understand the complex construction.
She tried to draw back, to pull away; she managed to keep her frown from her face when she didn’t succeed.
She stepped down to the workshop floor. It might have been years since she’d walked upon it, yet everything seemed the same—still familiar.
Instead of berating both men for not responding to the gong, she heard herself ask, “What’s wrong?”
Ferguson, the blacksmith, had delivered the new boiler the morning before; she’d seen it being carried in, an oval balloon in shining copper, quite unlike any boiler she’d previously seen. It now sat in the center of the welter of pipes.
Although Rand looked up at her question, William John didn’t. Instead, he clutched his hair with both hands and wailed, “I don’t know!”
Before she had a chance to react, he pointed dramatically at the boiler. “That’s the new boiler.” She drew closer, and he hurriedly added, “Don’t touch it. It’s hot.” He frowned. “In fact, it’s too hot, which I think is part of the problem.”
She told herself she shouldn’t ask, yet the words “What is the problem?” popped out of her mouth.
“It’s the throttling back that just isn’t working.” William John whirled to face the large board on which he’d pinned his diagrams.
Felicia walked around the engine so she could see more clearly.
“This is the boiler.” William John pointed to the diagram. “Although it doesn’t look like that anymore, for our purposes, it’s the same. It sits on top of the burner, and that’s all working as we’d hoped. We’ve drastically improved the efficiency of the generation of steam from a given amount of coal, which was one of our primary aims to improve Russell’s modifications to Trevithick’s design. So we’ve got that right, and all the rest”—he waved to the pipes, valves, and pistons that connected in a tangle of pieces between the boiler and the representation of what Felicia vaguely understood was a drive mechanism—“works faultlessly. Exactly as required. But it seems we can only drive the carriage at an ever-increasing pace. We can ease back a little, but the slowing is quickly overcome by the pressure building in the boiler. The valves that used to work to allow us to slow still work, but they don’t reduce the pressure sufficiently, and it just keeps mounting.”
Felicia frowned at the diagrams, her eyes tracing pathways through pipes and pistons.
“At present,” Rand said, “the power escalates at an ever-increasing rate. If we allow it to run for even ten minutes, it’ll blow up.”
Felicia grimaced. “That’s the last thing we need—another explosion.” After several moments, she glanced at William John. He looked more dejected and defeated than she’d ever seen him.
She didn’t look at Rand, but she’d heard the same low ebb in his voice.
That odd compulsion prodded at her, nagging, all but whispering: What could it hurt?
To her, the problem appeared reasonably straightforward. She must have retained more from her earlier years than she’d realized; the diagrams were as readily interpretable as Mayhew’s sketches.
The suggestion circling her brain might well be ludicrous, yet given the men’s dejection, what would it hurt to voice it? There was nothing more at stake than her pride.
She focused on the diagram of the boiler and its immediate connections, mentally working through her argument again, then she drew in a breath, lifted one hand, and tapped on the paper. “When you throttle back, this valve releases, doesn’t it?”
William John had gone back to staring at the engine. He returned to the board of diagrams, halted by her side, and looked at where she pointed. He nodded. “Yes. That’s the one.”
“If you’ve drastically increased the efficiency of generating steam,” she said, “shouldn’t there be more than one?”
William John blinked. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then his face came alive. “We reengineered the pistons, but we left everything else as Russell had it.”
Behind Felicia, Rand straightened. “But she’s right, isn’t she? You’ve allowed for the extra power in the forward drive, but you haven’t adjusted the release.”
William John was nodding feverishly. “Yes. That’s it!” He stepped closer to the board and jabbed a finger at the offending valve. “We need to double the size of that, and I think we should run two in parallel. Yes, that’s right—in series won’t do it. Parallel, it should be.” His voice was rising, excitement building. He started to mutter, all but babbling as he rethought his approach.
Emboldened, Felicia raised her voice and said, “And is there any reason you can’t attach a valve to the boiler itself? One with a high enough limit so it will only release if the pressure rises beyond safe levels?”
William John pulled up short. He thought, then peered at the diagram of the boiler. “You mean directly on the boiler? We’d need it to be recast.”
“We haven’t got time for that, so what about here?” She pointed to one of the two connectors at the top of the boiler. “Can’t you change that and insert a valve with a gauge there?”
Rand came to stand beside her. “Can that be done?” From his tone, William John’s excitement had infected him, too. “I assume if so, we would be able to test the rest of the engine without constantly having to turn it off whenever the pressure in the boiler gets too high.”
William John’s eyes were alight. “Yes—yes! We can do that. We must have the right bits here somewhere—we can figure it out, and then... Yes! That’s it!” He turned to Felicia; his expression ecstatic, he waved his arms in the air. “Eureka!”
She had to laugh—then she felt strong hands fasten about her waist, and Rand, laughing, too, spun her about, picked her up, and, stepping away from the engine and board, whirled her around.
Their excitement sank into her and bubbled through her veins. As the workshop whirled about her, she smothered a squeal. Her hands fell to Rand’s shoulders and gripped; as he slowed, she looked down into his face, wreathed in relieved delight. He grinned boyishly up at her, and something nebulous and elusive tugged at her heart. His eyes met hers, and his expression grew a touch more serious; he held her gaze for several seconds, then, slowly, he lowered her to the floor.
As he released her, he said, “You have no idea how close we were to admitting ultimate defeat.”
She arched a brow at him, then shot a glance at William John. “Am I allowed to say I find that hard to believe?”
William John humphed, but he was still grinning and didn’t seem able to stop.
