The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)
He gathered his sketches and set them on top of his satchel. He had only seconds to steel himself before the door to the living room opened, and two heavy, beefy mountains of men marched through.
The latter closed the door and stood, feet apart, before it—as if Clive might rush past the other and attempt to escape.
The first man steadily advanced, his small eyes locked on Clive. The bruiser halted by the chair. His expression impassive, he studied Clive for an unnerving few seconds, taking in the nearly empty glass, then his gaze shifted to the sketches and the satchel on the side table.
Clive tensed—which brought the mountain’s gaze back to his face.
Finally, the man spoke, his voice surprisingly light. “The guv’nor wants his money.”
Gripping his glass, Clive slowly nodded. “I said I’d have it for him in a few weeks—on the twenty-fifth. He agreed to wait.”
The mountain nodded back. “That he did, and the guv’nor is a man of his word. He just sent us around to remind you of that.”
And to remind Clive of the detailed and quite hideously violent promises their “guv’nor,” Quire, had assured Clive would come to pass should Clive fail to meet his latest deadline.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
The mountain studied him for another few seconds, then glanced at the sketches. “Seems like you’ve been out playing.”
Fighting down the urge to reach for the sketches, Clive straightened in the chair. “I’ll get paid for those.”
“P’raps.” The mountain returned his unnerving gaze to Clive. “But not nearly enough.”
Clive inclined his head. “True. But I have other...irons in the fire, so to speak.”
The mountain chuffed out a laugh. “Irons in the fire, heh?” The behemoth exchanged a grinning glance with his friend. “I must remember to share that with the guv’nor. He’ll enjoy a good laugh.”
Clive’s blood chilled at the reminder of one of the more gruesome threats their master had made.
The behemoth’s gaze returned to Clive’s face, and now cruelty was etched in the man’s expression. “The guv’nor said to remind you that if you fail to turn up with the entire sum, interest and all, the very first thing he’ll have us break is those lily-white hands of yours. Every single bone. He’s given you a last chance—don’t disappoint him.”
Having delivered that chilling ultimatum, the brute turned on his heel and marched toward the door. His mate opened it and stepped back.
The first man went out and started down the stairs. The second man, until then silent, pinned Clive with eyes that held less expression than a dead fish’s. “I’d listen to him if I were you.”
The man turned and went out of the door and quietly shut it behind him.
Clive stared at the panel. Only when he heard the street door shut did he manage to haul in a breath.
Slowly, he exhaled.
After several seconds, he raised his glass and tossed back the last of the sour-tasting brandy. Then he shuddered. He glanced at the sketches lying on his satchel. After setting the empty glass on the floor, he picked up the sketches, stowed them in the satchel, then rose, the satchel held between his hands.
He stared at the satchel.
He had only one talent to his name—only one way of earning a living.
Those at Throgmorton Hall enjoyed a pleasant home in a lovely, peaceful setting. They plainly had the wherewithal to keep the place up even while throwing money at inventions.
Having one invention fail wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.
Not succeeding in making that invention fail would be the end for him.
* * *
That evening, as dusk deepened, edging toward night, Rand stepped out onto the terrace. He breathed deeply, then walked down the steps onto the lawn, slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and started pacing.
He had no destination in mind; he let his feet wander where they would. His room had been warmed by the afternoon sun, and he’d felt a need for fresher air to clear his mind and settle his somewhat peripatetic thoughts.