CHAPTER 9
The following morning, Felicia remained, if not precisely trapped in dreams of where extending such a kiss as she’d been a party to last night might lead, then at the very least, powerfully distracted.
Rand and William John had already departed the breakfast table before she reached it, for which she was thankful. William John wouldn’t notice her abstraction, but the source of it certainly would, and the last thing she wished was for the fact that Rand had started to inhabit her dreams to somehow become evident.
With her blushes spared, she sat and consumed her tea and toast, then girded her loins and, with wholly spurious calm, made her way down the spiral stairs to the workshop. Halting on the second last step, she looked out at the sight of both William John and Rand engrossed in some adjustment that had both of them all but diving headfirst into the bowels of the engine.
Then, as if sensing her presence, Rand looked up.
Their gazes locked, then the line of his lips eased into a smile—one that started a warm glow spreading beneath her skin.
Clasping her hands before her, she managed to haul in a tight breath and drag her gaze to her brother’s downbent head. “Do you need me for anything this morning?”
William John looked up, saw her, and grinned. “No. Fingers crossed, but after those last changes to accommodate the increased power, the whole seems to be reconciled. I’ve got a few more checks and a handful of possible adjustments to do, and then we should be ready to run the final tests.”
Keeping her eyes on her brother’s face, she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get back to my usual day, then.” She turned to leave—and let her gaze briefly touch Rand’s. “Send for me if you need me.”
With that, she retreated to the sitting room. After working her way through her usual meeting with Mrs. Reilly and having learned that the household had run out of ink, she decided to walk into the village and rectify the shortage.
A basket on her arm, she set off through the woods, following the path the man she’d seen fleeing the house after the attempted break-in had taken. Above her head, birds flitted in the branches, and the sun shone warmly from the summer-blue sky. The air was fresh and clear; with her basket swinging, she walked along, smiling delightedly for no reason beyond her happiness with her life as it was—as it now was, post the changes consequent on Lord Randolph Cavanaugh arriving at her home.
The path was the shortest route to the village; soon, she was in the general store. After chatting with the owner, she purchased two bottles of ink. On quitting the store, she paused on the pavement to settle the ink bottles in the bottom of the basket. Satisfied with their arrangement, she raised her head and stepped—directly into a gentleman who had to have crossed the road to materialize so suddenly before her.
Gripping the basket with both hands, she fell back.
The gentleman stepped back, too. “My apologies, Miss Throgmorton.” Mr. Mayhew smiled at her. “Well met, dear lady.” His gaze fell to her basket, and he held out a hand. “Let me help you with that.”
“Er...good morning, Mr. Mayhew—it’s not at all heavy.” Nevertheless, Felicia found herself surrendering the basket—then wished she hadn’t; she’d have to get it back from him before she left him. She hid a frown. “I confess I hadn’t expected to see you back quite so soon, sir.”
Mayhew’s charming smile lit his face. “I arrived last night. The weather’s been unusually benign, so my sketching for the News went faster than I’d anticipated. I’ve been able to take that short holiday I mentioned earlier than planned.”
“I see.” With the engine so near completion and the exhibition only a week away, Mayhew’s reappearance—as he’d admitted, earlier than he’d flagged—opened a deep vein of suspicion inside her. Endeavoring to keep all sign of wariness from her face and voice, she waved down the street. “I was about to head home.”
“Ah.” Mayhew glanced in that direction, then met her eyes. “I wonder if you would take tea with me, Miss Throgmorton. In the inn.” He tipped his head toward the inn on the opposite side of the street. “I would like to show you my most recent sketches—I would value your opinion.”
She searched his eyes, but they and his expression remained open, and nothing more than honest earnestness shone through. She remained unsure if he was genuine or not, but she knew all the staff at the inn, and taking tea in a public place posed no risk. Besides, she told herself, as she smiled and inclined her head in acceptance, learning more about Mayhew wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, Mr. Mayhew. I would be delighted to take tea with you and view your recent sketches.”
He beamed at her and offered his arm.
She laid her hand on his sleeve, and they crossed the street and entered the inn.
At that time of day, even the tap was quiet, and the ladies’ parlor alongside was empty of occupants other than them. She led the way to the table beneath the window, where the light streaming in offered steady illumination.
As previously, Mayhew had his ever-present satchel slung over one shoulder. After setting her basket on the floor by her chair, he opened the satchel, extracted a sheaf of sketches, then hung the satchel on the back of the chair opposite her, sat, and placed the sketches on the table before her.
