Kit woke to the sound of the heavy chain securing the door softly clinking as it was carefully pulled free of the heavy handles.
Instantly awake, he rolled out of his hammock and landed, light as a cat, on his feet. He didn’t dare call to Wayland. He had to trust that his friend’s senses were as acute as his own.
The doors slowly parted, drawn back to reveal a moon-washed scene inhabited by dark shadows—the trees of the Grove and, in the distance, the buildings on the other side of the Floating Harbor.
Then a large, dense shadow appeared around the edge of one door. Other than that the fellow was wearing a heavy coat and, beneath a wide-brimmed hat, appeared to have a muffler wound around his face, Kit couldn’t tell more from the man’s outline as he stepped into the workshop and tugged the doors closed.
Blinking furiously to readjust his sight, temporarily impaired by the moonlight, Kit held still and silent. A second later, he picked out the moving shadow as the man walked several paces into the workshop, then halted and fumbled with something.
Kit seized the moment of the intruder’s distraction to steal closer to the open doorway of the office.
Then light flared. Kit swallowed a curse and dropped to a crouch—an instant before the beam of the lantern the man had lit swept through the windows on either side of the office door.
The beam swept through at chest height, showing the intruder nothing but empty space. The intruder swung the beam on, playing light through the open door of the design office, and the man paused.
For several seconds, he stood staring at whatever he could see. Given his lack of reaction, Kit surmised it wasn’t Wayland who had caught the man’s attention.
Then the fellow muttered, “Later,” and swung around to train the lantern beam on the hull taking shape within its frame in the workshop’s first bay.
In the backwash of light, Kit saw that, in addition to the lantern, the man was carrying a large sack. He set it down with a clink and a clunk.
The man straightened; he remained standing, playing the lantern beam over the hull—for all the world as if admiring its points.
Keeping low, Kit crept through the doorway, then edged sideways, along the office wall. He crouched and glanced to his right and saw Wayland inch out of his office. Wayland glanced his way, then tipped his head toward the man—who seemed engrossed in studying the keel.
Kit nodded and slowly rose.
The man crouched. Setting the lantern aside, his back to Kit and Wayland, the man opened the sack and started pulling out whatever was in there.
They couldn’t hope for a better moment.
In a rush, Kit crossed the yards to the man, Wayland a heartbeat behind him.
The man sensed them coming and started to rise.
Kit lunged and, ducking his head, took the intruder down in a ferocious tackle.
The man’s head hit the floor. “Ow!”
Kit rolled up and off the man and regained his feet as Wayland reached them.
The man was groaning and clutching his head between his hands; he remained flat on his back on the floor. Wayland bent and picked up the lantern. He fiddled until the flame flared strongly, casting a wide circle of light around all three of them, then set the lantern down to one side.
After a cursory glance at the man—his hat had fallen off, but his muffler was still in place, concealing his features—Wayland left Kit, the stronger and more physically powerful, to stand intimidatingly over their prisoner and crouched to see what the man had brought.
His gaze on the man, Kit heard Wayland’s sharply in-drawn breath and glanced fleetingly his way.
From the sack, Wayland had pulled out a quantity of rags, a large glass jar of what looked like black oil or perhaps creosote, and a long length of fuse.
For a second, Wayland stared at the items, then his features hardened, and he rose to his feet. He looked at the unknown man with utter contempt. “Not content with simply damaging timbers, this time, you planned to burn us out.”
Before Kit could react, Wayland strode to the man, reached down, tangled his long fingers in the knitted muffler, and violently wrenched it from the man’s face. “You fiend!”
The jerk brought the man half upright, gasping like a landed fish; Kit had winded him, and he was still trying to catch his breath.
As the light washed over the intruder’s face, he closed his eyes, groaned again, and slumped back on the floor.
To Kit’s surprise, Wayland had frozen, the muffler dangling from his hand as he stared in shock at the man’s face.
