CHAPTER 14
Felicia had had no idea that viewing inventions had become such a popular pastime with the general public.
When she, Mary, and Ryder, along with Shields and the other guards, arrived at the Town Hall a few minutes before one o’clock, it was to discover an eye-openingly large crowd thronging the foyer before the exhibition hall’s doors.
There were ladies in bonnets leaning on the arms of gentlemen attired for a day about town. There were merchants in their best suits, their wives sliding glances at other ladies’ gowns, as well as many men Felicia took for tradesmen, in less well-fitting jackets and with many sporting flat caps. She spotted more than a few apprentices in their coats; along with everyone else, their expressions stated they were eager to get through the doors and look upon what lay inside.
“Good gracious!” Mary blew out a frustrated breath and came up on her toes to peer around. Then she tugged at Ryder’s sleeve and pointed to the side. “There’s a secondary door over there. Perhaps we can slip in.”
Tending grim, Ryder obliged, and, with a glance commanding their men to follow, he escorted Felicia and Mary in the right direction. “I don’t like this,” Ryder stated. “Rand will need our men in place before these people, one and all, descend.”
It transpired that Rand had had the same notion. As they approached the secondary door, it started to open.
From the other side, still out of their sight, some man squeaked, “Lord Cavanaugh—I must protest! Everyone is supposed to come through the main doors so that we may count heads.”
“Indeed?” Rand’s tone was even, yet chilling. “Am I to take it that the committee is prepared to assume full responsibility for any damage the crowd may do before the guards I have organized, who are somewhere in the foyer, reach our exhibit and get into place?”
An irascible mumble came in reply.
“I thought not.” Rand hauled the door fully open.
“We’re here.” Ryder drew Mary and Felicia to one side and waved the men in. “Go and get into position.”
Rand held the door open and pointed. “That way. You’ll find the steam carriage and Mr. Throgmorton close to the end of the aisle.”
The men ducked their heads and streamed past Rand and on down the hall. Felicia, Mary, and Ryder brought up the rear.
Just then, others outside noticed them vanishing into the hall. There were cries and people came running.
Rand slammed the door shut, and Ryder whirled to help him throw the heavy bolts.
Ignoring the thuds on the door and the muffled demands for it to be opened—that it was almost time—Rand turned to the official, now distinctly choleric and inclined to view them all severely. Coolly, Rand waved at Ryder and Mary. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Raventhorne.”
The official goggled, then paled.
Felicia glanced at Ryder and Mary and struggled to swallow a laugh. She’d never seen either look so coldly and arrogantly aloof. They both looked down on the official—quite a feat for Mary given her lack of height—then Mary glanced at Rand. “I take it the inventions are farther along.”
Dismissing the official with an extremely distant nod, Ryder placed his hand at the back of Mary’s waist. “I believe that’s correct, my dear. Shall we see?”
As they stepped toward the central aisle—and the officious official exhaled with poorly concealed relief—the clock in the Town Hall’s tower chimed, tolling for one o’clock. To their left, other officials hauled open the main doors, and the crowd streamed in.
Just ahead of the first wave, Rand, with Felicia’s hand tucked in his arm, followed by Ryder and Mary, swiftly strode down the aisle to where their men had taken up their positions in front of and flanking the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage.
The four of them halted before the exhibit. Felicia took in the gleaming steam carriage, with William John, remarkably neat and wearing a spotless gray coat, standing proudly before it, and felt tears prickle. She blinked rapidly. She clutched Rand’s hand; her gaze on the sight before her, she said, “Papa would have been so very proud.”
She felt Rand’s gaze on her face, then he ducked his head and murmured, “You should tell William John.”
She swallowed the lump emotion had set in her throat, drew her hand from Rand’s, stepped up to her brother, and did.
William John’s face creased in a fond smile. He met her gaze, and for just a second, she glimpsed the big brother who had played with her in the workshop all those many years before.
Then two well-dressed gentlemen came forward, clearly wishing to speak with William John.
Felicia smiled at the pair and stepped back, releasing her brother to them; she supposed this was one of the major purposes of such an exhibition—to spread word of the invention far and wide.
She walked the few paces to where Rand, Ryder, and Mary stood a little to the side; the brothers, both tall enough to see over most heads, were apparently scrutinizing the security arrangements of other exhibitors.