Before he could start assembling the bits and pieces to create his new valve assembly, she firmly stated, “Now I’ve helped solve your problem, you can solve one for me. There’s a cold collation waiting upstairs, and thus far, only Flora and I have turned up to eat it.”
It was difficult, but she did her best to mock-glare at them both.
“Great heavens! Is it lunchtime?” Rand consulted his watch.
“Good!” William John said. “Now we know what we’re doing, I’m as hungry as a horse.”
She shook her head at him, then turned and led the way to the stairs.
Rand followed her up, with William John happily clattering behind.
Relief was still pouring through Rand, so intense he almost felt giddy. He’d spoken truly. He and William John had been at their wits’ end. He’d greatly feared they’d been staring failure in the face.
Felicia’s insight testified to the benefit of having a fresh pair of eyes look over a problem. He and William John had been studying the diagrams for so long, they hadn’t been able to see the valves for the pipes.
Yet as he followed Felicia into the dining room, he had to own to being impressed by the ease with which she’d taken in the problem, then unerringly put her finger on the source. He’d worked alongside inventors long enough to appreciate that seeing through all the layers of obfuscation created by complicated mechanical systems to the heart of a problem required a certain clarity of mind.
In his experience, it took a special type of brain and mind to be able to “see” at that level.
Felicia said nothing about her success as she resumed her seat beside Flora, who had already finished her meal.
Rand smiled and made his and William John’s excuses, then claimed the chair opposite Felicia.
As usual, William John sat at the head of the table, opposite Flora. Transparently released from all worries, glib and gay, he rattled on to Flora, heaping accolades on his sister’s head for her invaluable assistance.
Felicia, Rand noticed, looked pleased, but also faintly disturbed.
To fascinating and occasionally enigmatic, he could now add intriguing.
From where he sat, there was definitely more to Felicia Throgmorton than he’d had any reason to suppose.
* * *
The next day was Sunday. Rand and William John went down to the workshop immediately on returning from church.
The previous afternoon and evening, they’d worked together—Rand acting as William John’s assistant—to make the modifications Felicia had suggested. They’d had to leave the connections to harden overnight before testing the new valves.
They could barely wait to fire up the boiler.
Then they watched the gauges. Watched and waited as the pressure built.
The valve released precisely as it should. “Yes!” William John raised his fists to the ceiling.
Rand grinned, but kept watching. Only when the new valve continued to release, maintaining the pressure in the boiler at the maximum safe level, did he finally relax.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of their difficulties. William John reattached the drive shaft—he’d dismantled it while they’d concentrated on working on the boiler—only to discover that now, although the issue with the pressure was resolved, even with a steady pressure applied, he couldn’t get the pistons to remain in strict tandem. After five minutes of running, they were sufficiently out of rhythm to have the drive shaft groaning.
After an hour of poking at the pistons and their connections, clearing all the tubing, and then studying the diagrams, William John had once again resorted to tugging his hair. “I don’t understand it,” he wailed. “We’ve increased the pressure, but it’s now under control and steady. The timing shouldn’t have changed.”
It occurred to Rand that, as with the earlier problem, this one was almost certainly more about design than the actual mechanism. “Why don’t we carry on with those changes you wanted to make to the drive shaft itself and wait until your sister comes to pry us away for lunch, then see if she can suggest a way forward?”
William John had looked ready to throw a spanner at the board. Rand’s words gave him pause, then he shrugged. “Yes—why not? We’re getting nowhere here—let’s move on to something we can do.”
When, after Johnson had struck the gong twice with no result, Felicia again made her way down the curving stairs to the workshop, it was to find William John and Rand waiting for her with welcoming smiles on their faces.
Frowning, she paused on the last stair. “What is it?”
William John leapt to tell her—in detail.
And, once again, she found herself, however reluctantly, inexorably drawn into considering, studying, and evaluating the problem.
When William John finally fell silent, and both men waited, patently expecting her to offer them a solution, she frowned at them. “Yesterday...that was very likely just luck. A fluke. A moment that won’t be repeated.”
William John looked at her beseechingly. “Please.” He gestured to the diagrams.
“We’re stuck.” Rand’s tone was less cajoling and more definite. “You’re here, you understand the problem—just look and see if anything strikes you.”
She humphed, but consented to fix her attention once more on the diagrams. The more she traced the connections, the more she felt as if her mind was sinking into the structure of the engine, making sense of the complexity in a way that was almost beyond her conscious grasp. As if some deeply buried part of her recognized the challenge and rose to meet it.
This difficulty was...trickier. There were more possibilities, more points at which things might be going awry.
She lost all sense of time as, with her eyes, she traced, tracked, and backtracked.
As if from a distance, she heard slow, ponderous footsteps on the stairs, heard Flora’s voice raised in a question that cut off when Rand said something.
She almost smiled as she realized what she was doing—that she was just like her father and brother in being able to cut herself, her mind, off from everything around her...
She used to consider that a flaw. Now...
She blinked, looked more intently, then she stepped closer to the board, swiftly ran through her thoughts once again, then with a fingertip, she tapped each of the four feed lines to the pistons. “These are the source of your problem—you haven’t equalized the lines. The pressure going into each is equal, but because the lines are different lengths, the pressure delivered to the pistons is fractionally different. It didn’t matter, at least not so much, when you were running with much less power. Now you’ve increased the power, the pistons will be noticeably out of time after even a relatively short run.”
She turned to William John and saw his eyes widening, widening, then a huge grin split his face.
He beamed at her. “You’ve done it again!”