Then in a stunned tone, Wayland said, “Hightham?” His tone suggested he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes.
Kit glanced sharply at the man—who continued to keep his eyes shut while he tried to get his lungs working again—then looked at Wayland. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.
Passing a hand over his jaw, Wayland nodded. “His name’s John Hightham. He was working as a junior designer at Debney’s when I joined the firm.”
Debney’s was the Bermuda-based yacht workshop from which Kit had lured Wayland home.
“Hightham left shortly after I arrived, supposedly to return to England,” Wayland added, which explained why Kit hadn’t met the man.
Recovering from his shock, Wayland kicked one of Hightham’s boots and growled, “What the devil’s this about?”
Hightham—who Kit could now see was perhaps twenty-five years old at a pinch and thinner and lighter of frame than Wayland, much less Kit—scowled up at Wayland. “As if you don’t know,” Hightham spat.
Wayland sent Kit a befuddled look.
On seeing it, Hightham struggled half up and propped on one arm. “What did you expect,” he said with an obvious attempt to sound scathing, “when you stole my design?”
Wayland looked, if possible, even more at sea.
Kit focused on Hightham. “Explain what you mean about Wayland stealing your design.”
It was an invitation Hightham couldn’t resist.
Kit stood and listened as the younger man poured out a tale, accusing Wayland of having stolen a certain keel design from him. Kit knew that whatever Hightham believed wouldn’t be the truth; he’d known Wayland since Eton and knew his friend and partner through and through. Quite aside from the fact Wayland simply wouldn’t stoop to stealing anyone else’s design, there was the undeniable truth that he was a brilliant designer and had been recognized as such for nearly a decade—he didn’t need to steal designs when his own were so relentlessly cutting edge.
When Hightham, now scowling even more blackly at Wayland, reached the end of his spiel, Kit glanced at his partner and saw comprehension dawning in his face. Hightham’s details about keel designs hadn’t meant anything to Kit, but obviously, Wayland had worked out the gist of the younger man’s complaint.
His gaze resting on Hightham, Wayland asked, “That’s what this has been about? Getting back at me because you imagined I’d stolen your design?”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” Hightham shot back. “You did!”
“When?” Wayland asked.
“It was in early thirty-eight. You came to visit Debney’s. That was a couple of years before Debney persuaded you to join him.”
Wayland nodded. “I remember. You’d just started in the design office.”
“Yes, I had. And I was working on my own designs on the side.” Hightham glared pugnaciously at Wayland. “You must have seen the plans when you came poking around the office. You have a faultless memory when it comes to designs, so one good look was all it took. Then you came back to England and started building yachts with my design. Don’t bother trying to deny it—I’ve seen some of the yachts you’ve built, and they incorporate my keel!”
Hightham was still decidedly hot under the collar. He clearly believed Wayland at fault.
Unpertur
bed, Wayland shot Kit a glance, then held up a finger to Hightham. “One moment. Allow me to fetch a drawing that will, I trust, clarify this matter.”
Kit watched Wayland go into his office, then swung his gaze back to Hightham, who was now sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms looped around them.
“I know he stole my design,” Hightham muttered, jaw clenching tight. Now bathed in light, his face looked young, his expression more truculent than violent. “He’s not going to make me believe otherwise.”
Kit hid a smile at his tone and waited.
A few minutes ticked past, then Wayland exclaimed, “There you are!”
Seconds later, he emerged from the office carrying a large design sheet in his hands. Kit knew sheets that size were only used for final, formal designs.
Wayland halted beside Kit and held out the design for him to see. “Do you recognize this one—the yacht I designed and had built at the workshop in Southampton for the Earl of Sandwich?”
Scanning the design, Kit nodded. “Yes. I remember it—Sandwich was thrilled and took us out on it when it launched.”
“Indeed.” Wayland nodded. “As you say, you were there for the launch. Do you remember when that was?”
