The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Mayhew drew in a deep breath, then stated, “When my uncle asked me to interfere with the Throgmorton invention enough to ensure it wouldn’t appear at this exhibition, I didn’t understand what he was, in fact, asking me to do. I thought inventions and exhibitions such as this”—Mayhew glanced around—“were...well, more like games. Games played by men with the funds to tinker and dabble in such things—nothing serious at all.” Mayhew glanced around again and his lips tightened. “Obviously, I was ridiculously naive, but this isn’t an area in which I’ve previously been interested—I had nothing more than popular notions by which to judge.”

  Before Rand could ask who Mayhew’s uncle was, Mayhew rolled on, “Then I got to Throgmorton Hall and met Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace, and you, too, and none of you seemed silly and frivolous. You all seemed normal and, well, nice. Honest and welcoming—straightforward, sensible people. I started having second thoughts then. When I left the area the first time, I was debating whether I should continue, but then it seemed I had to, so I returned and tried to find some way to do what my uncle wanted.” Mayhew moistened his lips and lowered his voice. “But then in the woods, when I was chasing Miss Throgmorton, I suddenly realized what I’d done—what sort of man I’d become, or rather, was on the cusp of becoming.”

  Mayhew met Rand’s eyes; Mayhew’s remorse was clear to see. “I didn’t want to be that man. I ran from you both, but I also ran from what I almost became. I waited long enough to see the steam carriage drive away from the Hall—that was the first time I’d seen it. And instantly, I could understand why people get so excited by such things—by the promise they hold for advancements of all sorts.”

  Rand noted the spark that ignited in Mayhew’s eyes, the eager lift in his voice, and recognized the signs.

  “And now...” Mayhew paused, then lightly shrugged. “I’ve given you no cause to believe me, but I swear by all that’s holy that I will never lend myself to such a scheme again.” He hesitated, then rather diffidently added, “I would like to make my apologies to Miss Throgmorton, but I felt it would be wise to clear the air with you first.”

  That was undoubtedly true. And as well as that statement, everything Mayhew had said had rung with sincerity. He was, at base, an honest man, seduced into acting—into attempting to act—outside his nature. So why...? Rand fixed his gaze on Mayhew’s face. “What hold did your uncle have over you?”

  Mayhew shrugged again, and his gaze wandered over the crowd. “The usual.”

  “Debts?”

  Mayhew tried to suppress a grimace. “Too many.” Then he pressed his lips tight.

  That brought them to the most critical question. “Who is your uncle?”

  Mayhew met Rand’s eyes. “Sir Horace Winthrop. Do you know him?”

  Rand nearly laughed, although it wouldn’t have been humorously. His lips thinning, he nodded. “Oh yes. We’re acquainted.”

  “Ah.” Mayhew glanced around. “Well, he’s here somewhere.”

  So Rand had assumed. Despite his dislike of steam-powered machines, there were enough other inventions present to ensure Winthrop’s attendance.

  “The main reason I came,” Mayhew continued, “was to tell old Horace that I hadn’t damaged the steam carriage and wasn’t going to. I told him if he wanted the thing sabotaged, he’d have to do it himself.”

  Rand stilled. A frisson of premonition slithered down his spine. “When did you speak with your uncle?”

  Mayhew frowned. “I’m not sure... Twenty minutes ago, perhaps? It might have been half an hour.” Mayhew glanced at Rand. What he saw in Rand’s face made him draw his hands from his pockets and straighten. “Surely you don’t think...?”

  “You told him to sabotage the engine himself.” Rand turned to look over the heads at the Throgmorton exhibit.

  “It was just a figure of speech.” Mayhew looked, too.

  “Perhaps.” Rand started to push his way toward the exhibit. “But what if old Horace took it literally?”

  “Would he?” Mayhew fell into step beside Rand. Together, they forced their way through the now-packed crowd—the Prince had just moved to view the invention next to the steam carriage.