Despite all wariness, she reached for the pile with unfeigned eagerness. If these were as good as those he’d earlier shown her and Flora, they would be worth looking at.
Sure enough, as, slowly, she turned page after page, she was treated to a cornucopia of gentle country scenes, each with some small detail that delighted. Every view was exquisitely and evocatively rendered, displaying a fine eye as well as a fine hand at work. That Mayhew was an exceptional artist was undeniable.
The serving girl appeared and, deep in his sketches, Felicia vaguely heard him order tea. The tray arrived, and she roused herself enough to pour, then, sipping, continued her perusal of Mayhew’s recent work. Given that there were more than twenty sketches in the pile, she could understand that he might feel a short holiday was in order.
She finished studying the final sketch and laid it with its fellows. Then she raised her gaze. “These are very impressive, sir.”
He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’m glad you think so, Miss Throgmorton.”
“It was a pleasure to have the opportunity to view them.” She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
Mayhew’s smile faded. “Actually”—he leaned forward, his forearms on the table and his cup cradled between his long-fingered artist’s hands—“I was especially glad to meet with you again.” When she glanced up, he caught her gaze. “I wanted to ask if you and your family would permit me to sketch the Hall again, this time from different angles.”
Without waiting for any answer, he rolled on, “The setting is rather unusual, as I’m sure you’re aware—the woods all around lend the house a subtle, almost-fairy-tale quality, and the lines of the building are classic, of course, which only adds to the unexpectedness of seeing it in what otherwise appears to be wild and untamed surrounds.” He focused on her eyes. “Please say you’ll consider allowing me to do at least a few more sketches. The house has fired my imagination, so to speak.”
He was clever enough to stop talking at that point and simply sit staring at her in obvious and expectant hope.
Felicia set down her empty cup and returned his steady regard while her mind raced. He might be an agent acting for some other inventor with the intent to sabotage the engine. Against that notion, he wasn’t asking to sketch inside the house. Seeking to confirm that, she said, “Different views of the house from different spots outside?”
He nodded. “Yes. Exactly.”
How could he possibly threaten the engine? He’d be a hundred or more yards from the house at all times.
She still wasn’t sure—and wasn’t sure why that was so. At no time had Mayhew, by word or deed, given her cause to suspect him.
The timing—the coincidences surrounding his initial appearance in the village—had sparked both her and Rand’s suspicions, and his reappearance at such a critical juncture would only further feed their wariness. And although there was nothing more substantial than coincidence to support their suspicions, at least in her case, despite Mayhew’s charm and all the evidence of his undeniable talent, her suspicions showed no signs of abating.
Yet if he was a sneaky gentleman intent on harming the invention, she would really rather keep him in view—stuck behind his easel on the lawn.
She stirred. “Perhaps if you come to tea this afternoon and discuss your request with Mrs. Makepeace and me, we might see our way to granting it.” She smiled to soften her refusal to immediately agree; she wanted a few hours to think—and to consult Rand.
She pushed back from the table, and Mayhew hurriedly got to his feet and assisted her to hers. She smiled easily in thanks. “If you will call at three o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.” His charming smile was very much in evidence as he picked up her basket and insisted on escorting her back to the street.
On the corner, she claimed her basket and was firm in declining his escort along the lane and down the woodland path. “It’s not far, and I know these woods like the back of my hand.”
With a last nod from her and a half bow from him, they parted—both still smiling.
As she walked down the lane to where the path from the house joined it, Felicia had to wonder if Mayhew’s smile was as much a façade as hers.
* * *
Rand had been loitering in the doorway of the forge, waiting for Ferguson to refine the curve on a brace that would anchor the engine into the carriage and, meanwhile, idly scanning the village street, when he saw Felicia exit the inn on the artist’s arm.
“Damn it—he’s back.” Eyes narrowing, Rand had pushed away from the archway against which he’d been leaning. His hands gripping his hips, he’d watched as, at the far end of the street, Felicia had firmly dismissed Mayhew and, parting from him, had continued on alone, walking with her usual free stride along the lane in the direction of the Hall.
She hadn’t seemed distressed in any way. As for Mayhew, he seemed pleased. Rubbing his hands together, the artist was smiling as he turned toward the inn.
Rand watched Mayhew walk back to the inn and disappear inside.
A litany of possible actions—reactions—scrolled through Rand’s mind. In the end, the considerations that stopped him from marching down the street, into the inn, and making it indisputably clear to Mayhew that Felicia Throgmorton was spoken for were twofold.
