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, helpful
ly 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 surfac
es 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.”
The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh Page 27