  After a moment of wondering if he was overreacting and deciding he didn’t care, Rand replied, “If Winthrop was prepared to pay you to sabotage the engine, I believe we have to take it as read that he’s willing to do just about anything to prevent the Throgmorton engine from working.”

  Mayhew huffed—in dismay, rather than disagreement. Regardless, he didn’t argue but helped Rand force his way through the crowd.

  CHAPTER 15

  Rand reached the cordon and their guards. He cast a swift glance at the knot of people around the Prince. Luckily, Albert had asked for a demonstration of the steam-powered threshing machine, and the exhibitors were still stoking their boiler.

  Remembering that William John was scheduled to fire the steam carriage’s engine as soon as the Prince turned toward their exhibit, Rand stepped over the cordon, saying to the nearest guards, “Keep watching.” He jerked a thumb at Mayhew as the artist made to follow. “It’s all right—he’s with me.”

  With Mayhew on his heels, Rand rounded the steam carriage.

  He crouched, and Mayhew did the same.

  “Winthrop couldn’t have got within spitting distance of the other side of the engine.” Rand reached for the knob that secured the side panel of the engine housing. “I can’t imagine how he might have reached this side unseen, but...” He had to check. His instincts were pricking him like hedgehog quills; he couldn’t ignore them.

  He twisted the knob, and the catch released. Smoothly, he lowered the panel. With Mayhew looking over his shoulder, he peered into the engine compartment.

  With his sharp artist’s eyes, Mayhew spotted the anomaly first. “There.” Reaching over Rand’s shoulder, he pointed. “That looks like material—it shouldn’t be there, should it?”

  Rand looked and swore. “No.” He reached for the white band holding down the pressure valve. He felt and found the knot, tried to unpick it, and realized that wouldn’t be easy. “Damn—he’s used his silk handkerchief. The knot’s pulled tight.”

  Grimly, he worked at the knot, frantically trying to ease it apart; they didn’t have much time... An unwelcome thought intruded. Over his shoulder, he murmured urgently to Mayhew, “Look further. This might not be all he did.”

  Rand shifted to the side to allow Mayhew to press closer and peer deeper into the engine compartment.

  Telling himself the artist’s eyes were keen, Rand concentrated on freeing the valve they knew was stuck—one of the critical valves William John had added off the boiler to equalize the pressure...

  “There’s another one—looks like another handkerchief around one of those things.”

  “Valves,” Rand gritted out. “Where?”

  Mayhew pulled back from the compartment. “Farther from the engine. He must have reached it from underneath.”

  Rand gave Mayhew due credit; the artist didn’t hesitate, but rolled onto his back and wriggled beneath the carriage’s underbelly. “I can get this one.”

  Mayhew’s words were indistinct. Rand raised his head and realized the noise from the crowd had grown. The Prince and his entourage must be on the point of moving on.

  His jaw clenching, Rand ducked his head and worked feverishly to ease the knot, but everything he did only seemed to pull it tighter.

  Distantly, he heard Mayhew swear about silken knots.

  Then Mayhew asked, his words faint but clear, “Cavanaugh—what will happen if these valves are still tied down when the engine starts?”

  Rand’s jaw couldn’t clench any tighter. His eyes felt like they were burning, he was concentrating so fiercely on the silk band. “Nothing initially.” His tone, strangely, sounded entirely even. “But then the boiler will explode.”

/>   “Explode?” Mayhew squeaked.

  “Quite spectacularly.” Rand was barely aware of what he was saying, so focused was he on the knot.

  Then with a rustling of skirts and petticoats, Felicia crouched beside him. “What...?” Her hand on his shoulder, her eyes had gone to the tie he was wrestling with. “Good God—is that silk?”

  “Yes! And the damned knot has pulled tight.” Rand was dimly aware her hand had gone from his shoulder; a glimpse from the corner of his eye showed she’d grabbed her reticule and was desperately hunting inside it. “I can’t get this undone.” Through gritted teeth, he ground out, “Go and tell William John to wait for my signal before starting—”

  The coal igniter flared, flames whooshed, and the boiler rattled to life.