The first—and most telling with respect to protecting the invention—was that as Rand had led Mayhew to believe he was a family friend passing through, Mayhew would not be expecting Rand to still be at Throgmorton Hall. Mayhew, Rand judged, came from a circle only slightly below his own; he knew how Mayhew would have interpreted his words—he would have assumed that, seven days on, Rand would be gone by now.
That raised the interesting question of whether Mayhew had retreated for a week, waiting until he assumed Rand would have left in order to ensure a clear run at the Hall. Simply by asking around in the village, Mayhew could have learned that, other than the absentminded brother who toiled away in the workshop every day, occasionally blowing things up, there was no true male protector residing at the house.
The more Rand thought of it, the more he felt that it would be wise to allow Mayhew to remain unaware of Rand’s continuing presence. Unless Mayhew thought to ask Ferguson, he was unlikely to learn that Rand was still about.
The second consideration that held him back from confronting Mayhew was more personal. Felicia herself might not—yet—understand where she stood vis-à-vis Rand. They hadn’t yet progressed to the point of a declaration.
To his mind, the kiss they’d shared last night had certainly raised the prospect, but he hadn’t spoken.
Once again, he debated that decision, but waiting until after the exhibition, when there would be no urgent business-related pressure hanging over their heads—no possible consideration that might impinge on her decision to accept him, or that she might imagine had influenced his decision to ask for her hand—still seemed the best way forward.
Waiting to speak remained the better option.
The niggling understanding that he was uncertain enough of her—of his appeal to her—to want more time to convince her to be his, he pushed to the back of his mind.
“M’lord.”
Rand lowered his arms and turned as Ferguson came walking out from the depths of the forge, waving the re-formed brace.
“This is ready now. Good and strong—should do the job.”
Rand accepted the curved length of solid iron. “Put it on the Throgmorton tab.”
Ferguson nodded genially. “Aye. I’ll do that.” Rand had already assured the man he would stand guarantor for William John.
Rand had tied the horse he’d ridden from the Hall to the ring beside the forge door. He moved around the bay and stowed the brace in the saddlebag. Then, over the horse’s back, he looked at Ferguson, who had remained in the doorway. “I want to give this fellow a run. Is there a way I can circle around”—he tipped his head—“to the west, preferably, that will eventually take me back to the Hall?”
“Oh aye. There’s a good run down the edge of Farmer Highgate’s fields. If you go that way”—Ferguson pointed away from the village—“then turn left and left again, you’ll come to it—a bridle path, it is. You won’t miss it.”
Rand thanked the blacksmith, then swung up to the bay’s broad back. He rode out of the yard, turned north, then, as directed, west. True to Ferguson’s word, Rand found the bridle path easily enough and took the circuitous route back to the Hall, giving the inn a very wide berth.
* * *
By the time he’d reached the Hall’s stables, Rand had started to question just why Felicia had, to all appearances, encouraged Mayhew. She’d gone into the inn with him; however innocent their meeting, Rand had to wonder why she’d agreed to it.
After leaving the bay in Shields’s capable hands along with orders to deliver the brace to the workshop, Rand strode across the lawn to the house with uncertainty itching just beneath his skin. He didn’t know Felicia that well; he’d never seen her in society. Perhaps the artist, charming to his toes, was more to her taste than a gentleman who thought investments were exciting...
Abruptly, he halted, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and, struggling not to clench his jaw, walked on.
There was that kiss in the dark last night. He shouldn’t—couldn’t—forget that. She’d responded. She’d been as intrigued as he with the prospects—with the promise.
He shouldn’t doubt her.
Not without evidence to the contrary.
Just because he didn’t trust women, especially not those clever enough to be manipulative, that didn’t mean he couldn’t trust her.
He reached the house, opened the side door, and stalked inside. Even as his long strides ate the carpet, at the back of his mind was the realization of what his present state—his churning thoughts—portended.
He knew how irrationally Ryder acted over Mary, and his big brother was the epitome of calm reason. This morass of uncertainty was, apparently, an unavoidable outcome of allowing oneself to fix on a particular lady, to place her above all others.
He’d already reached the point where Felicia was that for him—the lady he’d placed on his pedestal, the one lady he wanted for his own.
Johnson was crossing the front hall as Rand walked onto the tiles.
“Ah—Johnson. Do you happen to know where Miss Felicia is?”
