The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

The following morning, Felicia remained, if not precisely trapped in dreams of where extending such a kiss as she’d been a party to last night might lead, then at the very least, powerfully distracted.

Rand and William John had already departed the breakfast table before she reached it, for which she was thankful. William John wouldn’t notice her abstraction, but the source of it certainly would, and the last thing she wished was for the fact that Rand had started to inhabit her dreams to somehow become evident.

With her blushes spared, she sat and consumed her tea and toast, then girded her loins and, with wholly spurious calm, made her way down the spiral stairs to the workshop. Halting on the second last step, she looked out at the sight of both William John and Rand engrossed in some adjustment that had both of them all but diving headfirst into the bowels of the engine.

Then, as if sensing her presence, Rand looked up.

Their gazes locked, then the line of his lips eased into a smile—one that started a warm glow spreading beneath her skin.

Clasping her hands before her, she managed to haul in a tight breath and drag her gaze to her brother’s downbent head. “Do you need me for anything this morning?”

William John looked up, saw her, and grinned. “No. Fingers crossed, but after those last changes to accommodate the increased power, the whole seems to be reconciled. I’ve got a few more checks and a handful of possible adjustments to do, and then we should be ready to run the final tests.”

Keeping her eyes on her brother’s face, she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get back to my usual day, then.” She turned to leave—and let her gaze briefly touch Rand’s. “Send for me if you need me.”

With that, she retreated to the sitting room. After working her way through her usual meeting with Mrs. Reilly and having learned that the household had run out of ink, she decided to walk into the village and rectify the shortage.

A basket on her arm, she set off through the woods, following the path the man she’d seen fleeing the house after the attempted break-in had taken. Above her head, birds flitted in the branches, and the sun shone warmly from the summer-blue sky. The air was fresh and clear; with her basket swinging, she walked along, smiling delightedly for no reason beyond her happiness with her life as it was—as it now was, post the changes consequent on Lord Randolph Cavanaugh arriving at her home.

The path was the shortest route to the village; soon, she was in the general store. After chatting with the owner, she purchased two bottles of ink. On quitting the store, she paused on the pavement to settle the ink bottles in the bottom of the basket. Satisfied with their arrangement, she raised her head and stepped—directly into a gentleman who had to have crossed the road to materialize so suddenly before her.

Gripping the basket with both hands, she fell back.

The gentleman stepped back, too. “My apologies, Miss Throgmorton.” Mr. Mayhew smiled at her. “Well met, dear lady.” His gaze fell to her basket, and he held out a hand. “Let me help you with that.”

“Er...good morning, Mr. Mayhew—it’s not at all heavy.” Nevertheless, Felicia found herself surrendering the basket—then wished she hadn’t; she’d have to get it back from him before she left him. She hid a frown. “I confess I hadn’t expected to see you back quite so soon, sir.”

Mayhew’s charming smile lit his face. “I arrived last night. The weather’s been unusually benign, so my sketching for the News went faster than I’d anticipated. I’ve been able to take that short holiday I mentioned earlier than planned.”

“I see.” With the engine so near completion and the exhibition only a week away, Mayhew’s reappearance—as he’d admitted, earlier than he’d flagged—opened a deep vein of suspicion inside her. Endeavoring to keep all sign of wariness from her face and voice, she waved down the street. “I was about to head home.”

“Ah.” Mayhew glanced in that direction, then met her eyes. “I wonder if you would take tea with me, Miss Throgmorton. In the inn.” He tipped his head toward the inn on the opposite side of the street. “I would like to show you my most recent sketches—I would value your opinion.”

She searched his eyes, but they and his expression remained open, and nothing more than honest earnestness shone through. She remained unsure if he was genuine or not, but she knew all the staff at the inn, and taking tea in a public place posed no risk. Besides, she told herself, as she smiled and inclined her head in acceptance, learning more about Mayhew wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, Mr. Mayhew. I would be delighted to take tea with you and view your recent sketches.”

He beamed at her and offered his arm.

She laid her hand on his sleeve, and they crossed the street and entered the inn.

At that time of day, even the tap was quiet, and the ladies’ parlor alongside was empty of occupants other than them. She led the way to the table beneath the window, where the light streaming in offered steady illumination.

As previously, Mayhew had his ever-present satchel slung over one shoulder. After setting her basket on the floor by her chair, he opened the satchel, extracted a sheaf of sketches, then hung the satchel on the back of the chair opposite her, sat, and placed the sketches on the table before her.

Despite all wariness, she reached for the pile with unfeigned eagerness. If these were as good as those he’d earlier

shown her and Flora, they would be worth looking at.

Sure enough, as, slowly, she turned page after page, she was treated to a cornucopia of gentle country scenes, each with some small detail that delighted. Every view was exquisitely and evocatively rendered, displaying a fine eye as well as a fine hand at work. That Mayhew was an exceptional artist was undeniable.

The serving girl appeared and, deep in his sketches, Felicia vaguely heard him order tea. The tray arrived, and she roused herself enough to pour, then, sipping, continued her perusal of Mayhew’s recent work. Given that there were more than twenty sketches in the pile, she could understand that he might feel a short holiday was in order.

She finished studying the final sketch and laid it with its fellows. Then she raised her gaze. “These are very impressive, sir.”

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’m glad you think so, Miss Throgmorton.”

“It was a pleasure to have the opportunity to view them.” She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Mayhew’s smile faded. “Actually”—he leaned forward, his forearms on the table and his cup cradled between his long-fingered artist’s hands—“I was especially glad to meet with you again.” When she glanced up, he caught her gaze. “I wanted to ask if you and your family would permit me to sketch the Hall again, this time from different angles.”