CHAPTER 8
Two mornings later, Felicia entered the breakfast parlor at eight o’clock to find William John and Rand already at the table.
Both were frowning.
They raised their heads and nodded a reply to her cheery “Good morning.” In William John’s case, his gaze remained unfocused and his nod absentminded, but Rand’s attention locked on her. His gaze, intent, swept her, then rose, and he met her eyes. He smiled fleetingly and inclined his head, then he glanced at William John and his frown returned.
She helped herself from the sideboard, then joined them at the table, sliding into her usual chair opposite Rand, with William John to her right.
As she poured herself a cup of tea, William John muttered something, then more volubly grumbled, “I just don’t understand it. It should work perfectly, but it’s not.”
She told herself it wasn’t any of her business—except, of course, now it was. She’d agreed to help, even if she remained uncertain of the wisdom of doing so. If she grew to enjoy the pastime and fell victim to its lure, what then? She was a lady, a female, and nothing could change that. She took a bite of the slice of toast she’d liberally slathered with raspberry jam, then glanced at Rand.
He was waiting to catch her eye. “As you can hear, William John’s stumped.”
Her brother turned to her and eagerly explained, “It’s something to do with the drive mechanism. Now everything else is working perfectly, it’s somehow getting out of kilter. I think we need an adjustment to the gears, but I can’t see where. And there’s some other wrinkle in the pressure in the lines. Not major, but I suspect if we don’t get it perfectly correct, the engine will work for only a relatively short time before...” He raised his hands in a “who knows?” gesture. “It’ll probably blow a gasket or something and come to a shuddering halt.”
Rand’s gaze hadn’t left her face. “We were wondering if you would take a look at the problems. You might see something William John has missed.”
She glanced at William John, only to have her brother fix her with a pleading look and reach across and grasp her hand. “Please, Felicia.” He squeezed her fingers. “I know it’s not something you expected to have to do, but any insights you have—any hints you can give me—would be greatly appreciated.” He held her gaze, then quietly stated, “I need your mind to work my way through this.”
She heard the sincerity of his plea and saw it in his eyes. Inside, a stone wall of resistance, built through years of enforced disinterest and bolstered by self-protective caution, wavered, then crumbled and fell. She felt herself nod. “All right.” She glanced at her plate. “Just let me finish my toast and let Mrs. Reilly know I’ll meet with her later, and I’ll come down and see...what I can see.”
They hovered, both of them, as if despite having gained her agreement to assist, they thought she might change her mind or be distracted by the household. She had to smother a cynical snort.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the pair all but shepherded her down the stone stairs, William John leading the way, with Rand following behind her. On reaching the workshop floor, William John went straight to the engine, suspended within its special frame.
To her eyes, the engine seemed to have grown.
William John saw her taking note of all the extra pipes and tubes. “I’ve added the connections to the levers the driver manipulates.” He pointed to a board clipped to one side of the frame. “That slots into the front wall of the carriage in front of the driver’s seat.”
“Ah. I see.” She promptly ignored the extra pipes and tubes and focused on the engine beneath.
William John pointed, directing her attention to a complex set of gears that lay between the pistons and the twin drive shafts. “When I start it up, all runs smoothly. I can increase the power and therefore the speed and all is well. With the throttle fully open, everything powers along. The instant I start to throttle back, the gears start to grind. I’m sure if I let the machine continue to run, they would eventually jam, which would be disastrous.”
“Hmm.” After a moment of frowning at the interlocking cogs, Felicia turned to the board on which the diagrams were displayed. She went to stand and stare at the drawings. After a minute in which both men remained utterly silent and watched her—she could feel their gazes on her back—she reached out and, with one finger, circled the set of cogs, levers, and rods that made up the gears. “The issue lies here, and, again, it’s because you’ve increased power to such an extent, everything downstream has to be readjusted.”
She glanced at William John. “You’re not going to do anything to further increase the power output, are you?”
He moved to join her before the board. “No. We’ve more than doubled the output of Trevithick’s engine. We don’t need more power—at least, not at this point.”
“Good.” She eyed the board, almost surprised at the way her mind was already juggling options. It hadn’t required conscious thought—a conscious instruction to her mind to solve the problem—but rather a deliberate direction to her higher mind to get out of the way of an ability that was instinctive and intuitive.
