The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

It hadn’t been any pipe, but a valve blowing. She recogniz

ed the sound. What the devil was William John doing? He was supposed to be finishing off and getting ready for the final tests, not blowing valves.

Felicia drained her cup. She saw Mayhew had done the same. “Perhaps,” she said, setting down her saucer and reaching for his, “you and I should go outside, and you can show me the view you’d like to sketch.”

“Excellent.” Mayhew rose and, with ready courtesy and his never-failing charm, took his leave of Flora, shaking her hand and promising to mention her to a distant relative who they’d agreed she might have met.

When Mayhew straightened and looked her way, Felicia waved him to the open doors and the terrace beyond, then led the way.

As she stepped onto the terrace flags, she swiftly glanced to her left, but if Rand had been there, he’d beaten a retreat. With Mayhew by her side, she descended the central steps to the lawn and started strolling down its length.

Mayhew, with his long legs, easily kept pace. After several moments, he glanced at her face. “I do hope you don’t think I’m”—he gestured vaguely—“taking advantage, as it were.”

Puzzled, she glanced at him. “No. You’re quite welcome to sketch the house.” You’re not welcome to interfere with our invention.

“Oh, right, then.” Mayhew’s smile returned, and he looked ahead, then pointed to the large oak at the bottom of the lawn. “I think the best spot will be somewhere around there.”

Felicia had been wondering where Rand was. She’d glanced at the woods bordering the lawn several times, but hadn’t seen him. Then from the corner of her eye, she fleetingly glimpsed a shadowy figure keeping pace along one of the deer trails.

He was too far away to hear their words, but close enough to watch and observe.

They reached the oak, and Mayhew halted. He turned and surveyed the house, then he embarked on a voluble examination of angles and light and shadow.

She listened and observed, yet not once did she glimpse anything incongruent in his actions or words, not even in his tone or his expression.

Mayhew was an artist intent on sketching the house. There wasn’t anything else—any hint of ulterior motive or mission—to be seen.

Was that because their imputed ulterior motive didn’t exist, or was it there, but he was glib enough not to let it show?

Could Mayhew be this superbly duplicitous?

Felicia eyed him and simply didn’t know.

Eventually, he fell silent. After several moments of staring at the house, now frowning slightly, he turned to her. “I don’t like to ask it of you, but to make this sketch the best it can be, I need something—some object—in the foreground to anchor the perspective and make sense of the view.” He caught her gaze. “You’ll have seen how I do that in some of those sketches I showed you earlier. The object in the foreground. Like the pump in the inn yard, or the signpost in one of the landscapes.”

She did remember and nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she asked, “What sort of object do you need for this view?” She tipped her head toward the house.

He drew breath and, with one of his most appealing smiles, said, “I would really like you.” He swung to gesture with both arms. “Sitting in one of those chairs from the terrace—the cane armchairs. Just there.” He waved at the spot, then looked toward the house, eyes narrowing as if examining the effect he wanted to create. His voice soft and low, he murmured, “If you have a flowy gown, something in a pale and lightweight fabric, and a parasol...that will do wonders for contrasting with the sharp lines of the house, throwing them into greater visual relief.”

Felicia consulted her instincts. Mayhew was standing only feet away, yet her instincts still did not see him as a threat; they never had. It was her mind that harbored suspicions of him.

And if she was sitting out here with him...he wouldn’t have any chance to wander closer to the house, to perhaps attempt to get into the workshop. Meanwhile, she would have an opportunity to further interrogate him in a setting and at a time when he might let down his guard.

She’d already observed that, when they were working, artists and inventors were much alike; they became absorbed and forgot about the wider world and, indeed, most else.

She looked at Mayhew and met his eager, almost childishly pleading gaze. “All right.” She nodded. “I’ll sit for you.”

She wouldn’t be alone with him; she felt absolutely certain Rand would be only as far away as the nearest cover.

* * *

After weathering Mayhew’s abundant gratitude and making arrangements for him to return at two o’clock the next day, Felicia walked him back to the forecourt and waved him on his way.

He was now driving a gig, hired from some inn during his travels, she assumed; she hadn’t recognized the brand on the rear panel.

Once Mayhew had rattled out of sight around the curve in the drive, she looked around, expecting to see Rand emerge from the woods. When he didn’t, she walked around to the south side of the house and climbed the steps at the end of the terrace.

Stepping onto the flags, she saw Rand waiting, leaning against the balustrade outside the drawing room.