She found herself grinning back. She glanced at Rand and saw him grinning, too, transparently relieved and delighted. An undeniable spurt of triumph rose and washed through her.
William John was muttering, then Flora harrumphed and said, “I’m very glad you’ve worked out your problem, but luncheon is still waiting. At least it’s a cold collation and won’t be spoiling.”
Along with a still-smiling Rand and a muttering William John, Felicia—reluctantly—turned away from the diagrams and started up the stairs in Flora’s wake.
Three steps up, Felicia glanced back—at the board, the gleaming bulk of the engine, the clutter of the workshop. Facing forward again, she finally understood something of what had driven her father and still drove her brother. That moment of triumph when one solved a critical issue and got things right...however fleeting, that feeling of euphoria was addictive.
They trailed into the dining room and sat about the table, helping themselves to the various dishes and, in short order, settling to eat.
An atmosphere of pleased satisfaction reigned, and for a while, they all savored it in silence.
Rand ate and thought—and couldn’t shake, much less sate, his burgeoning curiosity. Eventually deciding there was no reason he couldn’t ask, he looked across the table and caught Felicia’s gaze. “I own to being curious about your talent. Were you much involved in your father’s work?”
She blinked at him. “No. I wasn’t involved at all.” She glanced at William John, then added, “I was never...asked. As I mentioned earlier, I haven’t set foot in the workshop for years. Yesterday was the first time in...a very long time.”
William John’s expression was entirely serious when he said, “Obviously, it’s been far too long since you were there. Thank God you ventured down yesterday.”
“Indeed.” Rand looked from William John to Felicia, then back again. He hesitated, but the point was too important not to be addressed. “I’ve worked with a lot of inventors over recent years. Many work in teams, often of just two members, sometimes three. Rarely more. Your father was one of the exceptions—he worked alone for most of his life. But you two... If I was assessing your inventive strengths, I would say that while William John has clearly inherited your father’s aptitude for engineering and assembling mechanical devices, you”—he nodded at Felicia—“have inherited your father’s brilliance in conceptualization and design.” He looked at William John. “Those are distinctly different sets of skills, and both sets are essential for successful invention.”
William John leaned forward, his gaze going to Felicia. “Rand’s right. I couldn’t see what the problems were until you pointed them out. I can fix them once I know what’s amiss, but I couldn’t identify them—and you could. And you did that not just once, but twice.” William John sat back and grinned broadly at Felicia. “You, dear sister, are an inventor, too.”
Felicia felt she should scoff—at least humph and dismiss the notion as nonsensical—yet the warmth of that moment of triumph still lingered in her veins, seductive and alluring, and as she glanced from William John to Rand and read the sincerity in their expressions and open gazes, seduction on a different level bloomed.
They—both of them—saw her and her abilities, her instinctive skills that she’d neglected and ignored for so long, as valuable. As worthy of nurturing, worthy of inclusion. Worthy of encouragement and support.
She knew how she’d gained those skills—she’d absorbed them during her earlier years when she’d run free in her father’s workshop, side by side with William John. Even after she’d been effectively excluded and had stopped going downstairs, she’d been forced to listen to her father discuss his inventions ad nauseam—of course she’d taken a lot in.
If, now, Rand and William John thought she could contribute to the invention in a real and meaningful way...
It seemed that an entirely unexpected and novel path was opening up before her.
Do you want to take it?
Something in her leapt at the thought.
She blinked and looked down at her plate. Apparently, she truly was her father’s daughter—the notion of working alongside William John in the workshop was powerfully attractive.
Both Rand and William John—and to a lesser extent, Flora—were waiting for her reaction to William John’s assertion. When she didn’t deny it, Rand evenly said, “We’ve less than two weeks before the exhibition. I suggest that from now on, we consider you, Felicia, as a contributing partner in our efforts to get your father’s last invention working well enough to present it to the world.”
She looked up, and Rand was waiting to capture her gaze.
“Would it be possible,” he asked, “for you to make time to assist in the workshop?”
William John leaned forward as she glanced his way. “In case we stumble over another obstacle and need your insight.” He looked like an eager puppy begging her to come and play with him.
She felt her lips twist in a reluctant smile. She drew in a breath and inwardly acknowledged the instinctive compulsion to agree that had leapt to life inside her. But she wasn’t yet ready to fling restraint to the winds and unreservedly embrace this unexpected twist of fate—this new role that Fate seemed to be offering her.
Yet...she held William John’s gaze, recognizing his sincerity, then she looked at Rand. “We all need the Throgmorton steam engine working perfectly as soon as may be. If you require my help, I’m sure I can manage an hour or so to assist in whatever way I can in that endeavor.”
His expression satisfied, Rand inclined his head.
Flora looked bemused.
William John beamed and slapped his palms to the table. “Well, then. That’s settled.” He pushed to his feet and looked at Rand. “We’d better get on.”
* * *
Clive Mayhew returned to London that evening. Burdened with his easel, folding stool, and satchel as well as his bag, he alighted from the train at Paddington Station and managed to find a hackney to ferry him to his lodgings in Mortimer Street.
Juggling his bags and equipment, he unlocked the front door, then struggled up the narrow stairs to his rooms on the first floor.
With a sigh and a wince, he set down the easel and stool in a corner of the shabbily furnished living room, then laid the satchel on the small table beside the single armchair angled before the hearth. He paused to light the sconce on the wall, then carried his bag through a secondary door into the bedroom beyond.