“Indeed, my lord. She’s in the garden hall.” Johnson pointed past the breakfast parlor. “It’s toward the end of the corridor, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Rand drew in a breath, reminded himself to be calm—that he’d as yet said nothing to Felicia about her being his—then strode in search of her.
She was arranging peonies in a bowl when he walked into the narrow garden hall.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Has William John and his incessant muttering driven you upstairs?”
“No.” He leaned back against the bench alongside where she was working and crossed his arms. “I went into the village to have a brace reforged. I was waiting outside the blacksmith’s and saw you with that artist.”
Her gaze on her hands as she cupped and shifted blooms in the bowl, she nodded. “Yes. Mayhew is back. He met me as I was coming out of the general store. He invited me to tea so he could impress me with the sketches he’s done over the last days.” She paused, then glanced at Rand, briefly meeting his eyes. “He must have been hard at work to have produced so many in just seven days. They were as good as his sketches of the Hall. I recognized some scenes from a hamlet near Basildon, so he must have traveled up there.”
He frowned. “So his story of having to do more sketches for the London News rings true?”
“So it seems.”
To his ears, she sounded equivocal, possibly unconvinced, but at the very least unimpressed.
“The reason he wanted to make a point of the quality of his work was to pave the way for him to request permission to return here and do more sketches of the house.”
He stiffened, muscles throughout his body hardening.
Before he could say anything, she straightened and, dusting her hands, faced him and met his eyes. “I suggested he come for afternoon tea and speak with me and Flora about it. I know there’s no chance of winkling William John from the workshop—and we need him to finish the last adjustments as soon as possible, so better he isn’t distracted—but would you care to join us?” She tipped her head, her eyes still on his. “We could see what you make of Mayhew and his return.”
Her last comment, especially her use of “we,” shifted Rand’s perspective. He studied her expression, but wasn’t sure what he sensed. “You don’t believe him?”
She humphed and turned to lean back against the bench beside him. “I believe him about his ability to sketch—that’s beyond doubt. But as for the rest... I have to admit I’m not inclined to trust any charming gentleman who comes waltzing up our drive.”
Rand turned his head and stared at her.
Eventually feeling his gaze, she glanced at him, then her lips twitched and she faced forward again. “I trust you, but that’s for a lot of other reasons, and you’ve never tried to charm me, which in my book is a very large point in your favor.”
Faintly, he arched his brows. “Duly noted,” he murmured.
Belatedly, Felicia realized that this was the first time he and she had been alone since that amazingly distracting kiss in the night, yet rather than suffering from any feeling of awkwardness, she felt comfortable, at ease, and, yes, relieved. Relieved he was there to share her concern over Mayhew and what his reappearance might mean.
“Is having Mayhew back, even for afternoon tea, a wise idea?”
She glanced at Rand. “I can’t see any way of being sure. And while I could easily have put him off, at least until after the exhibition, it occurred to me that if he is the agent of some other inventor—or some other person who wants our engine to fail—then keeping him in plain sight might be a better option than refusing his request. Consider”—she gestured toward the French door that gave access to the lawn at the rear of the house—“the very thing about this house that makes it so attractive for him to sketch, or so he claims, also makes it terribly easy for him to approach quite close without us knowing. He could hide in the wood and watch us fit the engine to the carriage and so on.”
Facing forward, she paused, then went on, “There’s also the fact that if Mayhew is an agent working against our interests, then I, for one, would like to know who he’s working for.” She glanced sidelong at Rand and caught his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”
He stared at her for a full minute, then grimaced. He faced forward and blew out a breath. “What—exactly—did he say?”
She told him. “He didn’t ask to be shown around inside or to sketch inside the house.”
After a moment, he demanded, “Has he ever asked about the workshop or about what your brother does?”
“No.” She hesitated, then admitted, “The only things he’s shown any interest in are those that affect his sketching.”
“Hmm.” After another significantly more brooding silence, Rand said, “I assume you hope to give him enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.”
She nodded. “For him to at least show his true colors.”
“How, exactly, do you see his next visit and his next round of sketching leading to that end?”
She grimaced. “I don’t know. But he has returned, and he wants to come here and sketch. Presumably, he has a reason for that. Given we’re on guard against him—and with him back in the neighborhood, I assume we’ll be maintaining our night and day watches with even greater stringency—”
“I’ll be rearranging the watches so that during the night, there’ll be three men awake and alert at all times.”
