CHAPTER 4
On their return to the Hall, given Miss Throgmorton was still in the village, Rand put aside the issue of the unknown gentleman and what business he’d had with her and followed William John into the workshop.
William John had explained that, despite not having the boiler and therefore no steam to harness, there were various tests and trials he could run, all part of his search to rectify the problem of the uncontrollable rise in pressure resulting from the improvements he and his father had made to the engine.
“You make one thing work better, and some other part fails.” William John shook his head. “It’s always the way, but you can never predict exactly where the new problem will be—not until you run the damned thing.”
Rand perched on a stool and, for the next hour, watched as William John changed this and adjusted that.
Finally, they heard the luncheon gong rung rather forcefully, and Rand realized he’d heard the gong earlier, but rung less stridently.
He fished out his watch, checked it, and, somewhat surprised, reported, “It’s after one o’clock.”
William John stepped back from the engine and sighed. “We worked so hard to increase the efficiency—it’s what we absolutely needed to do. But now we’ve done it, that’s upended the balance that gives us control of the power.” He frowned at the pipes and gauges. “I’m sure that’s what the problem is, but be damned if I can figure out how to correct it.”
Rand rose from his stool. “It’ll come to you.” He fervently hoped so; if not, they were sunk. “Meanwhile, we’d better appear at the luncheon table or your staff are going to complain.”
William John grinned. “They do, you know. Complain that I don’t turn up in time and dishes get cold.” He frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t know why they get upset—I still eat everything.”
Rand inwardly shook his head. He waved William John to the stairs and followed him up.
Luckily, as it was high summer, there was a cold collation laid out on the dining table, so as yet no noses had been put out of joint by their tardiness. William John led the way into the dining room. He greeted his sister with a wave and made straight for the table.
It appeared that Miss Throgmorton had already finished her meal and was making for the door.
Rather than follow William John through the doorway, Rand stepped back and waited for Miss Throgmorton to step into the corridor.
When she did and halted, he inclined his head to her, but didn’t move aside to let her pass.
Briskly, she nodded. “Good afternoon, Lord Randolph.”
Rand caught her gaze. “All of my friends and most of my acquaintances call me Rand. Given we are working together in common cause, perhaps you might use that name, too.” He summoned a deliberately charming smile. “I do get tired of being my lorded.”
Her lips curved, and she inclined her head. “Very well.”
Trapped by the warmth of his caramel eyes, a warmth that had only grown more definite with his smile, Felicia hesitated for only an instant before suggesting, “And given our connection”—she shot a glance through the doorway to the dining table, where William John was already seated—“I daresay it would be appropriate for you to use my name. It’s Felicia.”
Cavanaugh—Rand—gracefully inclined his head. “So we’re agreed.” He hesitated, as if debating the wisdom of his next words, then said, “I was in the village with William John, visiting the blacksmith about replacing the boiler.”
“I see. How did that go? I know Ferguson was losing patience over the continuing destruction of his work.”
“Indeed, but we might have made a minor breakthrough with the boiler’s construction—no doubt we’ll know once the new boiler is delivered. Ferguson promised it by noon tomorrow.”
She allowed her brows to rise. “That’s...excellent.” She very much doubted that it had been William John who had reinvigorated the blacksmith’s interest.
But rather than claim credit, Cavanaugh—Rand—continued, “While in the village, we happened to notice you speaking with a gentleman—one William John couldn’t place. I thought the man looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t see his face well enough to be sure.” Those molten caramel eyes held hers trapped. “Did he mention why he was in the area?”
She didn’t appreciate having been watched, much less being quizzed. Yet there was no reason she shouldn’t answer, especially given the arrangements she’d made with the gentleman in question. “He’s an artist from London. He does sketches for the London News, and during the summer, he’s traveling through the villages of the Home Counties, sending in sketches of country vistas and views.”
Rand nodded. “I’ve seen those sketches—they’re quite good.”
“Indeed. And the reason the gentleman approached me was that the villagers had told him about the Hall, how it sits surrounded by woodland, and he was keen to take a look at the house with a view to doing a sketch of it for the paper.” Still returning Rand’s gaze, she calmly stated, “I’ve invited him for afternoon tea. I suggested he arrive about half past two, and I’ll take him for a stroll about the grounds before tea. On fine days such as this, we—Cousin Flora and I—take tea on the terrace outside the drawing room, if you would care to join us.”