After depositing his bag on the bare floor by the narrow bed, he returned to the living room. The rooms had been closed up; the atmosphere was musty and close. He crossed to the single window, unlocked the sash, and pushed it up. A bare breath of breeze wafted in.
A scarred tantalus stood against the wall below the window. Mayhew checked the bottles, found one with several inches of brandy remaining, and poured one of those inches into a glass.
Finally, glass in hand, he sank into the armchair. After downing a gulp of the poor-quality brandy and grimacing at the taste, he reached for his satchel, flipped open the flap, and drew out the sketches he’d made over the previous days.
They weren’t bad. Not bad at all. Cruickshank at the News would pay well for them.
Unfortunately, not well enough.
The last sketches in the pile were the pair from Throgmorton Hall. He’d risen early that morning to finish them, sitting at the small desk beneath the window in his room at the Norreys Arms.
He’d propped the window open and the faint rustle of the trees in the woods had, at first, been the only sound, that and the faint trickling of the nearby stream. He’d inked in the sketches, soothed by the country peace flowing all around him.
The views of the Hall were exquisite—even if it was he who said so. As both were from the same viewpoint, they were similar, yet the changing of the afternoon light had resulted in subtle differences.
His thoughts shifted back to the household at the Hall—to Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace.
They’d welcomed him warmly and had been genuinely interested in and impressed by his sketching.
They’d been...nice. Honest, straightforward, comfortable people who assumed those they met were equally honest and straightforward.
What would they think of him if they ever learned his true purpose in wrangling an invitation to the Hall?
For long moments, he toyed with the notion of stepping back from his uncle’s scheme. It was crazy and risky—what did he know of inventions and engines? He’d agreed because it had seemed so distant and in an arena he cared nothing about.
But meeting Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace had brought living people into the picture. Nice people.
Clive raised his glass and, his gaze unseeing, took a long sip.
He could honestly say that until agreeing to act for his uncle, he’d never knowingly and deliberately done another harm—at least, not as an adult. He knew right from wrong and had never intentionally crossed that line.
Of course, he still hadn’t managed to blot his copybook, but he had tried.
Uncertainty—fueled by welling discomfort over his covert role—rose beneath his skin, an increasingly persistent itch. He shifted in the chair and refocused on his sketches—those on his lap and the two he still held in one hand.
Surely—surely—he could find some other way to assemble the necessary to get Quire off his back?
He stared at the sketches of Throgmorton Hall, and the conviction that he couldn’t do as his uncle wanted grew. His wits skittered this way and that, like a mouse desperately seeking a way out of a maze.
The sound of the street door opening jerked him from his thoughts. As heavy footsteps climbed the stairs, on a spurt of panic, he remembered he hadn’t relocked the front door.
He gathered his sketches and set them on top of his satchel. He had only seconds to steel himself before the door to the living room opened, and two heavy, beefy mountains of men marched through.
The latter closed the door and stood, feet apart, before it—as if Clive might rush past the other and attempt to escape.
The first man steadily advanced, his small eyes locked on Clive. The bruiser halted by the chair. His expression impassive, he studied Clive for an unnerving few seconds, taking in the nearly empty glass, then his gaze shifted to the sketches and the satchel on the side table.
Clive tensed—which brought the mountain’s gaze back to his face.
Finally, the man spoke, his voice surprisingly light. “The guv’nor wants his money.”
Gripping his glass, Clive slowly nodded. “I said I’d have it for him in a few weeks—on the twenty-fifth. He agreed to wait.”
The mountain nodded back. “That he did, and the guv’nor is a man of his word. He just sent us around to remind you of that.”
And to remind Clive of the detailed and quite hideously violent promises their “guv’nor,” Quire, had assured Clive would come to pass should Clive fail to meet his latest deadline.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
The mountain studied him for another few seconds, then glanced at the sketches. “Seems like you’ve been out playing.”
Fighting down the urge to reach for the sketches, Clive straightened in the chair. “I’ll get paid for those.”
“P’raps.” The mountain returned his unnerving gaze to Clive. “But not nearly enough.”
Clive inclined his head. “True. But I have other...irons in the fire, so to speak.”
The mountain chuffed out a laugh. “Irons in the fire, heh?” The behemoth exchanged a grinning glance with his friend. “I must remember to share that with the guv’nor. He’ll enjoy a good laugh.”
Clive’s blood chilled at the reminder of one of the more gruesome threats their master had made.
The behemoth’s gaze returned to Clive’s face, and now cruelty was etched in the man’s expression. “The guv’nor said to remind you that if you fail to turn up with the entire sum, interest and all, the very first thing he’ll have us break is those lily-white hands of yours. Every single bone. He’s given you a last chance—don’t disappoint him.”
Having delivered that chilling ultimatum, the brute turned on his heel and marched toward the door. His mate opened it and stepped back.
The first man went out and started down the stairs. The second man, until then silent, pinned Clive with eyes that held less expression than a dead fish’s. “I’d listen to him if I were you.”
The man turned and went out of the door and quietly shut it behind him.
Clive stared at the panel. Only when he heard the street door shut did he manage to haul in a breath.
Slowly, he exhaled.
After several seconds, he raised his glass and tossed back the last of the sour-tasting brandy. Then he shuddered. He glanced at the sketches lying on his satchel. After setting the empty glass on the floor, he picked up the sketches, stowed them in the satchel, then rose, the satchel held between his hands.
He stared at the satchel.
He had only one talent to his name—only one way of earning a living.
Those at Throgmorton Hall enjoyed a pleasant home in a lovely, peaceful setting. They plainly had the wherewithal to keep the place up even while throwing money at inventions.