After another minute, she pointed to the largest of the cogs. “Can you make this bigger? Or is there some other way to...expand the capacity? That’s what we need to do—you’ve increased the power, so now you need to compensate and expand the control to handle the extra power.”
William John stared at the cog in question, then pulled a face. “I’m not sure we can make it any bigger, but what if—”
Rand slid onto a high stool on the other side of the heavy frame and watched brother and sister discuss and debate their options. And gave thanks to whatever deity was watching over him and this project. If they hadn’t stumbled on Felicia’s unexpected talent, they would have already run aground. Instead...as he watched Felicia and William John standing shoulder to shoulder before the board, their attentions fixed unwaveringly on the diagrams, both entirely sunk into the workings of the Throgmorton engine, Rand felt quiet confidence well and solidify.
In common with many of the more productive inventors, William John didn’t care where ideas for improvement came from. That the ideas he was, even now, eagerly seizing on and working to find ways to implement were coming from his younger sister didn’t even impinge on his ever-grasping mind.
As for Felicia, the more Rand heard of her and William John’s increasingly quick-fire exchanges, the more he realized she had an instinctive feel for where her skills ended and William John’s began. Again and again, she seemed to mentally walk to some definable edge and then turn to her brother.
And unfailingly, without so much as a pause, William John would pick up the inventive baton and carry it on.
It took the pair the better part of an hour for William John to reach the point where he was smiling again and, fired by confidence, declared that he would soon have the problem with the gears resolved.
Another hour passed as the pair investigated the problem with the control levers. They ultimately came to an agreement on the best way to rework the settings—“It’s the sensitivity of the movement that’s at fault,” Felicia had said—but agreed to leave that adjustment until after all else was working correctly.
Accepting that verdict, William John set about dismantling the control panel from the engine.
Felicia watched him work for a moment, then glanced at Rand and stepped away from the engine and the board of diagrams. “Mrs. Reilly will be waiting. I should go up.”
Engrossed in his task, William John merely grunted.
Rand watched as Felicia plainly battled an impulse to remain and, perhaps, even tinker herself, but then she straightened her spine and took another step toward the stairs. She caught his eye. He smiled and inclined his head. “Both William John and I are more grateful than we can say for your assistance.”
“Yes, well...” Her eyes were drawn to the engine. Then she murmured, “I suppose, now, that it’s partly my responsibility, too.”
After another second, she drew breath, determinedly turned away from the engine, and, with a brief nod his way, headed for the stairs.
Felicia climbed the stairs to the front hall—and, with every step, felt as if she was having to physically pull herself away.
As she’d suspected, the ineluctable thrill of solving William John’s puzzles—of meeting the challenges—was well-nigh addictive.
On reaching the front hall, she paused and drew in a deep—very deep—breath.
As she exhaled, Mrs. Reilly looked around the green-baize-covered door at the rear of the hall.
On sighting Felicia, the housekeeper’s face lit. “There you are, Miss Felicia. Are you ready to go over the menus, miss?”
“Yes, indeed. You’ve timed it well.” She needed to get her mind back into its usual rut—no, it wasn’t a rut. Dealing with the household was her normal and rightful occupation. Poking at inventions in the workshop was merely a temporary, if necessary, distraction and would never amount to anything more. “Come to the sitting room.” She gestured to the door across the hall and led the way.
She and Mrs. Reilly settled in the sitting room and spent a comfortable half hour discussing menus and recipes. Somewhat to her surprise, Felicia found her mind drifting... Disconcerted, she hauled it back and focused firmly on the task before her.
Subsequently, determined to keep her mind on matters domestic, she went down to the kitchen to check with Cook regarding the bounty currently issuing from the kitchen garden and was taken by that worthy on an inspection of the beds burgeoning with summer vegetables.
They returned to the house with just half an hour to spare before luncheon. Felicia spent the minutes with Flora in the drawing room, idly sharing views on the information Flora’s wide-ranging correspondents had recently reported, while inwardly, Felicia wondered how matters were progressing below stairs.
Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, Rand and William John responded to the first striking of the luncheon gong. They ambled in, smiles on their faces—and Felicia found herself smiling back.
William John dropped into his chair and beamed at her. “Putting in those extra cogs has done the trick!” He included Rand with his gaze. “We’re nearly there!”
“Don’t get too excited yet,” Rand advised, but he continued to smile. As he took his seat, he said to Felicia, “As you suggested, William John has concentrated on making the gears work properly first, before he endeavors to adjust the controls.”