“The cordons help,” Rand said.
Felicia looked and saw that most exhibits had been cordoned off by thick gold-colored ropes suspended from metal stands.
Ryder humphed. “Looks like you were the only one able to get your guards in ahead of the crowd.”
In front of many of the larger exhibits, guards were still pushing their way out of the body of the crowd and climbing over the golden ropes to take up their positions.
“Obviously,” Mary said, “all inventors take the business of protecting their inventions seriously.” She glanced inquiringly at Rand. “While I can understand the threats to the steam carriage, I hadn’t realized the problem was widespread.”
“It can be a cutthroat business,” Rand replied. He’d been watching William John deal with the gentlemen who had approached, and who had now been joined by several others; Rand and their group were close enough to hear William John’s confident explanation of the improvements made to Russell’s design and the changes to the controls.
Felicia shifted closer to Rand and murmured, “He’s in his element.”
Rand smiled, then looked down at her. “If you’ll wait here for a moment, I’ll just have a word with him.”
She nodded. Mary and Ryder were looking at the next invention in line. Felicia watched as the gentlemen who had been speaking with William John moved away, and Rand stepped up to William John. They spoke, then William John smiled a smile of transparent happiness and nodded—although the nod was delivered in her brother’s usual vague way.
William John turned to another group of gentlemen, along with one lady, who were waiting to approach, and Rand returned to her side.
“He said he’s happy to deal with all the inquiries for the next hour or so.” Rand took her arm. “I thought we might take a quick look around, and then I’ll return to spell William John.”
Felicia laughed and slid her arm into Rand’s. “We’re talking of William John—he’s in his version of heaven when speaking of his inventions and explaining how they work. He so rarely gets a chance to speak with an audience of interested people, I very much doubt you’ll prevail on him to let you take over.”
Rand acknowledged the comment with a wry smile. “There’s no denying he’s earned his moment here. If it weren’t for him and his never-say-die pursuit of success, we’d never have got the steam carriage here. But I’ll at least offer him the chance to take a break—whether he takes it or not can be his decision.”
After they collected Ryder and Mary, who had been fascinatedly studying the printing machine that was the twenty-fifth exhibit, the four of them eased into the swelling crowd. As the bulk of the crowd seemed to be heading down the central aisle toward them—presumably following the numbers on the exhibits—they went in the other direction, crossing the wide central space to examine the inventions numbered twenty-six and on.
While Rand and Felicia dallied to more closely examine the latest steam-powered loom, Ryder and Mary continued up the line. Felicia asked several technical questions of the loom’s inventor, much to that older gentleman’s discomposure; that a lady would know to ask of valves and pressures thoroughly rattled him, and he struggled to answer.
Felicia wasn’t impressed; as she moved away on Rand’s arm, she murmured, “I hope you haven’t put any money into that invention.”
“No. I haven’t.” After a moment, he added, “There are too many decent steam-driven looms about already.”
She humphed. “I doubt he’s run his engine for longer than ten minutes. Fifteen, and I would expect it to blow a pipe or a gasket—his configuration suffers from the same problem the Throgmorton engine originally had.”
The reason he hadn’t invested in the steam-driven loom was because of the established competition—not because he’d known it wouldn’t work.
The idea that had quietly wormed its way into his brain regarding one aspect of his and Felicia’s joint future grew clearer, taking more definite shape.
They strolled on, pausing here and there to more closely question various inventors. Rand met and stopped to chat with several investors, mostly competitors of sorts. All congratulated him on his prescience in supporting the Throgmorton project at such an early stage; several inquired whether there might be a chance to buy in at some point. Rand smiled easily, said he would let them know, and left it at that. Now they’d had a chance to see the steam engine and consider its points, that more investors were declaring interest suggested that they, too, thought the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage had a definite and lucrative future.
While he’d chatted with his peers, Felicia had drawn her hand from his sleeve and drifted to speak with a nervous young inventor whose very small exhibit was wedged between two much larger and showier machines. Hardly anyone seemed to have noticed the poor man, but Felicia appeared to be deeply immersed in the explanation the young inventor was proffering.
Drawing nearer, Rand saw that Felicia held a slim rod in her hand. A channel had been scored down its length and a stoppered glass vessel fixed in the space. At the other end of the rod from the elegant metal stopper was a small piece of burnished metal. Rand halted beside Felicia, and as she lifted the rod to show him, he realized the metal addition was a very fine nib.