Kit thought back, seeking other dates around that time that he remembered more clearly. “It had to have been in thirty-seven—July, thirty-seven.”
Wayland nodded. “According to the date written here”—he pointed to tiny figures written on the bottom right-hand corner of the design—“this yacht was launched on July twelfth, eighteen thirty-seven.” He gazed at the design for a moment more, then turned it in his hands and offered it to Hightham.
Hightham’s scowl had turned puzzled and wary. He stared at Wayland for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, reached out and took the drawing. His gaze fell to the lines, scanning the design...
Hightham paled. He stared at the drawing as if it were a snake, then he muttered a curse and shifted closer to the lantern, angling the sheet so he could study it more closely.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Wayland waited.
Gradually, the angry tension in Hightham’s body leached away. Eventually, he hauled in a breath that caught, then he looked up at Wayland, incomprehension and not a little despair etched across his face. “I...don’t understand.” He glanced at the design again. “This is my design...well, not absolutely exactly, but the critical design features of my keel are all here.” He raised his gaze once more to Wayland’s face. “But how?”
Standing at ease with his hands in his pockets, Wayland adopted what Kit mentally termed his friend’s lecturing expression. “The thing you’ve forgotten—or perhaps never knew as you’ve patently never run across it before—is that great minds really do think alike. It’s perfectly possible for two unconnected individuals to come up with the same, or at least very similar, design. Even identical designs—that’s not unheard of.”
Wayland tipped his head at the drawing Hightham still held. “That’s what happened here. Unbeknown to you, a year before I met you and might have seen your design—I didn’t, by the way, or I likely would have made some comment—I had already worked on and launched a design similar to the one you subsequently came up with. And apparently, my design incorporated the critical features you later re-created in your design.” Wayland paused, then more gently said, “Sandwich’s yacht wasn’t the only yacht I built that year. I’ve evolved and refined that design in several ways over the years. Indeed, virtually every yacht I’ve built since then incorporates some variant of that particular keel design.” Wayland glanced at the frame at Hightham’s back. “Even the keel of the hull we’re building now derives from it.”
Hightham seemed to have nothing to say; he stared at the drawing, but Kit would have sworn he was no longer seeing it.
Wayland reached out and gently tugged the drawing from Hightham’s grasp.
Letting the drawing slip from his fingers, the younger man sat unmoving. He looked shattered, his expression devastated. Then he licked his lips and, lowering his gaze to the floor, said, “So it wasn’t you who stole my design—it was me who stole yours.”
Wayland sighed and, in his lecturing voice, said, “You haven’t been listening, John. We independently came up with a similar design. You hadn’t seen my work any more than I’d seen yours—you couldn’t have known. No stealing involved.” Wayland shifted, his gaze on John’s now-desolate face. “Don’t berate yourself over it.” Wayland managed to catch John’s eye and fleetingly grinned. “As far as I can see, that you came up with a similar design just testifies to my brilliance.”
Far from relaxing, Hightham looked even more shattered. “I’ve spent so much c-coming after you, seeking my revenge—time, money, and effort.” He looked down and morosely shook his head. “And it was all over nothing.”
Wayland looked at Kit. Kit arched his brows; he suspected they were both thinking of their earlier discussion about ultimate goals. The truth was, everyone needed a purpose in life, an ultimate goal to strive for. Apparently in recent times, Hightham’s goal had been to wreak vengeance on Wayland. Now...
Hightham looked toward the door, where the open padlock dangled from the looped chain. He swallowed, then glanced at Kit and tonelessly said, “I expect you’ll want to send for the constabulary.”
His hopeless dejection made it plain he fully expected to be handed over to the authorities and charged.
Wayland looked meaningfully at Kit as he replied, “Given your talent, that would be a shame, not to mention a great waste.”
Kit nodded in understanding. He and Wayland held a firm belief that gathering the best possible talent was the surest route to steering Cavanaugh Yachts to success.