“Mind you,” William John said, helping himself to the platter of pickled vegetables Felicia had handed him, “I’m increasingly certain we’ll have yet more to do to get the controls to precisely how we want them—we’ll see once I put the modifications we discussed in place. However”—his beaming smile returned—“I still say we’re almost there.” He met Felicia’s eyes, then looked at Rand. “We will get everything done in time.”
Her expression mild, Flora glanced from one to the other. “How many days remain before this exhibition you and the invention have to be at?”
Rand replied, “We have ten days until the day of the exhibition. However, we’ll lose two of those traveling to Birmingham.” He paused, then, his gaze meeting Felicia’s, said, “We have until the morning of next Thursday to have the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage assembled and running perfectly. That reminds me.” He looked at William John. “What about the carriage itself?”
William John swallowed and waved toward the stable. “It’s deep in the stable and properly covered. We can wheel it out when we’re ready.”
Rand paused.
Imagining what he was thinking, Felicia inquired, “How long is it since you’ve cleaned the carriage?”
William John frowned. “A few months...” After a moment, he grimaced. “Six months at least.”
“Hmm. I believe we should have the covers off, and I can send the Reilly girls”—to Rand, she explained—“our maids, to clean and polish it.” She refocused on William John. “Are there any moving parts they need to be wary of?”
He shook his head. “No, just the wheels, and the brake will be on. They can wipe and polish to their hearts’ content. Once they have the covers off, I’ll come and take a look, just to be certain there’s nothing amiss.” He glanced at Rand. “You’ll want to see it, too.”
Rand nodded. “If there’s anything that needs fixing or adjusting to get the carriage ready for the exhibition, we should get that done.”
William John grinned. “All the better to have everything ready to go the instant we have the engine fully adjusted and working perfectly.” He smiled at them all. “I can feel it in my bones—we’re nearly done!”
To her surprise, Felicia felt herself react to her brother’s rousing words—felt her heart surge with anticipation and pride.
Inventing was proving even more addictive than she’d thought it would be.
With the others, she pushed back from the table and rose. At last, Papa, I understand.
* * *
The following days passed in a blur of activity. Felicia moved her meetings with Mrs. Reilly to later in the morning to accommodate William John and Rand’s continuing requests for her assistance in the workshop—their urgings for her to bring her mind downstairs and apply it to the latest glitch in the engine’s systems.
To her abiding amazement, she continued to find interacting with her brother, following his lines of thought and catching where he went wrong, challenging in an intriguing and satisfying way. Even though it might take her a few hours, invariably, her mind supplied a way around whatever obstacle William John had encountered.
Rand sat and watched and quietly encouraged—if the pair of them faltered, he would pose a question, starting them off again. To her, he was a necessary catalyst—one who lent the spark that fired her resolve, and that, in turn, drove her to find the way over or around the next hurdle.
During those hours in the workshop, the three of them merged into a highly effective team.
And when William John made an adjustment she’d suggested and it worked...the thrill of pleasure that coursed through her was worth every iota of effort; the effect only grew stronger and more intense as the days rolled on.
She’d told Rand truly; if her father had encouraged her to become involved, even if only tangentially, in his inventions, she would have understood his and William John’s obsession and would have viewed their behavior in more tolerant and supportive vein.
Nevertheless, contributing or not, she would have remained the practical one—the one who ensured the household ran smoothly around the laboratory-workshop. But her view of the workshop would have—and, indeed, had—changed; she now saw that space and what went on in it as an integral part of life at the Hall and not as an offshoot to be endured and otherwise deplored.
She was well aware that for her change of heart, for her rekindled interest in inventions, and for her greater understanding of her father and her brother, she had Randolph Cavanaugh to thank.
She’d spent the past two afternoons with the Reilly girls—Petunia, Primrose, Poppy, and Pansy; as she’d explained to Rand, the girls’ father was the gardener and loved his flowers. As a group, they’d set about cleaning and polishing the carriage the engine would eventually power along the roads.
William John and Rand had examined it carefully, going over every panel and checking the wheels and struts, and pronounced it whole and in perfect repair. Once they’d left, armed with cloths and all manner of polishes, Felicia and the maids had fallen on the carriage and set to with a vengeance.