“—then I propose we give Mayhew the opportunity to ask questions about the workshop, or about William John’s occupation, or even to attempt to see the workshop or speak with William John.” She frowned. “If we’re right in thinking that he’s not just an artist but also a would-be saboteur, then with only a week to go before the exhibition, he’ll be wanting to make some definite move to achieve his ends very soon.”
A sudden thought occurred, and she turned to Rand. “You said we’d have to leave here on Thursday morning to get to Birmingham in time. If Mayhew fails in his task while here, but gives us no reason to have him arrested, then surely damaging the invention while it’s on the road to the exhibition will be his next cast. We’ll need to organize more guards.”
“That won’t be hard—you can leave that to me.”
To his discomfort, Felicia’s proposed interaction with Mayhew left Rand prey to contradictory impulses.
His protective, possessive self didn’t want her anywhere near Mayhew—a charming gentleman-artist who Rand had yet to inform of his interest in the delectable Miss Throgmorton. Against that...he could appreciate her reasoning, and if it hadn’t been her but some other lady involved, he would probably have readily agreed with her suggested way forward. More, the sense of camaraderie that in the last twenty minutes had deepened between them was...seductive. He liked the feeling of working closely together, even when their goal was to expose Mayhew and whoever he worked for.
Apparently taking his silence for acquiescence, she asked, “So will you take tea with us this afternoon?”
“No.” He met her eyes. “When I spoke with Mayhew last time he was here, I told him I was a friend of the family visiting for a few days. I suspect he’ll imagine I’ve left by now, and if he’s a villain, it’ll be to our advantage for me to play least in sight.” He paused for a heartbeat, then went on, “However, that doesn’t mean I can’t watch, and while you’re serving him tea, I’ll hover close enough to hear all that’s said.”
She frowned. “Perhaps that was why he was away for barely a week—because he knew you were here and thought it wiser to wait until you were gone.”
“Very possibly. If you recall, he intimated to me that he would be away for longer—a few weeks—yet in barely a week, he’s back.”
“Hmm. Despite his charm and innocuous appearance, it’s little things like that that keep me wondering about him.” Felicia paused. She was quite pleased with the way the discussion had unfolded; for a minute, when Rand had first come striding in and she’d told him about meeting Mayhew and inviting him to tea, she’d feared that Rand was going to convert to some overbearing, arrogant, and pompous male, but he’d throttled any such impulse, and the discussion had proceeded on a sensible, rational plane. She straightened away from the bench. “For now, let’s see what direction he takes when he comes for tea at three o’clock. Flora will be with me, of course.”
Rand caught her gaze and held it for a second, then he, too, pushed away from the bench and straightened to his full height. She raised her gaze to his face, and he looked down at hers. Then he nodded. “All right.”
He half turned to leave, but then swung back—and she found herself swept into his arms.
She looked up in surprise as he bent his head, then his lips found hers, and her lids fell, and with a fleeting inner smile, she gave herself over to returning the caress.
His lips were firm, masterful; at their command, she parted hers and almost shivered with delight as his tongue slipped past the slick curves to claim her mouth, to stroke and tempt.
She leaned into him, pressed her hands to his chest, and stretched up, the better to meet him. Through the kiss, through the pressure of his lips, she sensed his approval.
His encouragement.
She seized the opportunity and pressed her own kiss on him, and he let her. Let her explore the communion of their mouths, the simple, unalloyed pleasure of such caresses.
He’d splayed his hands on her back; now, they moved in long, slow strokes, up, then down, urging her closer, molding her slighter frame to his much larger one. Her breasts swelled, the peaks tightening almost to the point of discomfort. That he knew what he was doing—how each touch, each increment of pressure, affected her—was never in any doubt, but that he allowed her to play, too, thrilled her. Drove her to push her hands up, over his shoulders. She sank her fingertips into the broad muscles of his upper back, testing their resilience, then gripping and claiming them as, in response, he angled his head, and the kiss heated by several degrees...
Her head spun. Her wits, she realized, had flown.
Not that she cared—not at that moment as warmth and a hunger she had never before felt yet instantly recognized flowered and unfurled within her.
This time, Rand held tight to their reins. This time, he’d braced for the potent lure of her response; he was determined to indulge both her and himself, yet still retain control.
He’d managed, more or less—passably at least—yet as the exchange spun out, kiss for kiss, and the lure of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, of the svelte, feminine body so vibrant and tempting in his arms only grew, and he sensed the rising tide of desire silently surging, he knew that with every second that passed, the inevitable drawing back would only be harder. More difficult—more of a wrench.