Having one invention fail wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.
Not succeeding in making that invention fail would be the end for him.
* * *
That evening, as dusk deepened, edging toward night, Rand stepped out onto the terrace. He breathed deeply, then walked down the steps onto the lawn, slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and started pacing.
He had no destination in mind; he let his feet wander where they would. His room had been warmed by the afternoon sun, and he’d felt a need for fresher air to clear his mind and settle his somewhat peripatetic thoughts.
His feet took him eastward, toward the darkness of the woods. Before he reached the trees, he turned north, slowly pacing the stretch of sward that sloped gently upward from the south lawn, skirted the rear wall of the kitchen garden, then leveled off not far from the roses.
As he walked, he glanced to the side, into the wood. The trees grew thickly in that area, directly behind the house, and the undergrowth clogged the spaces between. Although it seemed the closest concealed approach to the workshop doors, the area was near impassable; the man he’d seen fleeing after the attempted break-in had raced away to the northeast and plunged into the woods that presently lay ahead on Rand’s right.
He’d gone searching on the morning after the scare. He’d found the path the man must have taken, but with the ground summer hard, there’d been no sign to mark the man’s passing. That path twisted through the woods to eventually join the lane a little way from where the village street ran off it. Anyone from the village, including a guest of the Norreys Arms, would have had an easy run home.
Admittedly, the would-be burglar could just as easily have come from farther afield; at that hour, a gig or horse left in the lane wouldn’t have been seen by anyone.
And in the small hours of the morning, no one would have seen the man returning to his lair.
Given that, Rand had jettisoned any notion of pursuing their man by tracking him.
His gaze on the grass before his feet, he passed the kitchen garden and continued up the slope toward the rose garden. The combined scents from the blooms wafted past on a faint breeze, teasing his senses—reminding them of the fascinating, enigmatic, and intriguing lady who tended the bushes.
He knew himself well enough to acknowledge that he was—to his mind, surprisingly—attracted to her. Not just physically, but intellectually, emotionally, and even by dint of his business. To him, she was a lure of many facets.
After his experience of and his consequent antipathy toward ladies clever enough to manipulate him, he’d assumed that the last lady he would feel drawn to would be one who, in his estimation, possessed a mind capable of running rings around his.
Felicia Throgmorton definitely possessed such a brain. She might hide it, disregard it, yet he, at least, couldn’t overlook it, not after her recent and undeniably critical contributions to the Throgmorton project.
What surprised him was that knowing she possessed such a mind in no way dampened her allure. If anything, that she could and clearly did understand inventing at a fundamental level had only increased his interest in her.
Increased the sense that she—and she alone of all the ladies he’d ever met—somehow fitted.
Fitted him, his life, and the aspirations and private goals he hadn’t—until the last days—thought much about.
His attraction to her—recognition of what sort of attraction it was, its depth and escalating strength, and what, at some point, it would push him to do—had prodded him to focus on those until-now nebulous goals.
He wanted to marry. He wanted a family. He definitely wanted a hearth and a home and a wife to share both with.
In short, he wanted everything Ryder had found with his Mary.
The family at Raventhorne figured in Rand’s mind as the shining epitome of his ultimate desire.
That was what he wanted his life to contain.
Up to now, he’d kept his attention firmly fixed on accomplishing his business goals, telling himself that even defining his more private goals could wait. He was only thirty years old, after all.
Yet the instant he’d seen Felicia Throgmorton on the Hall’s front steps—his virago with rose-gold hair—his senses had focused on her in a way they never had with any other lady and taken his emotions and a good part of his wits with them.
Everything that had happened since—his reactions to Mayhew and the incident of the break-in to the growing ease and understated understanding between Felicia and himself—had only further entrenched his feelings, until, now, they shone as an inner certainty.
The only consideration stopping him from pursuing her openly was the Throgmorton steam engine.
If she didn’t view him in a complementary way, then pressing his suit before the project was successfully completed would make working together on the engine awkward. More, he didn’t know how she might react to a declaration from him; she might even back away from helping William John altogether, and that, he simply could not risk. There were too many people relying on them delivering the project on time.
With her help, he was confident they would succeed. Without her help, he was no longer so sure. All he’d seen to that point seemed to prove that William John’s strengths alone wouldn’t be enough.
So he would wait until they had the engine working and presented it at the exhibition. Then he would ask for her hand.
He nodded to himself, pleased to have thought his way to that clear and unequivocal stance.
Of course, waiting didn’t mean he couldn’t use the time to learn more of her. Indeed, for any number of reasons, it would be wise to gain some understanding of her complicated and convoluted relationship with inventors and inventing.
They’d managed—entirely by chance—to get her into the workshop long enough for her to respond to their need and demonstrate her understanding.
They’d opened a door they hadn’t known existed, and today, they’d managed to wedge that door open.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t slam it shut.
Today’s advance was no guarantee that he or William John wouldn’t, in some way, unintentionally step on her toes and prompt her to step back.
She’d agreed to help them and clearly understood both why she needed to and what was at stake. But ladies could always change their minds.
When it came to her and inventing, he felt like he was blundering in the dark—a feeling he didn’t appreciate.
He’d started plotting a campaign to tease more insights from her when the soft swish of silk reached his ears.
Surprised, he looked up—and realized that his wandering feet had set him on course for the entrance to the rose garden.
Even as, blinking, he focused on the heavily shadowed arched entrance, now a mere yard away, Felicia, her eyes on the ground, walked purposefully out, under the arch.