In midafternoon, Felicia returned to the house to join Mrs. Reilly in the sitting room to check over the weekly orders for the grocer and the butcher. On entering the sitting room, Felicia smiled at the housekeeper, who was waiting by the empty fireplace. “By tomorrow, your girls will have the carriage spotless—spick, span, and gleaming.”
A fond mama, Mrs. Reilly beamed. “They’re good girls, and they’ve been excited to do their bit for one of the master’s inventions. And it started with your father and all—like a bit of a memorial for him, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed.” Felicia sank into her favorite armchair and waved Mrs. Reilly to the one facing it. “I have to admit that I’ve never before felt so excited myself. Lord Cavanaugh, William John, and I went over the engine in fine detail this morning—we believe that after the last adjustments William John is making, the engine will be ready for its final tests. And then we’ll be able to lift it into its place in the carriage, hook everything up—and the carriage will go.” She couldn’t help sharing a smile with the older woman, who had seen the household through the ups and downs of so many inventions over the years. “We’re trying to contain ourselves, but we all believe the engine will perform splendidly!”
“That’s good to hear, miss. A happy outcome all around.”
“Indeed.” Salvation beckoned on so many fronts—for her and William John, for their household, and for Rand and his investors as well. Felicia drew in a breath, then focused on the lists Mrs. Reilly held on her lap. “So—is there anything particular we need to get in?”
After she and Mrs. Reilly had made their decisions on the purchases for the next week and the housekeeper retired to write out her orders, Felicia crossed to the escritoire that stood against the wall between the windows. She owed her aunt-by-marriage a letter, and her cousins, too.
She was sitting at the escritoire, filling a page with the usual local news, when a firm tap fell on the door.
Puzzled, she called, “Come.”
She grew even more puzzled as, her expression unusually grim, Petunia—who, when she wasn’t busily cleaning the horseless carriage, acted as lady’s maid for Felicia and Flora both—propelled her youngest sister, Pansy, into the room. “No help for it, Panse.” A force not to be denied, Petunia pushed a clearly reluctant Pansy to the middle of the room, then stood back, folded her arms, and fixed a stern look on the young housemaid. “Now, my girl, you tell Miss Felicia what Diccon asked.”
Pansy looked from Petunia to Felicia. Straightening, she scrunched her now-dusty white apron between her hands and bent a wary gaze on Felicia.
Although nearly ten years older than Pansy, Felicia had known the girl from birth. She had no idea what this was about—why Petunia had brought Pansy to her and not to the girls’ redoubtable mother—but endeavored to smile encouragingly. “What did Diccon ask, Pansy?”
Pansy screwed up her face, but after a second during which she seemed to order her thoughts, she replied readily enough, “Diccon—he’s the lad as helps at the butcher’s, miss—we got to talking yesterday, when I was in the village with Poppy and Primrose, while I was waiting for them to come out of the general store. They got stuck in the queue behind Miss Limebeck, so I sat outside to wait, and Diccon came up, and he and me got talking.” Pansy paused, her blue eyes wide and her expression serious. “Then out of the blue, Diccon asked if I could get ahold of the plans that Mr. William John works from.”
Shocked, Felicia sat back.
Pansy saw her reaction and nodded. “Aye—I was shocked and all, too. I said no and asked Diccon who wanted them—the plans. Obviously, it wouldn’t’ve been him. He said as how one of the ostlers at the Arms said a gent from London, who called in for a drink in the tap, had said to him after, as the gent was leaving, that if he—the ostler, that is—could get ahold of the plans, he’d see gold for his trouble.”
When Pansy fell silent, her blue eyes huge, her hands still wrapped in her apron, Felicia—horrified—looked at Petunia.
Arms still crossed, the older maid nodded soberly. “That’s not the end of the tale. Panse here came home and—eventually—had the sense to tell Pa after lunch today. Pa went off then and there to the village. He found Diccon, who told Pa it was Harry at the Norreys Arms who’d asked him. Pa went to see Harry. Of course, Harry—being the silly knockhead he is—tried to say he didn’t know anything about it. But Pa and Joe-the-barkeep wore Harry down. In the end, Harry said it was like Diccon had said. The gentleman called at the tap night before last—that’s when he spoke to Harry. Yesterday morning, Harry—knowing Diccon often speaks with Pansy—got Diccon alone and asked him to ask Pansy, just like Diccon did. Harry thought that if the plans were just lying around the place, no one would miss them.”