“Mr. Finlay”—Felicia nodded at the young man—“was just explaining that the pen works via a combination of gravity and capillary action. See?” She set the nib to a piece of paper the inventor had laid atop a traveling writing desk mounted on a pedestal and swiftly scribed numbers and letters, capital and lowercase. “It’s remarkable—no more open pots of ink or splotches.”
Rand looked at the young man. “I’ve seen pens like this in Paris. What makes yours different?”
Mr. Finlay leapt to explain. “If I could, miss?” Tenderly, he took the pen from Felicia, then, with a fingertip, directed Rand’s attention to the detail of the stopper. “I’ve made changes to the seal to make it more airtight. I’ve also altered the vessel—it’s really an annulus of glass with air in the central shaft. I discovered that makes the flow of ink more even. Then I’ve worked with the local steel mills to refashion the nib. This one gives a steady and even line and will outlast anything presently on the market.”
Rand knew Birmingham foundries were setting themselves up as manufacturers of all sorts of steel products—from the largest and heaviest to the smallest and finest, apparently. Rand reached for the pen, and Finlay let him take it from his hands. Rand held the pen up at eye level, studying the stopper, then the glass vessel, then, in very close detail, he examined the nib. The work was unquestionably fine and quite different to what he’d seen in France.
He looked at Finlay. The man returned his regard hopefully; Rand judged him to be as honest and as earnest as the day was long. Rand handed the pen back to Finlay, then looked at Felicia and arched a brow.
She didn’t smile, but her attention returned to the pen, her gaze almost covetous. “It seems a very fine piece of work. I can’t think of any point of its design that could be bettered.”
Finlay blinked at her, then, realizing she’d paid him a compliment, smiled shyly.
Rand reached for his card case. He extracted a card and handed it to Finlay.
The man took it, read it, and his eyes went wide. He looked at Rand. “You’re Cavanaugh?” He glanced again at the card, then looked up, patently stunned. “Lord Cavanaugh?”
Rand hid a smile; from the corner of his eye, he saw Felicia grin. “I am. And after the exhibition, I’d like you to come to London and demonstrate your pen to some other like-minded gentlemen. I’d like to explore what arrangements we might contemplate to make the most of your inventive modifications.”
“Oh yes—of course, my lord. I will be happy...well, thrilled to set up a demonstration in London.” Finlay looked across the aisle and down the hall. “I heard you’re backing the Throgmorton steam engine. I didn’t think you’d be interested in”—he looked down at the pen, lying in his hand—“something so small.”
Felicia put her hand on Finlay’s arm. “Smaller inventions often make the biggest difference and just think of how much people write.”
Finlay smiled back.
“One thing,” Rand said. “If anyone else approaches you with a view to backing your pen, I and my syndicate would appreciate having the first opportunity to consider supporting your work.”
“Absolutely, my lord—you have my word.” Finlay looked at Rand’s card.
“Send a letter to that address tomorrow,” Rand advised, “detailing the scope of your work and where you can be contacted. I’m out of town for the next few days, so it may be a week or more before I’m there to read it, but you can expect to hear from me within a few weeks.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Finlay was clearly still in awe of his own luck.
Rand nodded, as did Felicia, and Finlay swept them a bow. As they moved away, Felicia smiled and looked up, meeting Rand’s eyes. “You’ve made his day—his exhibition.”
Rand quirked his brows. “It’s perfectly possible he’s made mine—well, at least looking beyond the steam carriage. Speaking of which”—he halted, letting the crowd part and flow around them—“I should get back and relieve William John.”
Felicia tilted her head. “If you don’t have need of me—and I’m sure William John won’t—I rather think I’ll wander farther and see what I can see.”
Rand nodded. “By all means do.” If it hadn’t been for her, he would very likely have missed seeing Finlay. Even if he had noticed the man with his small and unprepossessing exhibit, as until now Rand hadn’t seen much to interest him in the latest pens, he might not have ventured close enough to speak to the inventor and recognize the value of what he’d produced.
Unlike him, Felicia was coming to the field of inventions with an entirely open and highly educated inventive mind. He squeezed her hand, then released her. “Wander, study, and investigate—and let me know if you see anything you think I should look into.”