She walked directly into him.
“Oh!”
He’d had a second to halt and brace himself.
She all but bounced off him.
Before she could stagger back, he grasped her upper arms and steadied her.
She sucked in a breath, and tension streaked through her.
Ignoring the rush of physical awareness that raced over him, he ducked his head and looked into her face. “It’s all right. It’s only me—Rand.”
She blinked at him, her eyes luminous in the semi-dark; the unexpected collision had affected her, too—in her wide eyes, he saw the same awareness that was prickling under his skin.
Then she let out the breath she’d held in a soft exhalation; the line of her shoulders eased, and she raised a slim hand to her throat. She looked into his eyes with transparent relief. “My apologies. I wasn’t looking.”
“No need to apologize. I didn’t see you coming, either.” Yet he’d realized in time that, had he wished to, he could have avoided the collision, but that was something he saw no reason to mention.
“Well, then. Thank you.” She sounded faintly breathless.
She stepped back, and, reluctantly, he released her and lowered his arms.
She stared at him for a second; he cursed the shadows that fell over her face and prevented him from reading her expression.
Then she tensed a touch and shifted as if intending to step past him.
Before she could bid him goodnight and leave, he reached out, looped her arm with his, and smoothly turned her around, effectively anchoring her beside him as he stepped toward the rose garden. “Please—walk with me.” Pausing under the arch, he gestured down the flagstone walk. “It’s a beautiful night, and your roses are in bloom.”
Short of wrestling free—something he felt fairly certain she wouldn’t do—she had little option but to fall in by his side. She humphed and dryly replied, “So I’ve noticed.”
But her feet obligingly followed his.
“Have you been strolling long?” he asked.
“No. My room was stuffy, so I came out to get some air.”
Greatly daring, he loosened the guard on his tongue. “Am I allowed to say I’m glad?”
She looked down, then, in a plainly curious tone, asked, “Why?”
His face shrouded by the deepening shadows, he grinned and gave her half the answer. “Because I’m curious. After our previous discussion in this garden, having learned of your antipathy to inventing and inventors and your very sound reasons for that, I was...shall we say, taken aback?...to realize that, regardless of your stance, you are very definitely an inventor, too.” He paused, his senses confirming she was listening, and that although she’d stiffened slightly at his reference to her talent, she hadn’t tried to halt or pull away. His voice even, his tone intrigued but not demanding, he went on, “If you’ll consent to sharing your thoughts with me, what I would particularly like to know is why you have, apparently doggedly, kept yourself out of the workshop and away from all inventing until now.”
That afternoon, while they’d been working on the modifications to the pistons’ feed lines, William John had confirmed that he hadn’t known of his sister’s abilities, and that as far as he could remember, she’d never been a collaborator in any of his or his father’s inventions in even the smallest way—indeed, that she’d never previously shown the slightest interest in any invention whatsoever.
Felicia narrowed her eyes, but as she kept her head bent and her gaze directed at the path before their feet, the gesture had no effect on the gentleman who had so adroitly claimed her company. Her senses, thrown into disarray by their collision, hadn’t yet completely settled. Her nerves were still flickering, all too aware of his powerful, very male presence so close beside her.
She shouldn’t have acquiesced, but her silly feet had followed his lead...just as her thoughts were now following his.
Given that, invention-wise, he seemed intent on involving her as a collaborator, his question—his curiosity—was, perhaps, understandable. And while his wasn’t a question she’d ever posed to herself, she did know the answer.
Raising her head, she looked down the path along which they were slowly strolling. She half expected him to press, but he remained attentively silent. Encouraging, but content to allow her to marshal her thoughts.
More than anything else, that silent yet focused attention prompted her to speech. “When I was a young girl, I spent a great deal of my time in the workshop, along with William John. I expect my...talent, as you call it, stems from those days. From all the hours I spent listening to Papa talk through his work. Probably because, until recently, he’d always worked alone, he was one of those inventors who, when he was working, spoke his thoughts aloud.” She paused, remembering those days. “Instead of dolls, I had wrenches and spanners. And I still can’t embroider to save my soul. In place of the usual lessons a young girl learns, I was playing at building things with gears and levers. Mama loved Papa too much to try to curtail my time with him, and I adored—simply adored—the different world that existed downstairs.”
She stared unseeing into the deepening darkness that cloaked the end of the garden. “But that time passed. William John and I grew older, and as we did, Papa focused on William John, of course. I was a girl, and increasingly, Papa paid less and less attention to me—and feeling cut out, I went down to the workshop less often. That meant I spent more time upstairs with Mama, and that made me aware of the...counter side of Papa’s obsession with inventions. As the months and years went on, I saw and increasingly understood the pressure Papa’s obsession placed on everyone else, but on my mother most of all. Papa left her to manage everything. He cared for nothing but what went on in his workshop. By then, I’d stopped going down there. I simply couldn’t—not while knowing what him working down there was costing Mama.”
She drew breath and raised her head. “I grew increasingly angry—and what you’ve termed my antipathy grew and grew, until ultimately, I turned my back on everything to do with inventing.” She paused, then went on, “If it wasn’t for William John—if it had been left to me—I would have closed the workshop after Papa’s death.”
The long-fermented rancor elicited by her father’s behavior still pulsed in her veins.