Petunia, Pansy, and Felicia shared a look. The notion of William John not noticing, within the hour if not sooner, that one of his precious diagrams had been moved, let alone stolen, was simply too fanciful to contemplate.
“Like I said,” Petunia went on, “Harry’s a knockhead, and Diccon’s too good-natured and trusting. Pa asked Harry when the gent said he’d be back, but seemed he’d already called in again early this afternoon, and Harry’d told him he couldn’t get the plans. Apparently, the man looked angry and swore, then he shrugged and got back on his horse and rode off.”
“Did Harry have any idea who the man was?” Felicia asked. “Could he describe him?”
Petunia shook her head. “He said he reckoned the man was from London from his accent, but as the man was a gent—both Harry and Joe-the-barkeep agree on that—his accent doesn’t necessarily mean he lives in London, does it?”
“No,” Felicia agreed. “It just means he’s from a good family and went to a good school.”
Petunia nodded and went on, “Harry swore he’d never seen the man before. Both he and Joe said the man had a hat pulled low and a muffler wound round his face. Harry couldn’t see anything but the gleam of the gent’s eyes.” Petunia paused, then added, “The only thing Harry could say was that the horse was from the Crown at Pangbourne, and the man rode away in that direction—he assumed heading back to London.”
Felicia stared unseeing at the maids while she digested the unwelcome and troubling news.
Petunia lowered her arms and straightened; Felicia glanced at her. “Pa just got back with the news. He said he had to get on with lifting the potatoes if we was to have any for the table tonight, and that Pansy and I should come in and tell you the whole.”
Felicia summoned a weak smile for the girls. “Thank you both for coming and telling me—and please thank your father as well.”
Petunia and Pansy curtsied, then Petunia followed her youngest sister out of the room.
Felicia stared at the door for several moments. Then, frowning, she rose and headed for the workshop.
Rand was standing by the engine, cleaning one of the several levers William John had removed from the control panel, when he heard Felicia’s light footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned and was waiting, when she reached the last step and her gaze swept the room, to meet her eyes.
She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped down and walked closer.
Taking in her sober expression and the frown in her eyes, he arched his brows. “You don’t normally grace us with your presence at this hour.”
She looked at William John, who hadn’t raised his head from his intent examination of the pins connecting the control panel to the engine, then returned her gaze to Rand’s face. “There’s been a development of which, I believe, you both need to be informed.”
Alerted by her tone, William John looked up, then straightened, a wrench in his hand. “What’s happened?”
Briefly, she told them what she’d just learned, concluding with “So although we know that some gentleman tried to get our staff to steal the plans, there’s little more to be gleaned.”
Her tale had sent a slight chill through Rand, but... “This really shouldn’t come as a surprise. As we’ve already discussed, there are various parties who would prefer the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage to never see the light of day.” He focused on Felicia. “However, as the man involved has already quit the area, there’s no sense wasting our time—time we don’t really have—in trying to trace him or those who sent him.”
“He’d hidden his face, too,” William John pointed out. “Without any way to identify him, it’s difficult to point to any particular gentleman as our villain.”
Rand inclined his head, wondering if there was more to the man having so assiduously concealed his features.
Felicia put his speculation into words. “Given we can’t identify the man, then he could have been Mayhew, but I understood he was planning to be out of the area for longer than a few days.”
“If it was him, he would have wanted to conceal his face,” William John said, “but equally, as I understand it, we have no reason to think he’s in any way involved with these attempts to sabotage the engine or that he even has an interest in inventions.”
He looked at Rand and Felicia both.
Reluctantly, Rand nodded. “You’re right. We have no evidence that Mayhew is a threat. On the other hand, this, on top of the attempted break-in, is irrefutable evidence that someone—some decently bred gentleman most likely hired by as-yet-unknown others—is intent on sabotaging this project.”
William John grimaced and nodded.
Felicia looked grave. “What should we do?”
“When it comes down to it, there really isn’t much more we can do, other than ensure that the guards we already have on duty understand that the threat is real and keep alert throughout their watch.” Rand met Felicia’s eyes, then William John’s. “Despite our successes, we still have a lot to do to prove the engine and then get it inserted into the carriage and check that over, too—all before we set out for Birmingham.”
“Six full days before we need to leave.” William John nodded decisively. “We’ll make it.”
