Page 26 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Rand nodded. “Well said. I agree.” Shields had already reported on the rotation Corby and he had devised. Rand outlined their plan. “So as well as William John, there will always be at least one extra man in the workshop throughout the day. And at night, two men will be on duty at all times.”

Felicia was listening intently. Rand glanced at William John. Their inventor appeared to have drifted back to mentally wrestling with tubes and valves. Rand returned his gaze to Felicia’s green eyes. “That should ensure the invention remains safe—unsabotaged.”

She nodded, then, holding his gaze, pushed back her chair. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep a close eye on Mr. Mayhew while he completes his sketch.” She swiveled on the chair, about to rise, then paused and said, “Regarding Mr. Mayhew…just in case he is involved, presumably working as an agent for someone else, I thought I might use the hours while he’s here to tease more information from him as to his background, his connections—the usual sorts of things a lady might bring up in conversation.”

Rand hadn’t wanted to ask, but was quick to nod encouragingly. “You never know what he might let fall, especially if he’s distracted with his sketching.”

She cut a swift glance at her brother. “My thoughts exactly.” She rose, and Rand came to his feet.

William John grunted as if their movement had disturbed his train of thought. He pushed back his chair and stood as well.

As Rand rounded the table, Felicia turned to the door. “Of course, once Mayhew completes his sketch, there’ll be no reason for him to return.”

“True.” Rand followed her into the front hall. “But even if he doesn’t openly return here, we won’t know if he remains in the area. There are too many villages and hamlets within easy reach to check.”

“Indeed.” She nodded. “I’ll see what I can learn this afternoon.”

With that, she sailed off to what Rand had learned was her sitting room—on the other side of the hall from the drawing room. Mrs. Reilly was already waiting by the door, a sheaf of papers in her hands. The housekeeper followed Felicia inside and shut the door.

William John, his hands sunk in his pockets, his head down—deep in thought—had already ambled past, heading for the workshop stairs.

Rand studied the closed sitting room door. Even more than previously, he didn’t like the idea of Felicia Throgmorton interacting with Mayhew, especially alone upon the lawn at some distance from the house. Then again, Rand wouldn’t be far away, and he most certainly would be watching like a hawk. The thick woods that circled the house were proving to be a blessing.

He wished he could think of some alternative, but in the circumstances, it was undoubtedly wise to learn what they could about Mayhew, and in accomplishing that, Felicia stood a far better chance of success than he.

If learning that William Throgmorton was dead and the invention Rand had so much riding on was not yet complete had been a rude shock, learning that someone was intent on sabotaging said invention was an even more unwelcome complication.

Inwardly shaking his head, with nothing more he could usefully do at that point, Rand walked to the workshop stairs and followed William John down.

When Clive Mayhew arrived, Felicia was seated with Flora in the drawing room, waiting to welcome him.

Johnson announced the artist, and Felicia, with Flora at her back, walked into the front hall to find Mayhew piling an easel, a folding stool, and a rather battered artist’s satchel into Joe’s arms.

Felicia smiled and gave Mayhew her hand. After bowing over it, then greeting Flora, Mayhew bestowed a charming smile on Felicia and stated, “If you don’t mind, I would like to commence sketching straightaway. The light’s particularly fine this afternoon, and I don’t want to risk losing it.”

“Of course.” With a wave, she gestured toward the still-open front door. “I’ll come with you and see you settled.” She glanced at Flora. “If you’ll excuse us, cousin?”

Flora smiled. “It’s such a lovely day. I believe I’ll take my embroidery onto the terrace. Enjoy your sketching, Mr. Mayhew.” With a gracious nod to Mayhew, Flora retreated to the drawing room.

Felicia walked toward the door. Mayhew fell in by her side.

“That spot not far from the old fountain was simply perfect,” Mayhew said. “I need look no farther for the perfect view.”

“Excellent.” With a tip of her head, Felicia signaled to Joe to follow them with Mayhew’s equipment.

With Mayhew looking about, an open, apparently relaxed expression on his face, they crunched across the forecourt and tramped over the thick grass toward the spot Mayhew had selected the previous day.

He turned and walked backward as they neared it, his eyes narrowed as he considered the vista. His feet slowed, then he halted. “Yes. This is it.”

The position he’d chosen lay just beyond the shadow cast by an old oak that grew at the edge of the woods. Joe came up and set down his burdens. With a quick “Thank you,” Mayhew picked up his easel and, with efficient, practiced movements, set it up, then he lifted his satchel, unbuckled the flap, reached inside, and carefully drew out a sheet of fine-grained paper.

Felicia watched as Mayhew attached the paper to the board of the easel with pins, then he searched in the satchel again and drew out three pencils. He set the pencils on the tray of the easel and bent to prop the satchel against the easel’s rear leg.

Then he unfolded his stool and set it before the easel.

Puzzled, Felicia said, “I thought you used ink as well as pencil.”

Mayhew flashed her a smile. “I do. But I add the ink later, at a desk. I can get all the detail I need down with pencil, then later, I pick out the strongest lines with ink to complete the sketch.” His expression turned faintly awkward. “Do excuse me if I sit.”