She tipped her head toward Rand and felt her curls brush his shoulder. “Given all that, it’s hardly surprising that I simply didn’t realize I...had any real ability in that sphere. Even after Papa died, the very last thing I would have thought of doing was going down to the workshop and offering my help.” She thought of it, then softly snorted and looked down. “Had Papa been alive...what happened two days ago would simply never have occurred. He never—ever—thought of me as a potential colleague. He had William John, and I was just a girl.”
They’d reached the end of the path. The seconds they took to swing around to pace back toward the house were time enough for her to realize and acknowledge another truth. As they strolled freely again, she murmured, “In hindsight, me distancing myself from inventing was a mistake on both my and Papa’s parts. Had I participated in his work, even if only occasionally, I would have understood what drove him.” She drew breath and admitted, “It wouldn’t have changed how I felt about inventing, but... I would have understood him.”
She frowned and looked down, suddenly aware that she now had regrets she hadn’t previously harbored. Nevertheless...raising her head, she stated, “I still firmly believe that people—especially those close to us, the people we love, our family—are in all situations and at all times more important than any invention could ever be.”
His voice, deep and faintly gruff, rumbled across her senses. “Even as engrossed in inventions as I am, I entirely agree.”
She glanced at his face, but the shadows were now those of full night, and she couldn’t make out his expression.
Rand continued, “Inventions should help, not harm—not in any way, not even in their developmental stages. There is no other purpose behind inventing, so to cause harm while inventing...to me, that runs counter to any inventor’s purpose.”
Her explanations and revelations had pushed him to consider his own views, to review his own feelings. How far would he go in pursuit of an invention if someone dear to him stood to be harmed, even if only emotionally? The answer was very clear in his mind. He couldn’t imagine allowing such a situation to proceed.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to explain.” He glanced at her face and, through the dimness, met her shadowed eyes. “It helps to understand how you feel about things.”
Despite the darkness, he saw her lips curve. “In that case, I claim turn and turn about.” She tipped her head, her eyes still on his. “What led to your interest in inventions? From what did such an esoteric interest spring?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she murmured, “It would help to understand how you feel about things.”
That surprised a short laugh from him. “Very well.” He faced forward and wondered where to start. Then he knew. “I had no interest in inventions until six years ago.”
When he didn’t go on, she prompted, “What happened six years ago?”
She’d been open and honest—and brave—in telling him all she had. He couldn’t be less, do less. “Six years ago, my mother died. She fell to her death from an upstairs window while trying to escape being taken up for the attempted murder of my half brother, who was and still is the Marquess of Raventhorne. She tried to kill him so that I would inherit—a scheme I and my other brothers and sister had no notion of. She...was a master manipulator and had pulled the wool over all our eyes. Everyone knew she didn’t like Ryder, but that she would do such a thing...” He shook his head. “It was incomprehensible.”
“You’re close to your half brother—the marquess?”
“Nothing so mild as merely close. That was why our mother’s treachery...hurt so much. Ryder’s six years older than I am, and I’m the eldest of the four children my mother bore our father. To the four of us, Ryder was our hero. He was the magnificent big brother who always took care of us. Even now, he’s our family’s rock—the one all of us would turn to for help, knowing he’ll always—always—gladly give it.” He felt his lips twitch upward. “Ryder’s our shield, and I suspect he’ll think of himself as that to his dying day.”
She paced beside him, then softly said, “It must have been—must still be—quite something to have a brother like that.”
He glanced at her, reminded that her older brother had never supported her; in truth, it was she who supported William John. Rand closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “As I said, we’re more than close.” His thoughts rolled on, and he drew in a deep breath. “It was the aftermath of my mother’s death that set me on the path to becoming an investor who specializes in inventions. I was twenty-four when she died, and I’d...done nothing worthwhile with my life to that point.”
He paused, letting an echo of those long-ago feelings, the strongest ones that had pushed him down his present path, ripple through him again. “I had never wanted to nor expected to inherit the marquessate. Managing a noble estate had never been of interest. But the shock of my mother’s death opened my eyes and made me ask what I stood for. What the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would mean to others—and I realized that, at that time, me and my name meant nothing at all.”
He glanced briefly at her and saw she was watching him. “I came to that realization a few weeks after we buried my mother. I decided on that day that I would carve a place for myself in the world, so that the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would someday mean something.”
“So that you would leave a positive mark on the world.”
He inclined his head. “In whatever way—it didn’t truly matter how. So I started investigating what arena I might have a more-than-passing interest in and discovered the answer was investing. For several years, I stuck as close as I could to another nobleman—a connection of my sister-in-law, Ryder’s wife, Mary—who has long been an acknowledged force in investment circles. He was kind enough to teach me everything I needed to know. Through him, I stumbled into investing in inventions, and it was there I found my place.”
He met her eyes. “Inventions—evaluating and assessing them, then working out what the most useful require to bring them to fruition—called to me. Captured me.” He held her gaze. “Possibly in the same way that you were drawn back into inventing when the chance—the need—was placed before you. Investing in inventions drew me in and held me as nothing else ever had.”
They’d returned to the archway, and he led her beneath and out onto the lawns, now silvered by the light of the rising moon. “I like—no, I thrive—on the challenge of finding a worthwhile invention, then supporting the inventor logistically and financially to transform that invention into an established success.”
Her gaze lingered on his face, on his profile, then she looked toward the house. “You bring passion and drive to an invention’s development. Trust me, for any inventor, that’s a boon in itself.”
The dry words had him inclining his head.
After a moment, she glanced his way. “It seems we share the experience of having been influenced by the actions of one of our parents to the point that our reactions propelled us down our respective paths.”
