Mayhew looked up with a start. “Ah.” He blinked, then inclined his head. “Good afternoon.” Mayhew gestured with his pencil. “I’ve permission to sketch the house.”
Rand nodded. “Felicia—Miss Throgmorton—mentioned you would be by. Mayhew, isn’t it?” Rand offered his hand. “I’m Lord Randolph.”
It was useful to have a first name that could be taken for a surname.
Mayhew rose, transferred his pencil to his other hand, and gripped Rand’s. As their hands parted and Mayhew subsided onto his stool, he asked, “You’re a neighbor?”
Rand shifted to study Mayhew’s sketch. “I’m a friend of the family. I’m visiting for a few days before I head home.”
“I see.” Mayhew waited, but when Rand said nothing more, Mayhew raised his pencil and continued sketching.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Rand considered the sketch and inwardly frowned. He did, in fact, know several artists. One of Mary’s connections was the famous portraitist Gerrard Debbington. Through attending several exhibitions of Debbington’s works, Rand had met other artists; it was becoming fashionable, once again, to be the patron of a talented artist.
Mayhew was talented. Rand had learned enough of art to appreciate that. There was something in the way he laid down lines that was insightful, that drew the observer into the picture.
Mayhew’s sketch was just lines on paper, yet it conveyed much more.
Ran
d’s inner conviction that Mayhew was behind the attack on the workshop wavered.
His hands sunk in his pockets, Rand shifted, then said, “You’re exceptionally good.”
Mayhew glanced briefly his way. A smile touched his lips. “Thank you.” After a second in which he added two fine lines, he murmured, “Grudgingly given praise is often the most satisfying.”
Rand laughed—he couldn’t help it. “That’s...very true.” He chuckled and inclined his head. “Touché, Mr. Mayhew.”
Oh, this was not good. Rand sternly told himself he didn’t want to like Mayhew. He still thought the artist turning up at just that time, his glimpse of a man lurking, and the attempted break-in was too much coincidence to swallow.
Returning to his purpose, he took advantage of Mayhew’s breaking the ice to further his knowledge of the man via the usual information men such as they might exchange during just such an impromptu meeting. They spoke of London, of clubs and hells, of the theatre and the latest generally known scandals. Mayhew knew his way about London and was also well acquainted with Fleet Street and the newspaper offices, as well as with the City—although whether his knowledge of the Bank of England and other such buildings was because of his use of their facilities or because he’d sketched them, Rand wasn’t sure.
Somewhat to Rand’s consternation, Mayhew responded to all his queries—the subtle probes as well as the outright questions—with easy candor and with answers that painted him as precisely who he purported to be, namely, the younger son of an established family who had taken to sketching to supplement his income and make his mark.
There was absolutely nothing Mayhew let fall that supported the thesis that he was an agent of some inventor or investor intent on sabotaging the Throgmorton steam engine.
Of course, as Rand well knew, the ton had no shortage of accomplished liars.
Finally, Mayhew rose from his stool, pushed it aside, and stepped back from his easel. After a moment of comparing the sketch with the house, he nodded. “That’s it.” Gathering his pencils in one hand, Mayhew reached around the easel for his satchel. He glanced up at Rand. Seeing the slight frown on Rand’s face, he said, “This is the second sketch I’ve done. The light’s going, but I’ve got all I need to be able to complete the inking at the inn. They have a room under the eaves that has lovely light—perfect for the work.”
Rand nodded his understanding. He watched as Mayhew folded his easel, collapsed the stool, then shouldered his satchel and lifted easel and stool.
Rand waved toward the forecourt. “I’ll walk with you.”
Mayhew’s lips quirked, but with an inclination of his head, he accepted Rand’s escort.
They were halfway across the lawn when Mayhew, his gaze fixed on the stable, said, “I mentioned to Miss Throgmorton that I was thinking of taking a short holiday in the area and might call in at some time. However, I’ve recalled that my arrangement with the News requires several more sketches of other villages before I can call my time my own. Consequently, I’ll be out of the area for a few weeks.” Mayhew glanced at Rand. “Could I ask you to convey that to Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace, and to assure them that I’ll drop by with the sketch I promised them when I return?”
Maintaining a genial but uninformative mien, Rand inclined his head. “I’ll pass the message on.”
They reached the stable yard. This time, Mayhew had arrived in a gig. While he strapped his easel and folding stool to the back of the seat, Rand noted the stamp on the gig’s side that proclaimed it the property of the Green Man Inn in Basildon. The horse between the shafts bore the same inn’s brand.
With his equipment stored, Mayhew slung his satchel onto the seat and climbed up. He nodded at Rand. “I’ll bid you a good day, Lord Randolph.”
“Good sketching,” Rand dryly replied.
Mayhew grinned, snapped off a salute, then shook the reins.
Rand stood back and watched the gig rattle down the drive. Even when the trees hid Mayhew from sight, Rand remained staring after the artist.