Cavanaugh—Rand—hesitated, then slowly said, “Thank you, but no.” He glanced into the dining room. “I’d better remain with William John.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Keeping his nose to the grindstone?” When Rand lightly shrugged, she let her smile widen. “I assure you, he needs no encouragement. It’s usually a battle to get him to lift his nose off said grindstone.”
Rand’s lips curved. “So I’ve discovered.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “Nevertheless, he seems given to...distraction. And we no longer have time for him to pursue every idea that comes to him.”
She nodded. “Very true.”
When Rand continued to look at her and made no move to step aside, she tipped her head and asked, “So, do you know Mr. Mayhew—the artist?”
Rand blinked. “Is that his name?”
“Mr. Clive Mayhew.” She studied Rand’s face. “Does that ring any bells?”
“No.” Rand couldn’t keep his frown from his eyes. “If he’s an artist, it’s possible I’ve met him in London. I know several artists, and I’m connected to others, so our paths might have crossed at some function.” That said, his claim to have recognized the man had been false—a ruse.
He studied Miss Throgmorton—Felicia—and wondered whether he should share his misgivings...not that he could be certain, even in his own mind, exactly what was making his nerves twitch. Was it seeing the personable Mayhew with her...or knowing an unknown gentleman had suddenly arrived in the vicinity of such a critical invention?
She held his gaze steadily—as if aware there was more to his interest in Mayhew than he’d yet owned to.
Rand drew in a breath, glanced briefly at William John, busily eating and utterly oblivious to Rand and Felicia’s conversation, then he looked at Felicia and quietly said, “I’ve been working with investors and inventors for more than five years. I’ve learned first-hand that when an exciting invention is nearing completion, other inventors or other investors sometimes take steps to...ensure that exciting invention doesn’t come to fruition.”
Her eyes widened. “You think Mayhew has been sent to...sabotage our engine?”
Our engine. He was making headway on that front at least. “You have to admit that Mayhew suddenly appearing out of the blue...”
Her lips set; her chin firmed. “Papa was always careful. From childhood, he taught us never to speak of what he was doing or even where the workshop was—not to people we didn’t know well, well enough to trust.”
“Sound advice.” Then Rand wrinkled his nose. “But Mayhew’s an artist. I have to admit it sounds like paranoia speaking, yet...” After several seconds, he focused on Felicia’s green eyes. “Can I suggest it might be wise to avoid all mention of our current project and to steer Mayhew well away from the workshop?”
Her eyes on his, she slowly nodded. “I certainly won’t mention the engine or even inventions in general—what possible interest could that have for an artist? And if he asks, we’ll know that, regardless of being an artist, he’s here for some nefarious purpose. I can also make sure he doesn’t see the workshop, but it would help if you could ensure that all the doors are kept shut during the afternoon.”
He nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re shut and stay that way.” He still wasn’t happy at the thought of her strolling the lawns with Mayhew, but he really had no justification for suggesting she put the man off.
She’d been frowning, unseeing, past him; now, she looked up and met his eyes. Determination and a sort of female confidence gleamed in hers. “I could put Mayhew off, but frankly, if he is a saboteur trying to get access to the engine, given we—you and I, at least—are alert to that possibility, I would rather we give him the chance to show his true colors.”
He didn’t like it, but something about the resolution in her eyes warned him arguing would not be in his best interests. Not on any front.
He forced himself to incline his head. “I’ll keep watch while he’s here.”
“Hoi, Rand! Do you want any of this roast beef?”
They both turned to see William John peering at a dish on the table.
Shaking his head, Rand looked back at Felicia.
Just as she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “You’d better go, or there’ll be no roast beef left.”
He had to fight the urge to close his hand over hers, to hold it against his arm. His smile a trifle stiff, he inclined his head and stepped into the dining room, allowing her too-tempting hand to fall away. “One thing.” He halted and locked his gaze with hers. “While you’re with Mayhew...take care.”
She widened her eyes at him. “Of course.” Then her lips curved lightly, and she turned and walked on, into the front hall.
Rand watched her go, then turned and made for the roast beef.
* * *
Felicia used to think her father’s admonitions regarding his inventions and the workshop to be, as Rand had put it, paranoia speaking. Now, however, with so much riding on the success of the steam engine, she was more than willing to err on the side of caution.
She was waiting in the drawing room when Johnson announced that Mr. Mayhew had called. Leaving Flora, who she’d warned of the artist’s visit, to organize for afternoon tea to be served on the terrace, Felicia walked out to greet Mayhew.