He thought about that, then murmured, “Perhaps. But we differ in that, while my reaction to my mother’s scheming pushed me into investing in inventions—an occupation that fulfills me, and with which I’m increasingly content—your reaction to your father’s shortcomings has kept you out of inventing and inventions, an arena in which you plainly are able to make real and meaningful contributions.”
He didn’t say more. Didn’t elaborate on the contrast, but instead, left her to think it through and see that truth for herself.
After several moments of considering his words, Felicia murmured an agreement. He was right. Inventing and inventions and the contributions she might make... The prospect elicited a response from deep inside that was nine parts eager excitement and one part pure desire.
She wasn’t sure what she felt about that. Turning assumptions about herself on their head left her mentally dizzy—uncertain of her footing.
They’d walked down the lawn and around to the terrace. As she raised her skirts and, still leaning on his arm, climbed the steps, she was aware of a certain expectation in the air—of this being a moment in time when her life was poised on the cusp of a new direction.
Exactly what that direction might be, where it might lead, and what it might hold...that, she had yet to learn.
Rand halted outside the drawing room door. She drew her arm from his and faced him.
Through the enfolding shadows, he looked into her eyes.
And she looked into his.
Finally, he said, his voice deep and low, “It seems that both of us have, indeed, been working our way out of the emotional coils generated by one of our parents—working to define ourselves, to define our paths into the future.”
“From all you’ve said, you’ve advanced further than I have. I’m...” She hesitated, but they’d passed the point of being cautious. “After the revelations of recent days, I feel I’m only just starting my journey.”
It was a catharsis of sorts, to speak so openly to another who understood.
Rand quietly asked, “Did you enjoy it—helping William John see his way to solving his problems?”
She blinked, then nodded. “Yes, I did. It was...invigorating. As if I was stretching a muscle I hadn’t used in years.”
“Did you feel the lure—the one I know all true inventors feel? Did it feel right—that it was right and proper? Did it feel as if you have a place in inventing?”
“Yes.” Her reply came so quickly, he knew he’d touched on something she truly had experienced. She went on, “At least to your first question. As for the others...” She frowned. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew she was looking inward.
Then she shook her head and met his gaze. “I can’t yet say. I’ll have to take them under advisement.”
They were alone in the night, standing close.
He felt the tug of attraction, of building desire, a tangible sensation that pushed him to shift closer still—to draw her to him.
They’d both spoken openly of things they had—he felt quite sure—never revealed to any other. They’d started, deliberately, down the path of understanding each other better than anyone else in the world.
The temptation to take the next step—to draw her into his arms and set his lips to hers—thudded in his blood.
He teetered on that indefinable edge, but held his breath and braced against it—achingly aware of the compulsion, but not yet willing to take the plunge and risk...any sort of awkwardness that might drive her from the workshop she’d only so recently reentered or strain the cooperation he now knew to his soul he needed from her if the Throgmorton engine was ever to see success.
Was it wrong to put that in the scales? To weigh his responsibility to all the others against what he felt for her?
Regardless, his voice lower still, a touch of gravel in his tone, he said, “Promise me you’ll tell me when you learn the answers.”
Felicia held his gaze and felt his words resonate deep inside. Tension had risen between them—but this wasn’t a tension she’d felt before. This tension excited. Tempted and lured.
But he made no move, and she told herself she was grateful for that. They’d met only five days before. Surely that was too short a time to have developed a meaningful connection. And yet...there they were.
In the dark of the night with secrets already spoken and shared.
Still holding his gaze, she inclined her head and stepped back from the lure. “Goodnight.” Her voice had lowered to a sultry tone.
Her nerves leapt and prickled as she turned, opened the French doors, and slipped into the drawing room.
As she crossed the shadowed space, absentmindedly avoiding the furniture, she told herself she was deeply glad he’d refrained from reaching for her; if he had, God alone knew what she might have done.
She passed through the open drawing room door and walked slowly into the front hall. She’d been kissed before, been waltzed and wooed, yet nothing had prepared her for Randolph Cavanaugh and his effect on her senses, her wits—on her will.
Nothing had prepared her for her own desire—no other man had ever evoked it. She’d never before had to deal with this sparkling compulsion.
Yet another novel and unexpected twist in her new direction—courtesy of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh.
Rand stood on the night-shrouded terrace and let Felicia walk away from him.
He waited—not thinking, not allowing his mind to speculate—until he felt enough time had elapsed for her to have gained her room.
Only then did he haul in a deeper breath, shove his hands into his pockets, and turn to look out over the south lawn.
The silvered expanse remained empty.
Lips setting, he opened the door through which Felicia had gone, stepped inside, then snibbed the lock. He checked the second pair of French doors and found them already locked. Satisfied that he could trust Johnson to have seen to the rest of the house—the butler must have glimpsed Rand and Felicia outside and left the French doors, the pair most often used by his mistress to go outside, unlocked—Rand followed Felicia’s trail across the darkened room and up the stairs.
Her room lay opposite his, her door a few paces farther down the corridor. He hesitated, vacillating in the darkness between his door and hers; on hearing no sounds from her room, he turned and entered his.
He hadn’t bothered to leave a light burning. After shutting the door, he crossed to the uncurtained window and stood looking, unseeing, at the dark shapes of the trees in the woods.
In retrospect, he’d been a coward to allow that moment on the terrace to pass. He should have seized the chance when it offered and trusted to Fate to see him right.
At least it was only a step forward he hadn’t taken; he hadn’t lost any ground. He would continue onward—and hope his moment of strategic caution wouldn’t be one he would come to regret.