The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

Clive reached him and halted before him. His nephew inclined his head respectfully. “Uncle. I hoped to find you here.”

The boy looked rather stern, almost grim.

Sir Horace’s nerves fluttered, and he glanced swiftly around. “What about the Throgmorton party? Is there any chance of them seeing you—us?”

“They’re nowhere near, and I don’t plan on remaining for long.”

Sir Horace relaxed, and his earlier satisfaction bloomed anew. He returned his gaze to Clive and smiled approvingly. “Excellent, my boy! I must congratulate you—”

“No.”

Sir Horace blinked. Looking more closely at Clive’s face, he realized that it was, indeed, grim resolution that was increasingly overtaking his nephew’s expression.

“There’s no reason for congratulations.” Clive drew in a breath, straightened, and, from his more lofty height, looked censoriously down on Sir Horace. “The only reason I’m here is to tell you to your face that I want nothing whatever to do with your scheme. I’ve seen the Throgmorton steam carriage in action, and as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”

Sir Horace lost all ability to maintain his superior façade. Aghast, he stared at Clive. “Wh-what?”

“It’s next to immoral—trying to hold back progress like that, and purely for your own ends, I have no doubt.” Clive slid his hands into his pockets and cast a wary glance at the crowd around them. “I find it difficult to conceive of the degree of sheer selfishness that would prompt you to attempt to damage an invention of such promise, but regardless, I want no part of it. God knows how I’ll find the money I need, but I’d rather do a bunk to the Continent than prosper from a nasty, nefarious scheme like yours.” Clive met Sir Horace’s wide eyes. “You mistook me, Uncle—I’m not such a blackguard.”

Sir Horace’s reeling wits latched on to the critical point. “The steam carriage works? It hasn’t been tampered with?”

“Yes. And no. As I said, as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”

Sir Horace’s expression blanked as he stared disaster in the face. Only two days ago, he’d pooh-poohed the Throgmorton steam carriage to his most valuable investor, pouring scorn on all of Cavanaugh’s projects as well as on the entire concept of horseless carriages...and now one of the damned devices was going to be demonstrated there, in front of the crème de la crème of the inventing world, Prince Albert included? With Cavanaugh smiling in triumph in the background? “No!” Sir Horace seized Clive’s sleeve and focused on his nephew’s face. “You don’t understand. You must stop it!”

Clive’s expression hardened. He detached Sir Horace’s clutching fingers from his sleeve. “No, Uncle. I will not act for you in this.”

Sir Horace opened his mouth—

Clive cut him off with a disgusted look and “If you want it done, you’ll have to stir your stumps and do it yourself.” With a last hard look, Clive stated definitively, “I want nothing more to do with you or your schemes.”

With that, Clive stepped past Sir Horace and disappeared into the crowd.

Sir Horace stood rooted to the spot, uncaring of the bodies jostling him as the crowd streamed past, as a vision of utter ruination—financial, reputational, and ultimately personal—took far-too-solid shape in his mind.

In seconds, he’d moved well beyond horrified. “I can’t let this happen.” The mutter sounded hollow and distant in his ears.

Devastation loomed, second by second drawing inexorably closer. Slowly, he swiveled and looked down the hall toward where the Throgmorton exhibit stood in all its glory. He couldn’t see it; the crowds were now far too dense to see more than a few yards in any direction.

But he knew it was there.

Knew that if he was to have any chance of coming about, he would have to act now. The Prince would arrive shortly. There was really no way around it. He would have to do as Clive had said and attend to the matter himself.

How to do that—how to bring about the disastrous failure he’d envisioned for the Throgmorton steam engine—he didn’t know, but he would have to try.

On the heels of that fainthearted resolution, a stir about the main doors had everyone turning that way. Sir Horace looked, too, and swallowed a groan. The Prince had arrived. Sir Horace’s time—his moment of reckoning—was nigh.

Along with the rest of the crowd, Sir Horace stood unmoving, his gaze directed toward the main doors as the Prince was welcomed by the chairman of the organizing committee, then His Highness said a few words in his accented English.

By the time the resulting enthusiastic applause had faded and the Prince, surrounded by the fawning committee members, embarked on his progress down the hall, Sir Horace had found his backbone. He’d also managed to formulate a plan.

His first step had to be to gain access to the Throgmorton steam engine without being seen.

His earlier view of the Throgmorton display was blazoned on his brain. He hadn’t missed the cordon of guards Cavanaugh had arranged in an arc before and to either side of the steam carriage.

Sir Horace’s lips twisted in a sickly smile, and he made his way up the hall, pushing past the knot of people gathered about the Prince as Albert chatted with the first exhibitor. Finally, Sir Horace gained the main doors and stepped into the foyer. Although people were walking to and fro across the large, open space, no officials were stationed there anymore—they were all inside hovering about the Prince. Relieved—and taking it as a sign that Fate was on his side—Sir Horace drew in a breath, puffed out his chest, and walked to the right, to the service door set into the foyer paneling. On reaching it, he cast a last swift glance around, but no one was taking the slightest notice of him. He opened the door, walked through, and closed it behind him.

As he’d remembered from previous exhibitions there, the door gave onto a long corridor running the length of the hall. As the exhibition hall was frequently used to host large official dinners, it was necessary to give staff access to the hall from both sides.