She smiled and graciously inclined her head. “If you wish it, I will. Have fun with William John.”
He chuckled, and they parted, she continuing up the line of inventions while he made his way across the aisle and back to where the Throgmorton steam carriage stood proudly displayed—with a long line of people waiting to ask questions of its inventor.
Rand grinned at the sight and made his way to William John’s side. The Throgmorton steam engine was creating an even bigger stir than he’d hoped.
* * *
Clive Mayhew threaded his way through the crowd clogging the wide aisle of the exhibition hall. He moved slowly—carefully—keeping his eyes peeled for any of the denizens of Throgmorton Hall. The crowd reassured him; as long as he remained alert, it was unlikely anyone from the Hall would spot him among the jostling throng. And if they did, he would have time to flee and plenty of other bodies for cover.
Besides, Clive doubted Miss Throgmorton or Mrs. Makepeace would have made the journey; of those Clive had met at the Hall, only Cavanaugh was likely to be there, and as Clive understood things, his lordship would almost certainly remain close to the Throgmorton invention, which Clive had learned was at the far end of the hall.
All Clive wished to do was find his uncle and tell old Horace that he had had enough. Regardless of his dire need of the ready, Clive was finished with his uncle’s grubby schemes.
At that moment, Sir Horace Winthrop was parading up the exhibition hall, projecting his customary and—to his mind—entirely appropriate superior air. He was the most established leader of investing syndicates in London, and, as such, he was recognized by many and was determined to be accorded all due deference. He inclined his head to the two older inventors who, on seeing him eyeing their exhibit—one involving modifications to a horse-drawn plow—bowed low.
As they should. It was Sir Horace’s prerogative to decide which of the owners of displayed inventions he would honor with an invitation to speak with him in his office in the City. Effectively, it was in his gift to decide which invention prospered and which sank without trace.
Given that it was widely known that he disapproved of the entire panoply of steam-powered inventions, stigmatizing them as entirely unnecessary, the inventors of such things didn’t attempt to catch his eye; regardless, he passed their exhibits with his nose in the air—wordlessly declaring his view of their works.
On entering the hall, he’d made his way as quickly as his dignity permitted to view the Throgmorton exhibit—from a safe distance. Seeing it displayed in all its glory, he’d smiled to himself and made a mental note to congratulate his nephew on having the good sense to damage the steam engine in such a way that the failure would not be evident until they started the engine on the exhibition floor. How Throgmorton had managed to pass the assessors’ inspection, Sir Horace had no idea, but, presumably, the engine was simply fired up to make sure it worked, and that was that.
He had little idea how the blessed things functioned and even less interest.
All that mattered was that the Throgmorton machine failed most spectacularly—and having it fail in front of Prince Albert was as spectacular a failure as Sir Horace could conceive.
He truly was thoroughly pleased with Clive.
On the thought, he saw his nephew easing his way through the crowd toward him.
Sir Horace halted and planted his cane before him. He stood in the middle of the central aisle, closer to the main doors than the rear of the hall; entirely pleased with his world, he ignored the annoyed looks as members of the public were forced to tack around him.
Clive reached him and halted before him. His nephew inclined his head respectfully. “Uncle. I hoped to find you here.”
The boy looked rather stern, almost grim.
Sir Horace’s nerves fluttered, and he glanced swiftly around. “What about the Throgmorton party? Is there any chance of them seeing you—us?”
“They’re nowhere near, and I don’t plan on remaining for long.”
Sir Horace relaxed, and his earlier satisfaction bloomed anew. He returned his gaze to Clive and smiled approvingly. “Excellent, my boy! I must congratulate you—”
“No.”
Sir Horace blinked. Looking more closely at Clive’s face, he realized that it was, indeed, grim resolution that was increasingly overtaking his nephew’s expression.
“There’s no reason for congratulations.” Clive drew in a breath, straightened, and, from his more lofty height, looked censoriously down on Sir Horace. “The only reason I’m here is to tell you to your face that I want nothing whatever to do with your scheme. I’ve seen the Throgmorton steam carriage in action, and as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”
Sir Horace lost all ability to maintain his superior façade. Aghast, he stared at Clive. “Wh-what?”