He was glancing around, apparently taking in the lines of the front hall. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and a charming smile wreathed his face. “Miss Throgmorton.”
He accepted the hand she offered and, very correctly, bowed over it.
“I’m delighted to welcome you to Throgmorton Hall, sir.” She was more than capable of behaving in as charming a manner as he; her year in London had taught her how to be pleasantly civil while keeping gentlemen at a safe distance. Smoothly retrieving her hand, she waved toward the front door. “As I mentioned earlier, I suggest we stroll around the house before taking tea with my aunt. The light about the house is at its best at the moment. Even though it’s summer, the trees in the woodland are so tall, they cast long shadows over the lawns from afternoon onward.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mayhew clasped his hands behind his back and kept pace beside her as she walked to the front door, propped wide to let the sunshine stream in.
Felicia noted that the door giving onto the workshop stairs was firmly shut. Rand’s doing, without a doubt; William John rarely remembered.
She walked onto the porch and halted, then glanced at Mayhew. “As you can see, the shadows are already encroaching on the lawn.” She looked to left and right. “Keeping to the lawns, we can stroll all the way around the house. Which way would you prefer to go?”
Mayhew favored her with another charming smile; he seemed to have a ready supply that stopped just short of ingratiating. “I’m happy to be led by your experience, Miss Throgmorton.”
“In that case”—she waved toward the shrubbery—“let’s circle to the right.”
She picked up her skirts and descended the steps. Mayhew kept pace; she watched as he looked around—exactly as one might imagine an artist would.
He was as tall as Rand, but had narrower shoulders and was one of those men with a tendency to stoop, as if trying to disguise his height.
He scanned the woodland and the shrubbery as they approached. When they reached the arched entrance to the shrubbery, he paused to look back at the house. After several moments of studying it, he shook his head. He turned to follow her onward, saw her watching, and smiled wryly. “My apologies. I’m always looking for the right view. Sadly, that isn’t it.”
She smiled spontaneously. “No need to apologize. That is why you’re here, after all.”
He inclined his head. “You’re more understanding than many a young lady. Most imagine that they are the most...well, fascinating aspect of any view. And while that’s so in a way, I’m generally focused on landscapes and buildings. People are...more difficult to accurately capture.”
Felicia looked at him with burgeoning interest. “That’s an insightful comment.”
He was looking down as he walked. He snorted softly. “It’s simply the direction in which my talent runs.”
They circled through the shrubbery, then walked past the stables and into the rose garden. Again, he halted within the rose garden and looked back at the house.
“Now, this is a very pretty composition, but, sadly, I would have to capture it soon after dawn.” He glanced at her and gave a rueful grimace. “I am definitely not at my best before noon.”
She laughed. She was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine Clive Mayhew as a saboteur. But as they strolled on, between the beds of roses, it occurred to her that while he might be a saboteur, he might also genuinely be an artist; the one did not preclude the other. “Did you bring some of your sketches? You said you would this morning.”
“Indeed.” He patted his pocket, and a faint rustling reached her ears. “I thought perhaps I could show you—and is it your aunt?—over afternoon tea.”
“Mrs. Flora Makepeace is my father’s widowed cousin. She’ll be joining us for tea, and I’m sure she’ll be as delighted as I to view your work.”
“Now you’re just being kind, but I hope my poor efforts will be at least of passing interest.”
Felicia smiled. “I’m sure they will be. You cannot be too modest when your sketches are published by the London News.”
Was his story of being a sketch artist for the popular pictorial news sheet an invention? She glanced at his face, but his expression remained untroubled—innocent of guile.
They reached the end of the rose garden, and she led the way on, along the swath of lawn that ran behind the kitchen garden. For just a few yards—before the walls of the kitchen garden intervened—the doors to the workshop were visible to their right. She was on Mayhew’s left; she needed to keep his gaze on her. Airily, she asked, “Have you had a chance to exhibit your work in the capital?”
He flicked a glance her way and sighed. “Sadly, no—although I must confess that’s one of my most cherished ambitions.” His lips twisted cynically. “Along with every artist in the land, of course.”
“It must be quite...cutthroat.” She caught his eye. “Having to find a patron.”
His gaze on her face, he nodded, and they passed the point beyond which the garden walls hid the workshop doors.
Felicia led Mayhew onto and down the south lawn, then they followed the tree line and circled past the old fountain, now no longer in use.