He had to end this, even though it went against the clamoring of his inner self. There was more than pleasure in this embrace; with no other woman had he found the sense of center—of being centered, of being whole and perfectly balanced—that he found in her arms.
She pressed against him, and his heart leapt, and his body hardened. He wanted her with a rapidly escalating passion—a passion that, until now, he’d endeavored to keep leashed.
If he didn’t end this...
His chest swelled as he drew in a steadying, fortifying breath. Clinging tight to his purpose, to what remained of his eroding will, he eased back from the kiss.
Inch by inch, lightening the pressure—releasing their senses to return to the world.
Felicia recognized his direction. In the same way she’d blithely followed his lead into the encounter, she accepted the necessity to follow him out of it.
Step by step, gently—accomplishing the inevitable drawing back without a hint of rejection on either part.
Without the slightest hint of anything other than wholehearted togetherness.
Even when their lips, at last, parted, they stood with their faces close, breathing the other’s breath, at close quarters, their gazes briefly touching from under lowered lids.
Finally, as if in orchestrated concert, they both drew deeper breaths, raised their heads, and, lowering their arms, drawing their hands from each other, stepped back.
The separation impinged, much as if she’d lost something she valued, then her wits cleared, and she focused on his face.
She took in the faintly smug smile that slowly curved his lips.
Not quite frowning, she moistened her lips and saw his eyes track the movement of her tongue. “What was that for?” She was suddenly very sure there had been some purpose that had prompted his sudden, unplanned action.
He raised his eyes to hers, then his smile softened. “That was to remind you that there’s more to working with me than cogs and gears and chasing saboteurs.”
“Indeed?” She arched her brows.
His smile deepened. Still holding her gaze, he raised one hand and lightly ran the back of one finger down her cheek...
She couldn’t quell a delicious shiver of reaction.
For a second, they both froze.
The moment held, fraught, the air between them charged, as if they stood on a precipice but couldn’t yet move.
His eyes on hers, he knew and sensed it, too. “Later.” He drew breath and lowered his hand. “After the project is completed and we’re free to think of only ourselves.”
With that, he inclined his head, then stepped back, turned, and walked away, leaving the room and heading toward the front hall.
Presumably back to the workshop.
Discovering she could, she drew in a long, deep breath and turned back to the peonies.
Very little thought was needed to conclude that he was correct. What with the engine, the exhibition, and would-be saboteurs, they had too much on their collective plate at the moment to think of other things.
Personal things.
Not that, all in all, they hadn’t just taken a step closer to what they both, quite clearly, desired in that sphere.
She humphed. “Men!” She picked up the vase, destined for the table in the front hall, and determinedly carried it forth.
* * *
“Thank you, Mr. Mayhew.” Felicia handed Mayhew a full cup and saucer for Flora, and he carried it to the older lady, comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the drawing room.
When Mayhew returned, Felicia handed him his cup, then sat back with her own and watched as Mayhew elegantly arranged his long limbs in the armchair opposite hers. She and Flora had been waiting in the drawing room when Mayhew arrived; the instant he had, she’d rung for the tea tray. That had also been the signal for one of the footmen to inform Rand, who had retreated to the workshop with William John after luncheon, that their visitor had arrived.
Felicia didn’t doubt that, by now, Rand was near, lurking out of sight—either in the front hall or more likely on the terrace given she’d left the doors propped wide. She sipped and waited for Flora to open the discussion.
Smiling in her customary, sweet fashion, Flora lowered her cup and said, “Dear Felicia tells me that you wish to draw more sketches of the Hall, Mr. Mayhew.”
“Yes, indeed.” His charm to the fore, Mayhew launched into an explanation of how the Hall in its rather unusual setting called to him.
Although Mayhew’s gaze flicked her way several times, Felicia kept silent and observed. Closely.
Eventually, Mayhew ran down, and Flora responded with a smiling “I can see you’re extremely devoted to your art, sir.”
Felicia seized the moment. “Is there any particular aspect you had in mind to sketch on this occasion?” She half expected him to own to a wish to sketch the house from the rose garden, or from some other angle that would give him a view of the workshop.
Mayhew smiled and waved toward the terrace. “The perspective from that side is by far the best. I would like to make several sketches from that direction.” He turned and glanced out of the open doors. “From farther down the lawn—toward the woods.”
“I see.” Flora smiled benignly. “I’m sure we can have no objection to that.” She cast a faintly questioning look at Felicia.
Caught in the act of raising her cup, Felicia inclined her head, sipped, then lowered her cup. “Indeed.”