“It’s next to immoral—trying to hold back progress like that, and purely for your own ends, I have no doubt.” Clive slid his hands into his pockets and cast a wary glance at the crowd around them. “I find it difficult to conceive of the degree of sheer selfishness that would prompt you to attempt to damage an invention of such promise, but regardless, I want no part of it. God knows how I’ll find the money I need, but I’d rather do a bunk to the Continent than prosper from a nasty, nefarious scheme like yours.” Clive met Sir Horace’s wide eyes. “You mistook me, Uncle—I’m not such a blackguard.”
Sir Horace’s reeling wits latched on to the critical point. “The steam carriage works? It hasn’t been tampered with?”
“Yes. And no. As I said, as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”
Sir Horace’s expression blanked as he stared disaster in the face. Only two days ago, he’d pooh-poohed the Throgmorton steam carriage to his most valuable investor, pouring scorn on all of Cavanaugh’s projects as well as on the entire concept of horseless carriages...and now one of the damned devices was going to be demonstrated there, in front of the crème de la crème of the inventing world, Prince Albert included? With Cavanaugh smiling in triumph in the background? “No!” Sir Horace seized Clive’s sleeve and focused on his nephew’s face. “You don’t understand. You must stop it!”
Clive’s expression hardened. He detached Sir Horace’s clutching fingers from his sleeve. “No, Uncle. I will not act for you in this.”
Sir Horace opened his mouth—
Clive cut him off with a disgusted look and “If you want it done, you’ll have to stir your stumps and do it yourself.” With a last hard look, Clive stated definitively, “I want nothing more to do with you or your schemes.”
With that, Clive stepped past Sir Horace and disappeared into the crowd.
Sir Horace stood rooted to the spot, uncaring of the bodies jostling him as the crowd streamed past, as a vision of utter ruination—financial, reputational, and ultimately personal—took far-too-solid shape in his mind.
In seconds, he’d moved well beyond horrified. “I can’t let this happen.” The mutter sounded hollow and distant in his ears.
Devastation loomed, second by second drawing inexorably closer. Slowly, he swiveled and looked down the hall toward where the Throgmorton exhibit stood in all its glory. He couldn’t see it; the crowds were now far too dense to see more than a few yards in any direction.
But he knew it was there.
Knew that if he was to have any chance of coming about, he would have to act now. The Prince would arrive shortly. There was really no way around it. He would have to do as Clive had said and attend to the matter himself.
How to do that—how to bring about the disastrous failure he’d envisioned for the Throgmorton steam engine—he didn’t know, but he would have to try.
On the heels of that fainthearted resolution, a stir about the main doors had everyone turning that way. Sir Horace looked, too, and swallowed a groan. The Prince had arrived. Sir Horace’s time—his moment of reckoning—was nigh.
Along with the rest of the crowd, Sir Horace stood unmoving, his gaze directed toward the main doors as the Prince was welcomed by the chairman of the organizing committee, then His Highness said a few words in his accented English.
By the time the resulting enthusiastic applause had faded and the Prince, surrounded by the fawning committee members, embarked on his progress down the hall, Sir Horace had found his backbone. He’d also managed to formulate a plan.
His first step had to be to gain access to the Throgmorton steam engine without being seen.
His earlier view of the Throgmorton display was blazoned on his brain. He hadn’t missed the cordon of guards Cavanaugh had arranged in an arc before and to either side of the steam carriage.
Sir Horace’s lips twisted in a sickly smile, and he made his way up the hall, pushing past the knot of people gathered about the Prince as Albert chatted with the first exhibitor. Finally, Sir Horace gained the main doors and stepped into the foyer. Although people were walking to and fro across the large, open space, no officials were stationed there anymore—they were all inside hovering about the Prince. Relieved—and taking it as a sign that Fate was on his side—Sir Horace drew in a breath, puffed out his chest, and walked to the right, to the service door set into the foyer paneling. On reaching it, he cast a last swift glance around, but no one was taking the slightest notice of him. He opened the door, walked through, and closed it behind him.
As he’d remembered from previous exhibitions there, the door gave onto a long corridor running the length of the hall. As the exhibition hall was frequently used to host large official dinners, it was necessary to give staff access to the hall from both sides.
Today, the corridor, dimly lit by widely spaced gaslights turned low, was not being used and was, therefore, helpfully deserted.
