Page 30 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Of course, as Rand well knew, the ton had no shortage of accomplished liars.

Finally, Mayhew rose from his stool, pushed it aside, and stepped back from his easel. After a moment of comparing the sketch with the house, he nodded. “That’s it.” Gathering his pencils in one hand, Mayhew reached around the easel for his satchel. He glanced up at Rand. Seeing the slight frown on Rand’s face, he said, “This is the second sketch I’ve done. The light’s going, but I’ve got all I need to be able to complete the inking at the inn. They have a room under the eaves that has lovely light—perfect for the work.”

Rand nodded his understanding. He watched as Mayhew folded his easel, collapsed the stool, then shouldered his satchel and lifted easel and stool.

Rand waved toward the forecourt. “I’ll walk with you.”

Mayhew’s lips quirked, but with an inclination of his head, he accepted Rand’s escort.

They were halfway across the lawn when Mayhew, his gaze fixed on the stable, said, “I mentioned to Miss Throgmorton that I was thinking of taking a short holiday in the area and might call in at some time. However, I’ve recalled that my arrangement with the News requires several more sketches of other villages before I can call my time my own. Consequently, I’ll be out of the area for a week or so.” Mayhew glanced at Rand. “Could I ask you to convey that to Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace, and to assure them that I’ll drop by with the sketch I promised them when I return?”

Maintaining a genial but uninformative mien, Rand inclined his head. “I’ll pass the message on.”

They reached the stable yard. This time, Mayhew had arrived in a gig. While he strapped his easel and folding stool to the back of the seat, Rand noted the stamp on the gig’s side that proclaimed it the property of the Green Man Inn in Basildon. The horse between the shafts bore the same inn’s brand.

With his equipment stored, Mayhew slung his satchel onto the seat and climbed up. He nodded at Rand. “I’ll bid you a good day, Lord Randolph.”

“Good sketching,” Rand dryly replied.

Mayhew grinned, snapped off a salute, then shook the reins.

Rand stood back and watched the gig rattle down the drive. Even when the trees hid Mayhew from sight, Rand remained staring after the artist.

Wondering.

Especially over what Mayhew’s last message might mean.

Was the artist simply an artist and temporarily moving out of the area purely in order to satisfy his employer?

Or had Mayhew merely claimed to be leaving in order to paint himself as no threat?

Had he decided on a week or so in response to Rand’s presence at the Hall, assuming that, as Rand had intimated, in a few days, Rand would be gone?

There were fifteen more days until the exhibition. Artist or no, that left Mayhew plenty of time to return and sabotage the engine.

Frowning, Rand turned and headed toward the house.

He still didn’t know what he thought of Mayhew, but as for the artist taking himself off…

As he mounted the porch steps, Rand couldn’t bring himself to place any reliance on that.

CHAPTER 7

The following day, after having had Johnson strike the gong to summon William John and Rand to the luncheon table three times, all to no avail, Felicia gathered her skirts and started down the workshop stairs.

“Ridiculous men!” She muttered more pointed imprecations as she carefully made her way down the spiral staircase. If she gave up on them and ordered the table to be cleared, then, as sure as eggs were eggs, a minute later, they would be wandering into the dining room looking for sustenance.

Truth to tell, as it was now well past one o’clock, she was surprised their stomachs hadn’t accomplished what the gong and their ears had not.

She slowed as she rounded the stair’s last curve and looked down into the workshop.

Although she’d made no effort to conceal her approach, her slippers hadn’t made that much noise. Neither man had realized she was there.

They were staring at the engine, each, in their own way, radiating frustration. William John was scowling; his hair stood up in clumps—he’d clearly clutched at it several times. As for Rand, he’d rested his forearm on the bench and was leaning on it, his expression one of focused exasperation.

She shifted her gaze to the object of their ire. It was the first time she’d given the engine at the center of their now-joint mission more than a cursory glance. The contraption was a fantastical construction of pipes and tubes, cylinders and pistons, all wrapped around a gleaming copper boiler. Pipes curved and bent, creating a knotted skein of sleek metal that glowed softly under the harsh lights.

Unexpectedly mesmerized, she stared. She was conscious of a tug, as if prompted by some inner compulsion to unravel and understand the complex construction.