“What about the journey?” Felicia met Rand’s gaze. “Surely that would be the perfect opportunity to...well, thrust a spoke in the carriage’s wheels.”
He nodded. “But against that, during the journey, we’ll have extra guards to keep the steam carriage safe. Whoever our ill-wishers are, they will expect that and would presumably conclude that, in reality, it will be easier for them to strike at the invention here, while it’s still at the Hall.”
Felicia frowned, then refocused on Rand’s face. “Is there any way to guess who is behind these attacks?”
Rand thought, then shook his head. “There are too many possibilities, none of which we can discount—too many groups that might have hired a gentleman like the one who recently visited the Norreys Arms. Sadly, ‘gentlemen’ like him are easy to come by in the capital.”
He paused, then, when both Felicia and William John seemed to wish it, he listed their possible opponents. “Other syndicates working on similar projects—I don’t know of any openly working on a steam-powered carriage at this time, but if they kept the work secret, they might now view us as a real threat. Then there are the usual suspects who hold strong views on allowing any steam-powered carriage to succeed. They managed to discount Trevithick’s original, managed to ignore Russell’s improvements and the works of others who’d attempted similar modifications. Yet none of those inventions held the promise of the Throgmorton engine. If they understand the potential, then they would be very keen to see our project fail. And we mustn’t forget the railway companies, the toll-road owners, and all their shareholders. And last but not least, any inventor who feels envious or threatened, or feels he’s been in any way damaged by your father’s past successes—this is, after all, William Throgmorton’s last great invention.”
Felicia and William John pulled almost identically dejected faces.
After a moment, Felicia said, “So at this stage, there’s no chance of identifying who was responsible and therefore no sense in wasting our time attempting to gain sufficient evidence to point a finger.” She nodded more definitely. “This evening, we should warn the men mounting the night watches of the increased chance of another attack.” She met Rand’s eyes, then inclined her head and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll speak to the rest of the household now. They, too, will need to remain alert.”
Rand watched her go, then turned back to William John, who, apparently, had consigned all responsibility for increased security into Rand’s and Felicia’s hands and had dived back into the engine.
* * *
A certain tension pervaded the house. Watchful and on guard even during the day, alert for the slightest movement or noise out of place, the household went about their business, eyes peeled, ears strained.
But there was suppressed excitement running beneath the tension—a sense that no one would be taking aim at the steam engine if it wasn’t a worthy target, implying that William Throgmorton’s last great invention was, indeed, slated to be a spectacular success.
Two nights after the discovery of the attempt to steal the plans, after Flora had retired, Felicia remained in her sitting room, determined to complete her letters to her cousins. She lost track of the time, then Johnson tapped and looked in.
The butler smiled when he saw her. “You’re late, Miss Felicia.”
She glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. “Good gracious.” She looked at the letter she was writing. “I’ll just finish this page, then go up.”
Johnson smiled benignly, then circled the room, checking that the windows had been locked.
Felicia laid down her pen with a sigh and looked up. “A last and final check?” Johnson usually did his final check soon after he wheeled the tea tray away.
“Indeed, miss. Given the circumstances, one cannot be too careful, and I have to admit I sleep a lot easier if I check the locks late.”
She nodded. “No blame to you. As whoever wishes to break in and steal the plans or sabotage the invention has presumably learned that the workshop doors cannot be forced, then it must surely be on the cards that they might attempt to gain access through a door or window on this level and make their way down to the workshop.”
Johnson somewhat diffidently remarked, “Lord Cavanaugh did canvass that possibility with me. It seems you and he think alike, miss.”
She smiled. “That’s not really surprising. We’re both committed to ensuring this invention remains safe all the way to the exhibition, and as you know, William John is somewhat...”
“Absentminded?” Johnson smiled. “Indeed, miss. But a very clever gentleman, nonetheless.”
Felicia allowed her smile to grow and inclined her head. “As you say, Johnson.” Seeing he had completed his circuit of the room’s windows, she said, “I’ll be going up momentarily. You can turn down the lights elsewhere.”
“Yes, miss.” Johnson bowed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Felicia remained in the chair by the escritoire and let her mind wander—first to assessing the steps they’d taken to secure the Hall, searching for any weakness and finding none, then to the revelations of recent days and the changes those revelations had wrought.
