Page 17 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

“Excellent!” William John clapped his hands together and beamed.

“I’ll relieve you of this lump.” Ferguson turned and roared to his apprentices. Two hulking lads appeared, and he directed them to lift the twisted wreck of his previous creation from the bed of the cart and carry it inside.

Satisfied—and faintly chuffed at having been able to make a real contribution to the invention, however small—Rand climbed back to the cart’s box seat and untied the reins. William John, happy as a grig, climbed up and sat, and Rand turned the horse out of the smith’s yard and set it trotting back down the village street.

A wagon laden with produce of various types had drawn up outside the general store, and the driver and a lad were carting boxes and crates inside. As a gig had halted outside the butcher’s shop on the other side of the street, Rand had to halt the cart, yet with the issue of the boiler resolved and no reason to rush back, he was content to sit on the box and wait.

William John, of course, was miles distant, no doubt mentally back in his laboratory-workshop.

Rather than get too close to the wagon being unloaded, Rand had halted a short distance up the street. He was idly scanning the various denizens of Hampstead Norreys, mostly the female half of the population busy about their morning shopping, when the door to the general store opened, and Miss Throgmorton stepped out onto the pavement.

A gentleman had held the door for her; he followed close behind, and Miss Throgmorton turned to speak with him, plainly continuing a conversation struck up inside the store.

Rand frowned. “What’s your sister’s Christian name?”

“Hmm? What? Oh.” Absentmindedly, William John volunteered “Felicia,” then returned to his ruminating.

Presentiment tickled Rand’s nape as he watched Felicia Throgmorton chat animatedly to the gentleman as, side by side, they walked down the street, then crossed to the opposite pavement. The pair paused outside the bakery, exchanged several more words, then Miss Throgmorton farewelled the gentleman and went into the shop.

For a moment, the gentleman remained standing outside; Rand wished he could see the man’s expression. Then, with a decidedly jaunty air, the gentleman turned and continued down the street.

The wagon wasn’t yet ready to move. Rand elbowed William John.

“Huh?”

Rand nodded down the street. “Who’s that man?”

William John sat up and peered over the now-depleted wagon. “The one walking toward the inn?”

“Yes. Him.”

William John studied the man, then shook his head. “Never seen him before.”

“He’s not a local?”

“No. I can’t tell you who he is, but I’m quite sure of that.”

At that moment, the wagon driver came out of the store, tipped his hat, and called his thanks to Rand, then the wagoner climbed up and set his horse plodding slowly down the street.

Rand shook the reins and set the cart rolling in the wagon’s wake. Ahead, the unknown gentleman strode along, then turned under the archway of the inn.

By the time the cart had drawn level with the inn yard, the man had disappeared.

Rand faced forward. He waited until the wagon had turned left, back along the lane to Ashampstead. Then he turned the cart right, into the lane, and set the horse trotting back to Throgmorton Hall.

A personable gentleman, apparently unknown in those parts.

Rand reminded himself that it was none of his business to whom Miss Felicia Throgmorton chose to speak. However, a personable gentleman unknown in those parts who happened to strike up a conversation with the daughter of William Throgmorton might be set on gaining rather more than just Miss Throgmorton’s smiles.

And that, most definitely, legitimately fell within Rand’s purview.

CHAPTER 4

On their return to the Hall, given Miss Throgmorton was still in the village, Rand put aside the issue of the unknown gentleman and what business he’d had with her and followed William John into the workshop.

William John had explained that, despite not having the boiler and therefore no steam to harness, there were various tests and trials he could run, all part of his search to rectify the problem of the uncontrollable rise in pressure resulting from the improvements he and his father had made to the engine.

“You make one thing work better, and some other part fails.” William John shook his head. “It’s always the way, but you can never predict exactly where the new problem will be—not until you run the damned thing.”