  Rand cursed.

  Then Mayhew called, “I’ve got it!”

  He pushed out from under the carriage, triumphantly brandishing the white scrap like a flag.

  Felicia spared him a shocked glance, then her features hardened, and she returned to ferreting in the depths of her reticule.

  The tone of the engine changed as the pressure in the boiler built, but William John hadn’t yet engaged the pistons and gears.

  Without pausing in his desperate tugging at the silk band, Rand shot Mayhew a glance. “Get Miss Throgmorton out of here. Felicia—tell William John to shut the engine down and get everyone back.” The steam engine was going to blow—and the Prince was mere yards away, along with Ryder, Mary, and a host of others Rand cared far too much about.

  “Don’t be daft.” Felicia dropped her reticule and waved a pair of embroidery scissors. “Let me at it.”

  She pushed his shoulder to make him move aside, and despite every instinct screaming against it, Rand gave way.

  The pitch of the engine continued to rise.

  Felicia leaned in. “Keep holding the band taut. That’s it.”

  A split second later, the band slid free.

  The silk clutched in one hand, Rand fell back, sprawling to sit on the floor. Felicia overbalanced, toppled backward, and sat beside him.

  Still crouching alongside the steam carriage, Mayhew looked at them with wide eyes. Now what? he mouthed.

  Rand held up a staying hand. Both he and Felicia were listening intently to the sound of the engine.

  Then Felicia grinned and turned to him. She reached for his arm and gripped hard. “The pressure’s leveled off—it’s going to be all right.”

  He stared at her face, then he raised a hand to her nape, pulled her face to his, and kissed her.

  For one second, he allowed the violent need that owned him to hold sway, to take control of the kiss and ravage and plunder, then he pulled back.

  Mayhew had averted his eyes, looking upward as if listening to William John, who was giving Prince Albert a lecture on the Throgmorton engine’s finer points. The engine was now purring, a reassuringly benign and steady hum.

  Felicia crawled back to the side of the carriage and carefully and silently closed the compartment Rand had opened.

  Seconds later, they heard William John, closer now, open the engine’s other side and then lift the cover over the engine’s top to display the inner workings to Albert, who was predictably taking a very keen interest and asking relevant questions.

  Rand took that as their cue to depart. He returned to a crouch and, using hand signals, directed Mayhew to shuffle to the rear of the carriage, then stand and walk out to the side. As, urging Felicia ahead of him, Rand moved to follow, he felt a draft, looked at the wall, and saw the door Winthrop must have used. Their guards hadn’t fallen down on the job. Winthrop had slithered in like the snake he was.

  After helping Felicia to her feet, Rand guided her and Mayhew to the end of the cordon on that side. Rand paused there to take stock. The crowd was too dense and pressed too closely against the cordon for them to have any chance of slipping into the throng. Luckily, Ryder and Mary had joined the Prince’s party, and the pair now stood on the inside of the cordon, not far from William John, ready to support him if need be.

  Rand drew Felicia’s hand through his arm. Over his shoulder, he said to Mayhew, “Stick close.” Then he led Felicia forward to join Ryder and Mary, which was where, according to their plan, they were supposed to be.

  As Rand settled beside Ryder, without turning his head, Ryder inquired, “Where did you get to?”

  “We’ve been nullifying our would-be saboteur’s efforts.” Rand sensed Ryder shoot a sharp glance at Mayhew and added, “Not him. He helped us.”

  “Which is something you will both need to explain to me later,” Felicia muttered, glancing at Mayhew.

  Rand raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “We will, but later. Definitely later.”

  William John had noticed Felicia’s and Rand’s arrival. He flashed them a relieved smile, but his recitation of the wonders of the improvements he and his father had made to the steam engine didn’t falter. At Felicia’s insistence, William John had somewhat grudgingly agreed to omit her name from the discussion; while Rand had understood Felicia’s reasoning—the involvement of a female wouldn’t be viewed in a positive light by the majority of those present—he’d also sympathized with William John and his dislike of being forced, by default, to accept credit for her work.