Sir Horace breathed a little easier. He removed his hat and set it down in a dim corner with his cane. Then he hurried down the long corridor. Doors were set into the wall every ten or so yards. He tried one door, most of the way down the corridor, but he wasn’t far enough down the hall to glimpse the Throgmorton display. He shut that door and walked quickly on to the second-last door along the corridor. He halted before it, then, holding his breath, turned the knob and eased the panel open—just enough to put his eye to the gap and ascertain what lay beyond.
The Throgmorton steam carriage stood to the right of the door, one long side parallel to and two feet from the wall. Shifting and scanning farther, Sir Horace saw the backs of two guards; the men were standing on this side of the rope cordon with their hands behind their backs and their gazes trained on the shifting crowd pressing close on the other side of the rope. The Throgmorton display was plainly garnering a significant amount of attention from the public—yet more reason, had Sir Horace needed further convincing, to ensure that the steam carriage failed and failed definitively here and now.
Yet if he stepped out of the door, before he could crouch out of sight behind the contraption, he would—for a bare second—be visible, not to the guards who were facing the other way but to those jostling and pressing as close as they could to study the steam carriage.
Sir Horace eyed the throng, which included young boys and groups of youths eagerly pointing and exclaiming. Sharp-eyed monsters who would think nothing of pointing him out to the guards—
A commotion sounded farther up the hall. Everyone—boys, youths, guards, and all—peered in that direction. Sir Horace realized the Prince had advanced down the line and something had happened with some invention he’d asked to see demonstrated...
The Prince was closer than Sir Horace had expected; there was no time to lose.
Sir Horace dragged in a breath, pushed through the door, and, leaving it to swing silently closed, scuttled on tiptoe three paces to his right—and sank to his haunches behind the Throgmorton steam carriage.
Breath bated, he waited—dreading to hear one of the guards coming to see who had slunk past...but there were no calls, no heavy footsteps. The steady, excited murmuring of the crowd continued unbroken.
Hardly daring to believe his luck, Sir Horace turned his somewhat frantic attention to what he took to be the engine compartment. Throgmorton had erected a metal housing over the top, but although there were panels closing in the sides, the one facing Sir Horace had plainly been designed to fold down if the knob securing it was released.
Holding his breath, Sir Horace reached up, twisted the knob, and slowly lowered the hinged panel toward him, until it rested on the lip of the housing that swept up to shield the upper rim of the front wheel.
Sir Horace peered into the workings of the engine—at a bewildering array of pipes and gears and God knew what else besides. He searched for a lever he might pull, or a knob, but although he spied several levers, they were attached to rods and couldn’t be easily moved.
Now what? He knew nothing about engines—had never deigned to even listen to discussions about the bally things. Think!
Valves! He vaguely remembered that valves mattered. He peered this way and that and saw several. One was close enough to easily reach.
Feverishly, Sir Horace turned out his pockets—did he have any string?
He didn’t. All he drew forth were bits of paper, coins, and two silk handkerchiefs...
Silk was strong, wasn’t it? And these were of the finest quality silk. After stuffing the other items he’d unearthed back into his pockets, he shook out one handkerchief and, holding opposing corners, wound it into a short but very strong length. He turned back to the engine and quickly tied the silk over the valve in a way he hoped would stop the valve from working. From releasing. That was what valves did, he thought.
He paused and listened. Judging by the sounds from the crowd, the Prince was still several exhibits away.
Sir Horace looked down at the second silk handkerchief. Then he peered into the engine compartment, but none of the other valves were sufficiently accessible. Then he noticed the pipes leading back toward the rear of the carriage. He dropped to his knees and, with his head almost on the floor, followed the pipes back...
There! Another valve—a good-sized one close enough that if he lay on his back he could reach it.
Sir Horace carefully shut the side panel he’d opened, sealing away the sight of his tampering, then, dispensing with all dignity, he gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, angled his shoulders under the contraption, and, with his second handkerchief, swiftly tied the second valve down tight.
He blew out a breath, then quickly wriggled out from under the carriage and clambered back to his previous crouch.
He edged toward the end of the carriage. The door he needed to reach was two yards away, with the entire distance in full sight of the crowd.
Clinging desperately to calm, he forced himself to wait—wait—until he heard the Prince exclaim.
He didn’t hesitate but rose and walked swiftly—silently—to the door and, without even pausing to check that no one had seen him, he slipped behind the panel and closed it behind him.