“Actually, my dear Mr. Mayhew,” Flora said, “I was wondering if you’re acquainted with the Mayhews of Tonbridge. Gerrard and his wife, Kitty.”
Hiding an inner smile, Felicia listened as Flora embarked on just the sort of inquisition a widowed lady of her years might be expected to have an interest in; in truth, Flora rarely had the chance to air her interrogatory skills, but given they wished to know more of Mayhew, inquiring as to his family connections was potentially pertinent.
However, Flora uncovered no inherently suspicious connections, and, rather more telling, Mayhew suffered her questions with easy grace. His charm and ready-to-please air never faltered.
Felicia—straining her ears for any hint of an out-of-place intonation and, with her eyes sharply focused, searching for any sign of a mask—had reached the point of acquitting Mayhew of being anything other than the charming and easygoing artist he seemed, when a sudden pop! sounded.
The distinct and rather odd noise apparently came from outside, reaching them through the open doors. They all glanced that way, and Felicia realized William John must have the workshop doors open, or at least ajar. The noise had come from there, from around the side of the house.
She glanced back in time to see an expression she couldn’t read flash across Mayhew’s face. It was there and gone so quickly, she had no idea what it might have meant.
The instant Mayhew saw her looking his way, his smile returned, combined with an inquiring look.
She waved dismissively. “Just a pipe clanking. They sometimes do when the sun heats them.”
It hadn’t been any pipe, but a valve blowing. She recognized the sound. What the devil was William John doing? He was supposed to be finishing off and getting ready for the final tests, not blowing valves.
Felicia drained her cup. She saw Mayhew had done the same. “Perhaps,” she said, setting down her saucer and reaching for his, “you and I should go outside, and you can show me the view you’d like to sketch.”
“Excellent.” Mayhew rose and, with ready courtesy and his never-failing charm, took his leave of Flora, shaking her hand and promising to mention her to a distant relative who they’d agreed she might have met.
When Mayhew straightened and looked her way, Felicia waved him to the open doors and the terrace beyond, then led the way.
As she stepped onto the terrace flags, she swiftly glanced to her left, but if Rand had been there, he’d beaten a retreat. With Mayhew by her side, she descended the central steps to the lawn and started strolling down its length.
Mayhew, with his long legs, easily kept pace. After several moments, he glanced at her face. “I do hope you don’t think I’m”—he gestured vaguely—“taking advantage, as it were.”
Puzzled, she glanced at him. “No. You’re quite welcome to sketch the house.” You’re not welcome to interfere with our invention.
“Oh, right, then.” Mayhew’s smile returned, and he looked ahead, then pointed to the large oak at the bottom of the lawn. “I think the best spot will be somewhere around there.”
Felicia had been wondering where Rand was. She’d glanced at the woods bordering the lawn several times, but hadn’t seen him. Then from the corner of her eye, she fleetingly glimpsed a shadowy figure keeping pace along one of the deer trails.
He was too far away to hear their words, but close enough to watch and observe.
They reached the oak, and Mayhew halted. He turned and surveyed the house, then he embarked on a voluble examination of angles and light and shadow.
She listened and observed, yet not once did she glimpse anything incongruent in his actions or words, not even in his tone or his expression.
Mayhew was an artist intent on sketching the house. There wasn’t anything else—any hint of ulterior motive or mission—to be seen.
Was that because their imputed ulterior motive didn’t exist, or was it there, but he was glib enough not to let it show?
Could Mayhew be this superbly duplicitous?
Felicia eyed him and simply didn’t know.
Eventually, he fell silent. After several moments of staring at the house, now frowning slightly, he turned to her. “I don’t like to ask it of you, but to make this sketch the best it can be, I need something—some object—in the foreground to anchor the perspective and make sense of the view.” He caught her gaze. “You’ll have seen how I do that in some of those sketches I showed you earlier. The object in the foreground. Like the pump in the inn yard, or the signpost in one of the landscapes.”
She did remember and nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she asked, “What sort of object do you need for this view?” She tipped her head toward the house.
He drew breath and, with one of his most appealing smiles, said, “I would really like you.” He swung to gesture with both arms. “Sitting in one of those chairs from the terrace—the cane armchairs. Just there.” He waved at the spot, then looked toward the house, eyes narrowing as if examining the effect he wanted to create. His voice soft and low, he murmured, “If you have a flowy gown, something in a pale and lightweight fabric, and a parasol...that will do wonders for contrasting with the sharp lines of the house, throwing them into greater visual relief.”