  Perhaps that would change in the future, but for now, Rand agreed with Felicia’s pragmatic stance.

  So they stood and listened, and a slow but steady wave of relief and pride welled and rolled through him—through them. He read as much in Felicia’s fine eyes as she glanced at him, the green misty with pride and rising joy.

  William John had come into his own. His confidence in discussing the invention with the Prince, the committee members, and several other inventors who had pressed close was impressive; not once did he falter.

  And when, with what was, for William John, a remarkably graceful gesture, he invited the Prince to step into the carriage for a drive down the hall, the excitement that gripped not just Albert but the entire audience was wonderful to behold.

  After a moment of further discussion, Albert accepted.

  William John spared a triumphant glance for Felicia and Rand, then turned back to show the Prince to the steps to climb up to the carriage’s bench seat.

  Thrilled and eager to witness such an event, the crowd was quite orderly in falling back to clear space for the carriage to turn out of its allotted spot and then roll up the hall.

  Rand doubted he would ever again know a moment like this—the first time an invention he’d backed had been given such a clear stamp of approval from the monarchy. As he and Felicia, together with Ryder and Mary, stepped back with the rest of the onlookers, Rand felt the white silk band still wrapped around his fingers. Releasing Felicia’s arm, he unraveled the remnants of the silk square.

  It was monogrammed. For several seconds, Rand stared at the entwined HW. Then he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder. As he’d instructed, Mayhew had remained close. “I suggest,” Rand said, “that with all attention on the steam carriage, now would be a good time to find your uncle and have a quiet word.”

  Mayhew arched a brow. “He would have waited to see what happened.”

  “Indeed. Let’s catch him before he realizes nothing is going to mar the Prince’s enjoyment and does a bunk.”

  Rand bent his head and whispered to Felicia, “Mayhew and I need to speak to the man who tried to get him to sabotage the engine. You need to stay here in case William John needs any support when he returns. We should be back soon after.”

  She shot him a look, one that stated she was torn, but in the end, she nodded. “All right. Just as long as you tell me all later.”

  He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “I promise.”

  “Do you need help?” Ryder murmured, his gaze fixed on the steam carria
ge.

  Rand thought about it. “Not at this point.”

  Ryder nodded, and Rand turned to Mayhew. Rand tipped his head toward the main doors. “Come on. I would wager your uncle’s still watching and waiting, and I believe he owes us all several boons for preventing the assassination of Prince Albert by his hand.”

  Mayhew blinked, then his eyes widened. “Good Lord! I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Rand smiled grimly, yet predatory satisfaction glimmered in his eyes. “Indeed. I doubt Winthrop did, either, and, in this instance, his handkerchiefs are as good as a calling card.”

  * * *

  They found Winthrop at the rear of the crowd, not far from the main doors. As they approached, he was scowling and rising up on his toes in an attempt to see what was happening over the intervening heads. His peeved expression stated very clearly that he was utterly perplexed as to why the engine—only just audible at this distance—was still running.

  Rand approached from behind Winthrop and dropped a heavy hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Winthrop.”

  Winthrop stiffened, then whirled. For a split second, his expression was aghast, but he immediately recovered, summoning a tight smile and drawing himself up in a vain attempt to look down his nose at Rand.

  Rand simply waited.

  Eventually forced to it, Winthrop inclined his head and managed a rather stilted bow. “Lord Cavanaugh.”

  As he straightened, Winthrop noticed who was standing by Rand’s side, and his expression faltered. “What...?” Then he swallowed and glared. “What are you doing here, boy?”

  Clive smiled. “If you recall, we met earlier, Uncle.”

  Winthrop’s color rose.

  Before he could splutter at Clive, Rand drew Winthrop’s silk handkerchief from his pocket. “I believe this is yours, Winthrop.”