Page 27 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Felicia waved him to his stool. “Of course.” She watched him settle, then asked, “Do you mind if I watch?”

He was already assessing his subject, but in reply, he threw her a vague smile. “By all means.” He looked back at the house. “Some of my brethren dislike anyone near when they work, but as I often sketch in busy streets, I long ago lost all such sensitivity.”

“Ah—of course.” Felicia surveyed the thick grass; courtesy of the warm day, it was dry. She’d draped an old shawl over her elbows in the hope she could remain. She shook out the shawl, spread it on the sward to the side and a little back from Mayhew’s stool, then sat. From her position, she could see his sketch as it came into being. She also had a clear view of his profile.

She bided her time as with swift, sure strokes he laid in the initial lines of his creation. It was pleasant in the shade, with the distant sounds of Reilly snipping canes in the kitchen garden and the occasional clop of hooves and jingle of harness from the stable overlaid by the twittering calls of birds flitting in the woods at her back.

After a time, Mayhew sat back, his gaze rising, then dipping as he compared his rendering with the reality before him, then he set down the pencil he’d used to that point and picked up another.

“Can you talk while you work?” she murmured.

“Hmm? Oh—yes. To a point. If I get caught by a difficult section, I might forget to listen, but in general”—he shot her a swift glance, one that invited her to laugh with him at himself—“I can manage well enough. So if you have questions, by all means, ask away. It’s not often I get to sketch with a delightful lady looking on.”

She suspected he meant questions about his sketching. Her expression relaxed, faintly smiling, she asked, “Did you train to be an artist, or is this a natural talent?”

“Very much a natural talent. My family would have had a fit if I’d set out to be an artist.”

“So what did you set out to be?”

“An idle gentleman, like the majority of my peers.”

“And what changed that?”

“You might say my art called to me. Being idle, I was ripe for distraction, and this—sketching—became my chosen vice.”

“Do you live in London, then?”

“I have lodgings there—nothing salubrious, being a younger son and all.”

“What of your family? Are they in London, too?”

He paused for a moment, but Felicia judged that to be more because he was paying a great deal of attention to the perspective between the house and the stable. Sure enough, a moment later, he straightened on his stool, and his pencil moved on to the shrubbery, and he murmured, “What was that? Ah yes. My parents. They now spend their days at home in Sussex. My brother and sisters are scattered about London. They spend more time in tonnish circles than I do.” Smiling, he glanced her way. “Us bachelors tend to lurk on the fringes, but I’ve been known to be hauled to a ball or two by my sisters or sister-in-law.”

Felicia smiled and continued her questioning, apparently lighthearted and inconsequential, yet his answers were painting a picture of him that she recognized from her year in London. The Clive Mayhews of the ton, the idle, drifting younger sons, were personable, charming, with unexceptionable manners—the sort of gentlemen chaperons approved of as escorts to the theatre and the opera and to the occasional ball, but unless love struck, they were never going to be regarded as eligible parti. They were innocuous stand-ins, safe arms on which a young lady could lean.

Other idle younger sons might be a great deal more dangerous, but those like Mayhew constituted no threat.

Felicia realized that was what lay behind her continuing vacillation over casting Mayhew as their current villain. While, logically, she accepted she had to suspect him and continue to be on her guard, when she was with him, his character and personality were such strong reminders of the sort of man he was, she found it difficult to view him as any sort of threat.

Indeed, at no time had she sensed that he posed any danger to her. Her antennae had been well honed during her year in London; she knew beyond question that no matter how attentive and charming Mayhew might be, he had absolutely no designs on her.

As his sketch took shape and the answers to her questions took longer to come, and sometimes didn’t come at all, it became crystal clear that the one thing Clive Mayhew was extremely serious about was his art.

Wryly smiling to herself, Felicia couldn’t help thinking that, when it came to interacting with them, an artist was no different from an inventor.

By the time the first sketch was done—or, as Mayhew explained, done to the point of being ready for the application of ink—it was time for afternoon tea.

Apparently having decided that the cool shade beneath the oak was too tempting, Flora came drifting over the lawn, with Joe and Martin lugging the wrought-iron table behind her.

Johnson followed with a chair. In short order, the footmen returned with two more chairs, and Johnson carried out the tea tray.

Once they were settled about the table and Flora had poured cups of tea, Mayhew showed Flora his sketch. “It’s the first—I’ll essay another after tea. The second attempt is usually better.”

“Dear me!” Flora studied the sketch, then swiveled on her chair to stare at the house. “You’ve quite captured it. It’s a remarkable likeness.”

“Thank you.” Mayhew sipped his tea and watched while Felicia took the sketch from Flora and studied it.

As with the other sketches of his she’d seen, he’d not just depicted the house and, with simple lines, somehow conveyed the gardens and grounds, he’d also managed to capture a feeling of the place—its inherent atmosphere. She raised her gaze, met Mayhew’s eyes, and handed the sketch back to him. “I feel quite honored to have been able to watch as you created it. Thank you for permitting that.”