Just past the fountain, Mayhew, who had been constantly glancing toward the house, halted. He stared at the front of the house, from that perspective seen at an angle. “This is the spot.” He made the pronouncement with absolute certainty. After a moment, he looked at Felicia. “Miss Throgmorton, I would very much like yours and your family’s permission to sketch your home from this angle for inclusion in a series I’m doing for the News, featuring England’s country homes in the Home Counties.”
Not once had Mayhew even obliquely referred to inventions or workshops; he hadn’t even asked about the house itself, seemingly only interested in its visible exterior—precisely as an artist with his declared interest would be. Felicia smiled and inclined her head. “There’s only my brother I need to consult, and I know he’ll see no reason to deny you.”
“Excellent.” Mayhew looked at the house. His expression eager, he went on, “That’s the west face, so I’ll need the afternoon light, as now.” He glanced at Felicia. “Perhaps I could come and sketch tomorrow afternoon—from about two o’clock, if that would be convenient?”
“I know of no reason it wouldn’t be. We lead a quiet life, and Cousin Flora hasn’t mentioned any visits, so I believe that arrangement will suit.” With a wave, she indicated the raised terrace that ran along the house’s south face, overlooking the long lawn. “But let’s join Flora and ask, just to make sure.”
They walked back to the house and up the steps to the terrace. Flora was waiting, seated at the round wrought-iron table, which had already been set with plates, cups, and saucers, with a multitiered cake stand in the table’s center. Felicia made the introductions. Flora gave Mayhew her hand and smiled in her usual soft and comfortable way, then she waved them both to sit.
Mayhew held Felicia’s chair. Once she’d settled, he claimed the third chair at the table.
Despite Flora’s overtly gentle and feminine appearance, Felicia knew her chaperon was shrewd and observant. Flora poured tea and chatted in amiable vein, professing her delight at the thought of Mayhew sketching the Hall. She confirmed Felicia’s expectation that there was no reason Mayhew couldn’t ply his pencil the following afternoon and approved of his choice of view.
Flora waited until Mayhew had sampled one of Cook’s lemon cakes and sipped his tea before leaning forward and declaring, “I have to confess, Mr. Mayhew, that I am quite impatient to see the sketches Felicia said you would bring to dazzle us.”
A faint flush stained Mayhew’s long cheeks. He shot Felicia a self-deprecating glance. “I wouldn’t describe my work as ‘dazzling,’ ma’am.” He set down his cup and reached into his pocket. “However, I have brought several of my sketches—of Ashampstead and of the river nearby. I hope you’ll recognize the view and approve of my poor talent.”
He withdrew a roll of paper about nine inches long that was wound about a thin wooden rod. Seeing Felicia look curiously at the roll, Mayhew explained, “I carry my sketches in this way so they don’t crease.”
“Ah. Of course.” Felicia watched while Mayhew unrolled several sheets of fine artist’s paper from the spool. When he handed the curling sheets to her, she eagerly took them. Flora quickly cleared a space on the table between her and Felicia, and Felicia laid the sketches down.
She and Flora stared, mesmerized by the pencil-and-ink sketches that had captured views with which they were both familiar with such accuracy and felicity that the scenes were not just instantly recognizable but the sketches somehow conveyed a sense of the atmosphere pertaining to each place. The sketch of Ashampstead village street on a market day was abustle with life, while the delicate sketch of the pool on the river Pang to the east of Hampstead Norreys invoked a sense of bucolic peace.
Once she’d looked her fill, Felicia glanced up and, across the table, met Mayhew’s eyes. “These are exquisite. You are, indeed, very talented.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Mayhew didn’t smile but lightly raised one shoulder, as if he remained unsure of his skill or was, for some reason, uncomfortable acknowledging it.
Looking again at the sketches, Felicia felt vindicated in having agreed to allow him to sketch the Hall; such an opportunity, dropped into her lap by Fate, shouldn’t be lightly passed up, and if it helped Mayhew continue and gain more confidence in his work, well and good.
“I admit,” she said, raising her gaze once more to Mayhew’s face, “to being intrigued to see what you make of the Hall, sir. It was a lucky chance that sent you our way.”
Flora added her compliments, too.
Mayhew blushed anew and, yet again, disclaimed—although with the evidence of his talent lying before Felicia and Flora, he might as well have saved his breath. Then, with all three of them transparently pleased with the outcome of Mayhew’s visit, they settled to finish their tea.
* * *
From the shadows of the woodland bordering the south lawn, Rand watched the trio on the terrace as they laughed, smiled, and chatted.