In the dimness of the corridor, he waited to see if any hue and cry was raised. He was breathing stertorously; he hadn’t realized until then.
His brow was damp. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief...
Grimacing, he blotted his face with his sleeve, then, as no shouts had come from the other side of the door, Sir Horace turned and walked back up the corridor.
By the time he retrieved his hat and cane, stepped onto the tiles of the foyer, and closed the corridor door behind him, he was starting to believe.
To think that he’d pulled it off—that he’d done what was necessary all by himself. He hadn’t, after all, needed any help.
A slow tide of relief washed through him. He’d saved the day.
His day, at least.
Confidence rose in the wake of the thought that, now, all would be well. All would play out exactly as it ought, and he would return to London fully vindicated, with his position as the acknowledged leader of investment syndicates even more firmly entrenched. No one would dare question his assessments in the future.
He resettled his coat sleeves, then walked toward the exhibition hall. He had no intention of missing the glorious moment when the Throgmorton engine stalled and refused to run.
Increasingly assured, once more holding his head high, Sir Horace strode into the hall and joined the cluster of people gathered behind the Prince.
Members of the committee saw him and inclined their heads. Those of the crowd less well-connected nevertheless recognized his air of authority and shuffled aside, yielding to Sir Horace until he stood with several other worthies alongside the committee and close behind the Prince.
Thus installed in pride of place and in the perfect position to view the outcome of his actions, buoyed by a sense of righteousness in having struck a blow for his fellow countrymen—those like him with a deeper understanding, who knew beyond question that steam-powered vehicles should never be allowed on England’s roads—Sir Horace, his aloof and superior façade once more in place, pretended to an interest in the exhibits as the Prince continued down the line, and waited to bear witness to the utter failure of the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage.
* * *
After speaking with his uncle, Clive had intended to beat a retreat, but several exhibits caught his eye, and he got distracted.
Never before had he had a chance to examine mechanical devices, and after the tug he’d felt on setting eyes on the steam carriage, he was eager to see more; the machines’ lines and the symmetry many possessed beneath an overlay of weaving pipes and tubes enthralled his artist’s soul. The way the light played over the curved metal surfaces made his fingers twitch. He no longer had his satchel, but how he wished he had; he would have liked to take up the challenge of capturing the aura of the machines.
His fascination drew him down the hall. Although he remained alert, he didn’t see Cavanaugh, then, to his surprise, he spotted Miss Throgmorton speaking to one of the exhibitors. She was asking questions and seemed quite animated. At the sight of her, Clive felt a very strong prod from his conscience. If he truly wanted absolution for his actions against the Throgmortons, then he owed Miss Throgmorton a fervent apology.
Cloaked by the crowd, he watched her for several minutes, then made up his mind. Before he quit the hall, he would apologize to her and seek her forgiveness, but to do that... He set his jaw, turned, and, without allowing himself time to think and balk, purposefully made his way farther down the hall. If he wished to prostrate himself before Miss Throgmorton, he first needed to make his peace with Cavanaugh.
Exactly what the relationship between the two was, Clive didn’t know, yet given Cavanaugh’s murderous expression when he’d last seen Clive, if Clive wanted to approach Miss Throgmorton and live, he needed to explain himself to Cavanaugh.
Despite wishing to speak with the man, Clive approached cautiously. As he’d assumed, Cavanaugh was hovering within sight of the Throgmorton exhibit. Still screened by the crowd, Clive halted and seized the moment to rehearse what he wanted to say.
Cavanaugh was tracking the Prince’s progress. His Highness was still several exhibits away from the steam carriage, but as he moved one exhibit closer, Cavanaugh raised his head and looked up the hall, then he moved into the shifting tide of bodies, unknowingly making his way toward where Clive was standing.
Guessing that Cavanaugh was on his way to summon Miss Throgmorton, Clive metaphorically girded his loins; when Cavanaugh drew level, Clive stepped into his path.
Rand jerked to a halt. Barely able to believe his eyes, he felt his jaw clench, his fists close.
Mayhew held up a hand. “Before you take a swing at me, please hear me out.”
The man’s nerve was breathtaking, but also intriguing, and, combined with his steady, direct regard, served to give Rand pause. After a second of staring at Mayhew’s face—and recalling that someone must have hired the man—Rand stiffly inclined his head. “I’m fascinated to hear what you have to say.”
