“In that case,” Flora said, “we’ll leave you to your sketching, Mr. Mayhew. Do drop by if you find yourself in the neighborhood again.”
“Thank you.” Mayhew hesitated, then said, “Actually, I’ve been so greatly taken with the scenery hereabouts—it’s particularly well-suited to my style—that I’ve been thinking of taking a short holiday and remaining in the district to work on more sketches, entirely for myself.”
Felicia blinked as alarms jangled in her brain.
“How lovely!” Flora replied. “It really is a very pleasant region of the country.”
“Indeed.” Mayhew glanced at Felicia, meeting her gaze. “I was wondering, Miss Throgmorton, given that I will be remaining in the area, if you would be agreeable to me calling on you sometime—purely a social call?”
What? Her gaze on Mayhew’s perfectly serious face, for the first time in years, Felicia felt flustered. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, yet no matter how she stared, she couldn’t see—couldn’t sense at any level—that Mayhew was attracted to her.
So why was he asking leave to call?
Her own words from that morning echoed in her head. Of course, once Mayhew completes his sketch, there’ll be no reason for him to return.
Assuming he was innocent of having designs on the engine had been her rationale.
Her suspicions of Mayhew came roaring back.
Before she’d gathered her wits enough to form any reply, Flora, smiling benevolently, declared, “Of course we’d be delighted to see you, sir, whenever you are free to call.”
Mayhew shot a questioning look at Felicia.
She’d rallied by then and managed a creditably gracious smile. “You’ll be very welcome, sir.” What else could she say?
Mayhew bowed elegantly. “Thank you, ladies. For now, I wish you a pleasant afternoon and evening.”
With Flora, Felicia took her leave of Mayhew.
Flora linked her arm with Felicia’s as they strolled slowly across the lawn toward the open front door. Knowing full well that Flora didn’t need the support, once they were out of Mayhew’s hearing, Felicia arched a brow at her chaperon.
Flora smiled. “Petunia told me about your suspicions of Mayhew.” Petunia was the lady’s maid Felicia and Flora shared. “I’ve been living here since your mother died, and I’ve learned enough of the way things are regarding inventions to comprehend the situation. Given Mayhew asked to call again...well, my dear, let’s just say that I believe in that old adage about keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer.”
Such words coming from the soft and matronly Flora made Felicia want to laugh; if the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have. Instead, as they neared the forecourt, she patted Flora’s arm. “I believe I agree with you on that.”
* * *
Rand stood with his back against the bole of an ancient beech and watched Felicia and Flora retreat into the house.
He’d been in position for the past several hours; Johnson had tipped him off after Mayhew and Felicia had walked onto the lawn. Rand had left the workshop via the rear doors, stridden around to the stable, and slipped into the woods beyond, then he’d worked his way around under the cover of the trees until he’d found this spot; situated just inside the edge of the woods directly behind Mayhew’s back as he sat before his easel, the tall beech had branches that draped nearly to the ground. Being in full summer leaf, the dipping branches effectively screened Rand while allowing him to study Mayhew.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t close enough to have eavesdropped on the conversations between Mayhew and Felicia, and, later, Flora. He’d had to try to guess what was being said from expressions and gestures, and through most of it, Felicia had had her back to him.
Rand debated showing himself—debated what benefits or problems might accrue.
He wasn’t close enough to see the details of Mayhew’s work, but after the ladies had left him, Mayhew had fixed a fresh sheet of paper to his easel and was swiftly and efficiently sketching, to all appearances deeply immersed in his work.
Rand had to admit that even now, when he couldn’t know he was under observation, Mayhew still looked and behaved as an artist would.
That tipped the scales toward the possibility that Mayhew was, in fact, simply an artist. If so, then there was some other man lurking with intent to destroy the engine.
Rand frowned, possibilities, conjecture, and speculation whirling in his brain.
Minutes ticked by. Mayhew’s hand worked at speed, rapidly covering the paper with what, from Rand’s position, appeared to be scribbles in shades of gray. Comparing what was taking shape with the earlier sketch, Rand suspected Mayhew would finish soon.
Making up his mind, Rand pushed away from the tree and quit the safety of its draping canopy. Silently, he worked his way to the right—Mayhew’s blind side as he looked from the house to his sketch. Eventually emerging onto the lawn, Rand settled his coat, then, as if he’d been taking a constitutional on the south lawn, strolled toward Mayhew.
Mayhew was so engrossed, he didn’t see or sense Rand until he halted a mere yard away.