The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)
Unhurriedly, she walked toward him, very aware of the way he watched her as she approached. His gaze appeared dark and intent, ruthlessly focused, and something powerful lurked behind the molten caramel of his eyes.
The touch of that gaze felt delicious and left her faintly breathless.
Nevertheless, she summoned a slight smile and, with it curving her lips, she halted beside him. He straightened from the balustrade. She placed her hands on the stone coping and looked down the lawn.
He settled beside her, idly glancing in the same direction before he brought his gaze to her face. “Anything?”
“He reacted to the valve blowing.” A sudden thought occurred, and she slanted a glance at his face. “Did you arrange that, by any chance?”
He shrugged. “We wanted to test Mayhew—I asked William John to fake something minor.”
She humphed. “Well, Mayhew reacted, but as I wasn’t warned, I only caught the tail end of his response.” She frowned as she replayed the moment in her mind. “There was something in his eyes...but I can’t say what it was. It might have been nothing more than surprise, yet it seemed rather more calculating.” She shook her head. “Other than that, there was absolutely nothing in his behavior to point to—no hint of awareness of the invention and not a single sign he has any designs on gaining entrance to the house.”
She looked up and briefly met Rand’s eyes. “It’s intensely frustrating. On the one hand, I feel ready to declare him nothing more than the artist he purports to be—and I really don’t think there can be any doubt that he truly is that. But whether he also intends to tamper with the invention...as to that, I’m still in two minds.”
She fell silent, frowning out at the lawn.
Rand looked down the green expanse to the oak tree and strengthened his hold on his temper’s reins. “I heard you agree to sit for him tomorrow. What the devil possessed you?”
Somewhat to his own surprise, his tone suggested that, while her agreeing to sit for Mayhew very definitely didn’t meet with his approval, he was prepared to hear that she had some logical and rational reason for doing so.
The glance she threw him, the light in her green eyes, suggested she’d heard and interpreted his words in just that way. A faint smile curved her lips as she proved him right. “If I’m sitting for Mayhew, then he, in turn, will be sitting before me, under my eye the entire time. He will have no opportunity to sneak away anywhere.” She paused, then, meeting his eyes, admitted, “I’m leaning toward accepting that Mayhew is simply an artist, and his appearance here at this time is, indeed, nothing more than coincidence. However, it would be best for us to settle our suspicions of him once and for all, so if he reaches the point of finishing his sketch without doing or saying anything to suggest an interes
t in the invention, I plan on mentioning the workshop and, possibly, the engine, and seeing if he rises to more specific bait.”
He narrowed his eyes on hers. “What if he professes an interest and asks to see it—workshop or invention?”
She held his gaze and lightly shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.” Her chin firmed. “Regardless, it’s time we knew for certain whether or not Mayhew poses a danger to us. William John will be running the final tests tomorrow, and the exhibition is only days away—if Mayhew is intent on sabotage, we need to flush him out.”
He didn’t disagree and couldn’t argue. He held her gaze steadily. “I’ll be in the woods, as close as I can be. I’ll be watching Mayhew’s every move.”
Her smile bloomed, warm enough to banish all his fears. “Yes, of course. I was counting on that.”
CHAPTER 10
At three o’clock the following afternoon, Felicia was seated at the far end of the south lawn in one of the cane armchairs from the terrace; her back was to the house, and her parasol was raised, artfully shading her face.
Before her, Clive Mayhew sat behind his easel, his entire focus on the sketch he was creating with swift, sure strokes.
Felicia wasn’t even sure he saw her as an animate entity.
It had taken a good few minutes for him to direct her into the correct pose. She’d been sitting with her shoes flat on the grass, her head raised a fraction and tilted to her left, with the parasol riding over her left shoulder for the last thirty minutes.
About them, the summer afternoon stretched, somnolent and lazy. The air was weighted with the smell of freshly cut hay, the sweet scent wafting under the hand of an oh-so-gentle breeze. Insects—bees in the kitchen garden, perhaps—droned in the distance, while nearer to hand, the occasional bird chirped in the thick undergrowth beneath the wood’s trees.
Felicia stifled a sigh. She was already well and truly bored. Before she’d struck her pose, she’d glimpsed Rand in the dappled shadows of the wood—not behind Mayhew but to her left. The last glimpse she’d had of him, he’d been leaning with one shoulder propped against a bole, arms crossed, his gaze undeviatingly fixed on her and Mayhew.
For his part, Mayhew had been so focused on the view he’d intended to sketch, he’d spared not a glance for the woods; she would wager her mother’s pearls he was utterly oblivious to their watcher beneath the trees.
Even if Mayhew did look searchingly around, she doubted he would spot Rand; that helpful bole would largely screen him from Mayhew’s sight.
Without shifting position, she studied Mayhew. He was seated on his folding stool, his attention wholly on his sketch. He was using several pencils, one, then another, gripping those not in use in his left hand while his right hand moved swiftly across the paper. He didn’t seem to even look to decide which pencil was which; his fingers seemed to know them by feel.
Again, the proof that Mayhew truly was an artist was displayed for anyone to see.
Felicia inwardly sighed and started composing a suitable incidental comment with which to allude to inventions and inventors.
She’d almost crafted a workable sentence when a massive bang! exploded from the house—from the workshop.