The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

Johnson announced the artist, and Felicia, with Flora at her back, walked into the front hall to find Mayhew piling an easel, a folding stool, and a rather battered artist’s satchel into Joe’s arms.

Felicia smiled and gave Mayhew her hand. After bowing over it, then greeting Flora, Mayhew bestowed a charming smile on Felicia and stated, “If you don’t mind, I would like to commence sketching straightaway. The light’s particularly fine this afternoon, and I don’t want to risk losing it.”

“Of course.” With a wave, she gestured toward the still-open front door. “I’ll come with you and see you settled.” She glanced at Flora. “If you’ll excuse us, cousin?”

Flora smiled. “It’s such a lovely day. I believe I’ll take my embroidery onto the terrace. Enjoy your sketching, Mr. Mayhew.” With a gracious nod to Mayhew, Flora retreated to the drawing room.

Felicia walked toward the door. Mayhew fell in by her side.

“That spot not far from the old fountain was simply perfect,” Mayhew said. “I need look no farther for the perfect view.”

“Excellent.” With a tip of her head, Felicia signaled to Joe to follow them with Mayhew’s equipment.

With Mayhew looking about, an open, apparently relaxed expression on his face, they crunched across the forecourt and tramped over the thick grass toward the spot Mayhew had selected the previous day.

He turned and walked backward as they neared it, his eyes narrowed as he considered the vista. His feet slowed, then he halted. “Yes. This is it.”

The position he’d chosen lay just beyond the shadow cast by an old oak that grew at the edge of the woods. Joe came up and set down his burdens. With a quick “Thank you,” Mayhew picked up his easel and, with efficient, practiced movements, set it up, then he lifted his satchel, unbuckled the flap, reached inside, and carefully drew out a sheet of fine-grained paper.

Felicia watched as Mayhew attached the paper to the board of the easel with pins, then he searched in the satchel again and drew out three pencils. He set the pencils on the tray of the easel and bent to prop the satchel against the easel’s rear leg.

Then he unfolded his stool and set it before the easel.

Puzzled, Felicia said, “I thought you used ink as well as pencil.”

Mayhew flashed her a smile. “I do. But I add the ink later, at a desk. I can get all the detail I need down with pencil, then later, I pick out the strongest lines with ink to complete the sketch.” His expression turned faintly awkward. “Do excuse me if I sit.”

Felicia waved him to his stool. “Of course.” She watched him settle, then asked, “Do you mind if I watch?”

He was already assessing his subject, but in reply, he threw her a vague smile. “By all means.” He looked back at the house. “Some of my brethren dislike anyone near when they work, but as I often sketch in busy streets, I long ago lost all such sensitivity.”

“Ah—of course.” Felicia surveyed the thick grass; courtesy of the warm day, it was dry. She’d draped an old shawl over her elbows in the hope she could remain. She shook out the shawl, spread it on the sward to the side and a little back from Mayhew’s stool, then sat. From her position, she could see his sketch as it came into being. She also had a clear view of his profile.

She bided her time as with swift, sure strokes he laid in the initial lines of his creation. It was pleasant in the shade, with the distant sounds of Reilly snipping canes in the kitchen garden and the occasional clop of hooves and jingle of harness from the stable overlaid by the twittering calls of birds flitting in the woods at her back.

After a time, Mayhew sat back, his gaze rising, then dipping as he compared his rendering with the reality before him, then he set down the pencil he’d used to that point and picked up another.

“Can you talk while you work?” she murmured.

“Hmm? Oh—yes. To a point. If I get caught by a difficult section, I might forget to listen, but in general”—he shot her a swift glance, one that invited her to laugh with him at himself—“I can manage well enough. So if you have questions, by all means, ask away. It’s not often I get to sketch with a delightful lady looking on.”

She suspected he meant questions about his sketching. Her expression relaxed, faintly smiling, she asked, “Did you train to be an artist, or is this a natural talent?”

“Very much a natural talent. My family would have had a fit if I’d set out to be an artist.”

“So what did you set out to be?”

“An idle gentleman, like the majority of my peers.”

“And what changed that?”

“You might say my art called to me. Being idle, I was ripe for distraction, and this—sketching—became my chosen vice.”

“Do you live in London, then?”

“I have lodgings there—nothing salubrious, being a younger son and all.”

“What of your family? Are they in London, too?”