It wasn’t difficult to assess how Felicia—and Flora, who Rand considered a sensible and supportive lady—viewed Mayhew. They’d both relaxed and were smiling with genuine delight upon the supposed artist.
Although Rand had retreated to the workshop with William John after luncheon, he’d set Shields on guard by the stable. Shields had hurried around to the workshop to warn Rand that Mayhew had arrived, riding a rather poor-quality nag—Shields being the sort to notice such things.
Leaving William John muttering at his engine, Rand had climbed the stairs and confirmed that the door at the top was firmly shut. He’d waited behind the panel and had heard Mayhew arrive and speak with Johnson, then Felicia had come and taken Mayhew outside.
Rand had descended to the workshop and, assisted by Shields, had closed the large double doors. William John had noticed the light dimming. He’d blinked, then crossed to the wall and fiddled with a knob, setting the gaslights in the gantry above his workbench blazing. Then he’d returned to his invention, ignoring Rand and Shields and all else about him.
Rand had dismissed Shields, who had clattered back up the stairs and out via the front hall. Rand had counseled himself to patience, but hadn’t been able to squash the impulse to ease one of the big workshop doors open a fraction—just enough to peer out.
He’d glimpsed Felicia and the artist walking through the roses, then had watched Felicia lead the man down the lawn, until the pair had passed out of sight behind the kitchen garden.
That had given Rand an idea. He’d confirmed that William John had no intention of emerging from the workshop before the gong rang for dinner. With Felicia and Mayhew still screened by the walls of the kitchen garden, Rand had slipped out through the double doors. He’d shut them behind him, then swiftly circled the kitchen garden to the corner where he could see Felicia and Mayhew walking down the south lawn, their backs to him.
He’d walked quickly across the lawn and into the woodland that so helpfully surrounded the house.
From the cover of the trees, he’d watched Felicia and the artist stroll the lawns, eventually fetching up at a spot almost directly across from where Rand had been standing. After some discussion, apparently pleasing to both, they’d repaired to the terrace, where Flora was waiting with the teacups.
Mayhew had shown them some papers—presumably some of his sketches. Rand hadn’t been able to get a clear view of Felicia’s face, but from the expression on Flora’s, Mayhew’s sketches were very definitely worthy of admiration.
As the trio consumed their tea and cakes and conversed in pleasant vein, Rand shifted in the shadows and wondered if he was being overly paranoid. Or overly something else.
Could Mayhew simply be what he purported to be? A sketch artist whose works were published in the London News and who was eager to find new vistas to draw?
Certainly, Mayhew had shown no interest in the workshop doors, although given their location, they could easily be taken to be doors to a cellar for storing produce from the kitchen garden. Yet Rand wasn’t even sure Mayhew had noticed the doors; he’d seemed more interested in Felicia and, later, in the long views of the house.
As Rand watched, Mayhew made some comment, then collected his sketches. Felicia rose and went indoors; a moment later, she returned and resumed her seat. Presumably, Mayhew was leaving, and Felicia had gone to ask for his horse to be brought around.
Rand shifted, uncertain and faintly irritated. He tried to get a better sense of—a clearer insight into—the instincts that were so firmly insisting that Mayhew was a threat. Which instincts? And a threat to what?
Given his focus on the invention, he’d assumed the prickling tension had to do with that, warning him he should see Mayhew as a threat to the Throgmorton engine.
But what if it wasn’t that? What if his instincts were bristling because they saw Mayhew as a threat in another sense?
As a threat to Rand because of his fascination with Felicia Throgmorton.
Cloaked in the trees’ shadows, he wrestled with the realization that—almost without him being aware of it—that second option had become a possibility.
Just because he’d decided he wouldn’t think of finding a wife until after he’d established his position in the investing world didn’t mean Fate would fall in with his plans.
Concealed in the wood’s gloom, he watched as Mayhew rose, and Felicia got to her feet. With smiles and bows, Mayhew took his leave of the ladies, then walked back along the terrace and around the corner of the house to where his horse would be waiting in the forecourt.
Rand studied Felicia as she remained by the table, watching Mayhew depart; he couldn’t see her face.
Rand’s lips twisted, then he shook his head, made his way out of the trees, and strode for the workshop doors.
He could pretend all he liked, but the truth was that, regardless of whether Mayhew had any interest in the Throgmorton steam engine, Rand and his prickling instincts would still see the artist as a threat.
A different type of threat, yet a threat nonetheless.
As for which type of threat Mayhew actually represented...at that point, Rand didn’t know. He couldn’t even make an educated guess.