Mayhew drew in a deep breath, then stated, “When my uncle asked me to interfere with the Throgmorton invention enough to ensure it wouldn’t appear at this exhibition, I didn’t understand what he was, in fact, asking me to do. I thought inventions and exhibitions such as this”—Mayhew glanced around—“were...well, more like games. Games played by men with the funds to tinker and dabble in such things—nothing serious at all.” Mayhew glanced around again and his lips tightened. “Obviously, I was ridiculously naive, but this isn’t an area in which I’ve previously been interested—I had nothing more than popular notions by which to judge.”
Before Rand could ask who Mayhew’s uncle was, Mayhew rolled on, “Then I got to Throgmorton Hall and met Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace, and you, too, and none of you seemed silly and frivolous. You all seemed normal and, well, nice. Honest and welcoming—straightforward, sensible people. I started having second thoughts then. When I left the area the first time, I was debating whether I should continue, but then it seemed I had to, so I returned and tried to find some way to do what my uncle wanted.” Mayhew moistened his lips and lowered his voice. “But then in the woods, when I was chasing Miss Throgmorton, I suddenly realized what I’d done—what sort of man I’d become, or rather, was on the cusp of becoming.”
Mayhew met Rand’s eyes; Mayhew’s remorse was clear to see. “I didn’t want to be that man. I ran from you both, but I also ran from what I almost became. I waited long enough to see the steam carriage drive away from the Hall—that was the first time I’d seen it. And instantly, I could understand why people get so excited by such things—by the promise they hold for advancements of all sorts.”
Rand noted the spark that ignited in Mayhew’s eyes, the eager lift in his voice, and recognized the signs.
“And now...” Mayhew paused, then lightly shrugged. “I’ve given you no cause to believe me, but I swear by all that’s holy that I will never lend myself to such a scheme again.” He hesitated, then rather diffidently added, “I would like to make my apologies to Miss Throgmorton, but I felt it would be wise to clear the air with you first.”
That was undoubtedly true. And as well as that statement, everything Mayhew had said had rung with sincerity. He was, at base, an honest man, seduced into acting—into attempting to act—outside his nature. So why...? Rand fixed his gaze on Mayhew’s face. “What hold did your uncle have over you?”
Mayhew shrugged again, and his gaze wandered over the crowd. “The usual.”
“Debts?”
Mayhew tried to suppress a grimace. “Too many.” Then he pressed his lips tight.
That brought them to the most critical question. “Who is your uncle?”
Mayhew met Rand’s eyes. “Sir Horace Winthrop. Do you know him?”
Rand nearly laughed, although it wouldn’t have been humorously. His lips thinning, he nodded. “Oh yes. We’re acquainted.”
“Ah.” Mayhew glanced around. “Well, he’s here somewhere.”
So Rand had assumed. Despite his dislike of steam-powered machines, there were enough other inventions present to ensure Winthrop’s attendance.
“The main reason I came,” Mayhew continued, “was to tell old Horace that I hadn’t damaged the steam carriage and wasn’t going to. I told him if he wanted the thing sabotaged, he’d have to do it himself.”
Rand stilled. A frisson of premonition slithered down his spine. “When did you speak with your uncle?”
Mayhew frowned. “I’m not sure... Twenty minutes ago, perhaps? It might have been half an hour.” Mayhew glanced at Rand. What he saw in Rand’s face made him draw his hands from his pockets and straighten. “Surely you don’t think...?”
“You told him to sabotage the engine himself.” Rand turned to look over the heads at the Throgmorton exhibit.
“It was just a figure of speech.” Mayhew looked, too.
“Perhaps.” Rand started to push his way toward the exhibit. “But what if old Horace took it literally?”
“Would he?” Mayhew fell into step beside Rand. Together, they forced their way through the now-packed crowd—the Prince had just moved to view the invention next to the steam carriage.
After a moment of wondering if he was overreacting and deciding he didn’t care, Rand replied, “If Winthrop was prepared to pay you to sabotage the engine, I believe we have to take it as read that he’s willing to do just about anything to prevent the Throgmorton engine from working.”
Mayhew huffed—in dismay, rather than disagreement. Regardless, he didn’t argue but helped Rand force his way through the crowd.