Eventually, with the house settling to nighttime quiet about her, she rose, turned off the twin sconces she’d had burning, and made for the door. She opened it and stepped into the front hall, shutting the panel quietly behind her. As per her instructions, Johnson had turned the two small sconces in the hall and the one on the stair landing to their lowest setting; they cast the faintest of pale glows, just enough for someone like her, familiar with the house, to be sure of their way. She started toward the stairs.
She was halfway to them—exposed in the very center of the open expanse of tiled floor—when she heard a boot scrape on stone.
On the stone of the stairs leading up from the workshop.
Before her mind registered the oddity of any intruder coming up the workshop stairs, her heart started to race.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she swung toward the door to the stairs in time to see it slowly open.
A figure appeared in the doorway. Male, tall, powerfully built.
Even in the poor light, she recognized those shoulders. At some level beyond that of normal senses, she recognized him.
Her heart leapt and raced again—this time, for a very different reason.
She exhaled in relief and smiled. “Rand. Checking the guards?”
He tipped his head as he walked toward her. “That, and checking your brother’s masterpiece of an alarm system. It’s quite ingenious.”
He drew level with her, and she turned. Side by side, they continued toward the stairs, with him shortening his stride to accommodate hers.
“And you? This is later than usual for you, I think?”
She waved toward the sitting room. “I was writing letters and forgot the time.” Ruefully, she glanced at him. “Thank you for checking the alarm. Sadly, William John doesn’t possess a practical bone in his body—he would never think to do it.”
Rand shrugged, those wonderfully wide shoulders shifting fluidly beneath his well-cut coat. Amusement ran beneath his words as he said, “I’ve worked with quite a few inventors in recent years. None are what you could term ‘practically minded.’”
She smiled. “I suppose it’s an upshot of single-minded focus.”
“Indeed. So it seems.”
Wreathed in shadows, they started up the stairs, and she felt his gaze on her face, not intent so much as assessing.
“I have to say,” he murmured, “that the three of us complement each other in a rather unique way. William John is unquestionably a whizz at mechanical construction—he truly is your father’s heir in that way. You, meanwhile, provide the essential insights into design—without your input, for all his brilliance, William John wouldn’t have been able to solve the problems the improvements to the power of the engine caused.”
When he didn’t go on, smiling, she prompted, “And you?”
“I,” he stated, “arrange the finance, but in this case, I’ve also been pressed into a role I’ve never had the chance to fill before, that of managing the project—doing whatever’s needed to facilitate William John’s efforts and also ensuring the project remains secure.”
She glanced at his face; his features were calm, his expression at ease and assured. “Have you enjoyed the managing?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Far more than I would have imagined.” He glanced at her and, in the faint light, met her eyes. He smiled. “I’ve come to see William John’s subterfuge, which was what got me involved and us all to this point, as a boon.”
She chuckled. “In that, we’re something of a pair. As I told you several nights ago, being brought into the project as I have been has...widened my horizons in a way I had no idea was even possible.”
Rand felt satisfaction well within him—fueled by his delight in his new role and even more by her pleasure in hers. They reached the landing and turned to continue up the next flight, and he asked, “What about William John?”
Her reply came instantly. “I have never, ever, seen my brother so...simply happy. He loves what he does, but I suspect he’s never felt so free to simply be himself, with others he trusts to manage everything around him.”
Rand grinned. “You to manage the house and assist him as required, me to manage the project, and William John free to simply build machines.”
“Exactly.”
Emboldened by the ease he sensed between them, he ventured, “And what about you?” He glanced at her and through the dimness met her eyes. “Are you happier, too?”
Her lips curved, and she looked ahead. “Indubitably. I feel more settled than I’ve felt...possibly ever. I had no idea I’d retained enough of what I must have absorbed in my early years to contribute to any invention as I am, much less that I would find that activity so rewarding.”
His satisfaction welled and overflowed. Knowing she was content set the seal on his own contentment.
After several seconds, she said, “Amazing though it seems looking back on the confusion from which we started, it’s all coming together, isn’t it?”
If he’d been at all superstitious, he wouldn’t have replied, but given their recent advances, he felt they were entitled to hold to hope. “Yes. It’s been something of a scramble, but it is, indeed, coming together nicely. There are only the final tests to run, then we can install the engine into the carriage and be on our way to the exhibition.”
They reached the head of the stairs, and she made a soft scoffing sound. “It’ll never be that easy.”
He inclined his head. “True. But we can hope.”