Wayland tipped his head toward Hightham. “Do you think we can give him a chance?”
Hightham looked up, blinking as if he’d lost track of the conversation.
Kit studied the younger man’s open face. He looked youthful, oddly innocent, yet Kit had seen the same passion Wayland possessed burning in Hightham’s eyes earlier, when he’d spoken of his design. That glimpse of passion decided Kit. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Puzzled, disbelieving—not yet willing to allow himself to believe—Hightham stared up at them, his gaze shifting between them. “You’d do that? But...” He twisted to look at the keel behind him. “I tried to destroy your work.” Facing forward, he pointed at the jar and rags Wayland had found in his sack. “I was going to splash that under the keel and set it alight.”
“Luckily for you,” Kit drily said, “we decided to stay the night so we’d be here to welcome you.”
“Don’t worry,” Wayland said. “We’re not proposing to let you off lightly—not at all. We’ll work you hard, and you’ll pay your way by the sweat of your brow. You can work off your guilt while designing and overseeing the building of the very best ocean-going yachts the world has ever seen with me.”
If they’d whacked Hightham over the head with one of the hull’s massive ribs, he couldn’t have looked more stunned. He blinked up at them, then a faint frown formed in his eyes. “This seems all wrong—that I came here to burn your work, and you offer me my dream job.”
Kit rather thought Wayland was enjoying himself. Kit shifted and clapped a hand down on Hightham’s shoulder. “You might think that now, but trust me, Wayland’s a brutal taskmaster—he’ll make you live up to his expectations, which are often beyond the scope of mortal man.”
Wayland sent Kit a scoffing look, but then refocused on Hightham. “He thinks he’s being droll, but he’s not entirely wrong. We need a second draftsman now that construction is rolling along, and we could go faster—we could start a second hull in a week or two—but we’re limited in that, at present, I’m the only one able to oversee the work and also draw out the designs.” Wayland tipped his head toward his office. “You could take on the drawings while I continue des
igning and overseeing.”
Hightham stared at Wayland, then slowly pushed to his feet, turning as he did to face the new hull. Almost reverently, Hightham put out a hand and ran it down one of the huge ribs. “Even after I damaged the first, you’ve replaced and got on so quickly and in such fine style... It’s remarkable.”
He glanced questioningly at Wayland, who nodded. “We opened our doors at just the right time. Many of the best craftsmen have been put out of work by the shift to iron ships and steam. We’ve been able to recruit some of the very best, and they’re thrilled to work on projects such as ours. You can’t beat enthusiasm for turning out quality work.”
“I can see that.” Hightham was now studying the rib joints.
Kit could envision Hightham and Wayland standing admiring the hull for hours. Kit shifted and, when Wayland glanced his way, said, “We’ve also had a healthy dose of luck.”
Wayland read the question in Kit’s eyes: Was he sure? Wayland nodded.
Kit looked at Hightham. “John, we can offer you probation for three months. You can start on Monday. Report first to my office in King Street and see my secretary, Miss Petty. She’ll sign you on and sort out everything that needs sorting.”
Hightham looked from Kit to Wayland, then back again. “I...can’t thank you enough.” He swallowed and left it at that.
Kit tipped his head. “Just don’t let us down.”
“I won’t.” The words were a vow, one Kit and Wayland both heard.
Satisfied, Kit glanced at Wayland, who yawned and said, “Now it’s time for me to find my bed.” Wayland glanced at Hightham. “Where are you staying?”
Hightham blushed and sheepishly admitted that he hadn’t anywhere to spend the night. “I’ve a bag out on the cobbles, but... I was saving my funds for getting away quickly after I sent the keel alight.”
Wayland snorted. “I suppose that demonstrates an ability to plan ahead.” He raked his gaze over Hightham. “It might not be the most comfortable bed, but you’re welcome to the couch in my rooms for a few nights—until you can find a decent place to hang your hat.”
The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh Page 23