Felicia consulted her instincts. Mayhew was standing only feet away, yet her instincts still did not see him as a threat; they never had. It was her mind that harbored suspicions of him.
And if she was sitting out here with him...he wouldn’t have any chance to wander closer to the house, to perhaps attempt to get into the workshop. Meanwhile, she would have an opportunity to further interrogate him in a setting and at a time when he might let down his guard.
She’d already observed that, when they were working, artists and inventors were much alike; they became absorbed and forgot about the wider world and, indeed, most else.
She looked at Mayhew and met his eager, almost childishly pleading gaze. “All right.” She nodded. “I’ll sit for you.”
She wouldn’t be alone with him; she felt absolutely certain Rand would be only as far away as the nearest cover.
* * *
After weathering Mayhew’s abundant gratitude and making arrangements for him to return at two o’clock the next day, Felicia walked him back to the forecourt and waved him on his way.
He was now driving a gig, hired from some inn during his travels, she assumed; she hadn’t recognized the brand on the rear panel.
Once Mayhew had rattled out of sight around the curve in the drive, she looked around, expecting to see Rand emerge from the woods. When he didn’t, she walked around to the south side of the house and climbed the steps at the end of the terrace.
Stepping onto the flags, she saw Rand waiting, leaning against the balustrade outside the drawing room.
Unhurriedly, she walked toward him, very aware of the way he watched her as she approached. His gaze appeared dark and intent, ruthlessly focused, and something powerful lurked behind the molten caramel of his eyes.
The touch of that gaze felt delicious and left her faintly breathless.
Nevertheless, she summoned a slight smile and, with it curving her lips, she halted beside him. He straightened from the balustrade. She placed her hands on the stone coping and looked down the lawn.
He settled beside her, idly glancing in the same direction before he brought his gaze to her face. “Anything?”
“He reacted to the valve blowing.” A sudden thought occurred, and she slanted a glance at his face. “Did you arrange that, by any chance?”
He shrugged. “We wanted to test Mayhew—I asked William John to fake something minor.”
She humphed. “Well, Mayhew reacted, but as I wasn’t warned, I only caught the tail end of his response.” She frowned as she replayed the moment in her mind. “There was something in his eyes...but I can’t say what it was. It might have been nothing more than surprise, yet it seemed rather more calculating.” She shook her head. “Other than that, there was absolutely nothing in his behavior to point to—no hint of awareness of the invention and not a single sign he has any designs on gaining entrance to the house.”
She looked up and briefly met Rand’s eyes. “It’s intensely frustrating. On the one hand, I feel ready to declare him nothing more than the artist he purports to be—and I really don’t think there can be any doubt that he truly is that. But whether he also intends to tamper with the invention...as to that, I’m still in two minds.”
She fell silent, frowning out at the lawn.
Rand looked down the green expanse to the oak tree and strengthened his hold on his temper’s reins. “I heard you agree to sit for him tomorrow. What the devil possessed you?”
Somewhat to his own surprise, his tone suggested that, while her agreeing to sit for Mayhew very definitely didn’t meet with his approval, he was prepared to hear that she had some logical and rational reason for doing so.
The glance she threw him, the light in her green eyes, suggested she’d heard and interpreted his words in just that way. A faint smile curved her lips as she proved him right. “If I’m sitting for Mayhew, then he, in turn, will be sitting before me, under my eye the entire time. He will have no opportunity to sneak away anywhere.” She paused, then, meeting his eyes, admitted, “I’m leaning toward accepting that Mayhew is simply an artist, and his appearance here at this time is, indeed, nothing more than coincidence. However, it would be best for us to settle our suspicions of him once and for all, so if he reaches the point of finishing his sketch without doing or saying anything to suggest an interest in the invention, I plan on mentioning the workshop and, possibly, the engine, and seeing if he rises to more specific bait.”
He narrowed his eyes on hers. “What if he professes an interest and asks to see it—workshop or invention?”
She held his gaze and lightly shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.” Her chin firmed. “Regardless, it’s time we knew for certain whether or not Mayhew poses a danger to us. William John will be running the final tests tomorrow, and the exhibition is only days away—if Mayhew is intent on sabotage, we need to flush him out.”
He didn’t disagree and couldn’t argue. He held her gaze steadily. “I’ll be in the woods, as close as I can be. I’ll be watching Mayhew’s every move.”
Her smile bloomed, warm enough to banish all his fears. “Yes, of course. I was counting on that.”