Page 29 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Flora smiled. “Petunia told me about your suspicions of Mayhew.” Petunia was the lady’s maid Felicia and Flora shared. “I’ve been living here since your mother died, and I’ve learned enough of the way things are regarding inventions to comprehend the situation. Given Mayhew asked to call again…well, my dear, let’s just say that I believe in that old adage about keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer.”

Such words coming from the soft and matronly Flora made Felicia want to laugh; if the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have. Instead, as they neared the forecourt, she patted Flora’s arm. “I believe I agree with you on that.”

Rand stood with his back against the bole of an ancient beech and watched Felicia and Flora retreat into the house.

He’d been in position for the past several hours; Johnson had tipped him off after Mayhew and Felicia had walked onto the lawn. Rand had left the workshop via the rear doors, stridden around to the stable, and slipped into the woods beyond, then he’d worked his way around under the cover of the trees until he’d found this spot; situated just inside the edge of the woods directly behind Mayhew’s back as he sat before his easel, the tall beech had branches that draped nearly to the ground. Being in full summer leaf, the dipping branches effectively screened Rand while allowing him to study Mayhew.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t close enough to have eavesdropped on the conversations between Mayhew and Felicia, and, later, Flora. He’d had to try to guess what was being said from expressions and gestures, and through most of it, Felicia had had her back to him.

Rand debated showing himself—debated what benefits or problems might accrue.

He wasn’t close enough to see the details of Mayhew’s work, but after the ladies had left him, Mayhew had fixed a fresh sheet of paper to his easel and was swiftly and efficiently sketching, to all appearances deeply immersed in his work.

Rand had to admit that even now, when he couldn’t know he was under observation, Mayhew still looked and behaved as an artist would.

That tipped the scales toward the possibility that Mayhew was, in fact, simply an artist. If so, then there was some other man lurking with intent to destroy the engine.

Rand frowned, possibilities, conjecture, and speculation whirling in his brain.

Minutes ticked by. Mayhew’s hand worked at speed, rapidly covering the paper with what, from Rand’s position, appeared to be scribbles in shades of gray. Comparing what was taking shape with the earlier sketch, Rand suspected Mayhew would finish soon.

Making up his mind, Rand pushed away from the tree and quit the safety of its draping canopy. Silently, he worked his way to the right—Mayhew’s blind side as he looked from the house to his sketch. Eventually emerging onto the lawn, Rand settled his coat, then, as if he’d been taking a constitutional on the south lawn, strolled toward Mayhew.

Mayhew was so engrossed that he didn’t see or sense Rand until he halted a mere yard away.

Mayhew looked up with a start. “Ah.” He blinked, then inclined his head. “Good afternoon.” Mayhew gestured with his pencil. “I’ve permission to sketch the house.”

Rand nodded. “Felicia—Miss Throgmorton—mentioned you would be by. Mayhew, isn’t it?” Rand offered his hand. “I’m Lord Randolph.”

It was useful to have a first name that could be taken for a surname.

Mayhew rose, transferred his pencil to his other hand, and gripped Rand’s. As their hands parted and Mayhew subsided onto his stool, he asked, “You’re a neighbor?”

Rand shifted to study Mayhew’s sketch. “I’m a friend of the family. I’m visiting for a few days before I head home.”

“I see.” Mayhew waited, but when Rand said nothing more, Mayhew raised his pencil and continued sketching.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Rand considered the sketch and inwardly frowned. He did, in fact, know several artists. One of Mary’s connections was the famous portraitist Gerrard Debbington. Through attending several exhibitions of Debbington’s works, Rand had met other artists; it was becoming fashionable, once again, to be the patron of a talented artist.

Mayhew was talented. Rand had learned enough of art to appreciate that. There was something in the way he laid down lines that was insightful, that drew the observer into the picture.

Mayhew’s sketch was just lines on paper, yet it conveyed much more.

Rand’s inner conviction that Mayhew was behind the attack on the workshop wavered.

His hands sunk in his pockets, Rand shifted, then said, “You’re exceptionally good.”

Mayhew glanced briefly his way. A smile touched his lips. “Thank you.” After a second in which he added two fine lines, he murmured, “Grudgingly given praise is often the most satisfying.”

Rand laughed—he couldn’t help it. “That’s…very true.” He chuckled and inclined his head. “Touché, Mr. Mayhew.”

Oh, this was not good. Rand sternly told himself he didn’t want to like Mayhew. He still thought the artist turning up at just that time, his glimpse of a man lurking, and the attempted break-in was too much coincidence to swallow.

Returning to his purpose, he took advantage of Mayhew’s breaking the ice to further his knowledge of the man via the usual information men such as they might exchange during just such an impromptu meeting. They spoke of London, of clubs and hells, of the theatre and the latest generally known scandals. Mayhew knew his way about London and was also well acquainted with Fleet Street and the newspaper offices, as well as with the City—although whether his knowledge of the Bank of England and other such buildings was because of his use of their facilities or because he’d sketched them, Rand wasn’t sure.

Somewhat to Rand’s consternation, Mayhew responded to all his queries—the subtle probes as well as the outright questions—with easy candor and with answers that painted him as precisely who he purported to be, namely, the younger son of an established family who had taken to sketching to supplement his income and make his mark.

There was absolutely nothing Mayhew let fall that supported the thesis that he was an agent of some inventor or investor intent on sabotaging the Throgmorton steam engine.