She chuckled. Deeper shadows engulfed them as they walked around the gallery and on into the corridor that led to their rooms.
Peace and a sense of companionship quite unlike anything Rand had ever known lapped about his consciousness, soothing, supporting, indescribably comforting. Him and her walking through the quiet of a slumbering house...simply felt right. The conviction that she was the perfect lady for him had taken root in his soul. Practical, down to earth, solidly supportive, with an innate understanding of inventions and inventors that no other young lady could possibly have, she was a foil perfectly fashioned to complement him.
He would be a fool not to seize her.
They reached their doors—one on either side—and halted.
This time, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the moment when she turned to bid him goodnight elude him. His eyes seeking hers through the enveloping shadows, he caught her hand; with his eyes locked on hers, he raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He waited a heartbeat to see her eyes flare, then smoothly drew her closer, nearer—to him—and as his other hand slid around her waist, urging her closer yet, he bent his head and covered her lips with his.
He’d intended it to be a gentle caress—a statement, an assurance, and a glimpse of what might be.
But he’d misjudged.
His inner self leapt at the chance to taste her, to steep himself in the pleasures of her mouth, of her lips and tongue...
Felicia’s head spun. She’d been kissed before, but never like this—with such direct and compelling mastery that she and all her senses had surged in response. Her lips parted beneath the temptation of his; she quelled a delicious shiver as his tongue teased the slick softness, then slid between and settled to explore.
To engage and expand her senses.
Her wits had gone wandering; to where, she didn’t care. Instinctively, she came up on her toes the better to participate in the enthralling exchange; she leaned into him, her hands coming to rest, palms flat, on his chest.
Even through the fabric of his coat and shirt, she felt the alluring heat of him. Beneath her hands, she sensed the reality of a flesh-and-blood man.
Desire bloomed. She’d never felt it before, yet she knew it for what it was and embraced it.
Angling her head, she surrendered to a temptation she hadn’t even thought to resist and kissed him back.
Minutes of heated communion had passed before Rand’s wits punctured the fog of his senses enough for him to realize how definitely she was returning his caresses. Not shyly or tentatively but absolutely determinedly. With deliberation.
Desire leapt and passion ignited.
He tightened his hold on her, dipped his head, and steered the kiss into even deeper waters.
She made a wordless sound in her throat, clutched his lapels, and followed his lead with her own brand of ardor.
Need—sudden and shocking—flared and surged.
The unprecedented force—fierce and demanding—was enough to rock him. To free his wits from the engrossing fog of desire so he could assess...
Too far, too fast.
He knew that, yet...
It was an effort to draw back from the kiss. To—eventually—lift his head and allow their lips to part.
He looked down as her lids rose and her wide eyes slowly focused. As he watched, a faint frown invested her expression.
He was holding her against him, within one arm; his other hand was still wrapped about the fingers he’d kissed.
Then he saw her eyes search his, search his expression. He cleared his throat and murmured, “That was intended as a thank-you.”
She blinked. “What for?”
He felt his lips curve—saw her eyes track the gesture. “For being you.”
Shackling his impulses wasn’t easy, but he managed to force himself to release her. His arm falling from her, he stepped back. At the last, he opened his hand and freed her fingers. Felt them only slowly slide away.
He had to clamp down on a flaring impulse to seize them again.
She continued to stare at him through the dimness, studying him, yet in no way rejecting his advance.
That knowledge shook his resolution—the assumption that he would allow her to sleep alone that night. He drew in a tight breath, inclined his head by way of a goodnight, then turned and stepped to his door.
Not yet, not yet. He kept his feet moving. Their connection had evolved so very quickly; she would need time to absorb and accept. Until she did...he had to give her time.
It couldn’t be yet.
Felicia watched Rand open his door and, without a backward glance, go into the room and shut the panel.
Still, she stood staring, her heart thudding. Slowly, she raised a hand and touched her fingertips to her throbbing lips.
This, then, was how it felt to be swept off one’s feet.
To be caught up in a maelstrom formed of desire, to fall prey to the need and hunger that flowed in desire’s wake—passions she’d never until now experienced.
Minutes ticked by as she stood outside her door and considered and weighed and experienced again the feelings he and that revealing kiss had evoked.
She felt the rippling echoes sink deep, to her soul.
Eventually, the tumult of her senses faded. Slowly, she turned, opened the door, and walked into her room.