Page 51 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

“Is having Mayhew back, even for afternoon tea, a wise idea?”

She glanced at Rand. “I can’t see any way of being sure. And while I could easily have put him off, at least until after the exhibition, it occurred to me that if he is the agent of some other inventor—or some other person who wants our engine to fail—then keeping him in plain sight might be a better option than refusing his request. Consider”—she gestured toward the French door that gave access to the lawn at the rear of the house—“the very thing about this house that makes it so attractive for him to sketch, or so he claims, also makes it terribly easy for him to approach quite close without us knowing. He could hide in the wood and watch us fit the engine to the carriage and so on.”

Facing forward, she paused, then went on, “There’s also the fact that if Mayhew is an agent working against our interests, then I, for one, would like to know who he’s working for.” She glanced sidelong at Rand and caught his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

He stared at her for a full minute, then grimaced. He faced forward and blew out a breath. “What—exactly—did he say?”

She told him. “He didn’t ask to be shown around inside or to sketch inside the house.”

After a moment, he demanded, “Has he ever asked about the workshop or about what your brother does?”

“No.” She hesitated, then admitted, “The only things he’s shown any interest in are those that affect his sketching.”

“Hmm.” After another significantly more brooding silence, Rand said, “I assume you hope to give him enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.”

She nodded. “For him to at least show his true colors.”

“How, exactly, do you see his next visit and his next round of sketching leading to that end?”

She grimaced. “I don’t know. But he has returned, and he wants to come here and sketch. Presumably, he has a reason for that. Given we’re on guard against him—and with him back in the neighborhood, I assume we’ll be maintaining our night and day watches with even greater stringency⁠—”

“I’ll be rearranging the watches so that during the night, there’ll be three men awake and alert at all times.”

“—then I propose we give Mayhew the opportunity to ask questions about the workshop, or about William John’s occupation, or even to attempt to see the workshop or speak with William John.” She frowned. “If we’re right in thinking that he’s not just an artist but also a would-be saboteur, then with only a week to go before the exhibition, he’ll be wanting to make some definite move to achieve his ends very soon.”

A sudden thought occurred, and she turned to Rand. “You said we’d have to leave here on Thursday morning to get to Birmingham in time. If Mayhew fails in his task while here, but gives us no reason to have him arrested, then surely damaging the invention while it’s on the road to the exhibition will be his next cast. We’ll need to organize more guards.”

“That won’t be hard—you can leave that to me.”

To his discomfort, Felicia’s proposed interaction with Mayhew left Rand prey to contradictory impulses.

His protective, possessive self didn’t want her anywhere near Mayhew—a charming gentleman-artist who Rand had yet to inform of his interest in the delectable Miss Throgmorton. Against that…he could appreciate her reasoning, and if it hadn’t been her but some other lady involved, he would probably have readily agreed with her suggested way forward. More, the sense of camaraderie that in the last twenty minutes had deepened between them was…seductive. He liked the feeling of working closely together, even when their goal was to expose Mayhew and whoever he worked for.

Apparently taking his silence for acquiescence, she asked, “So will you take tea with us this afternoon?”

“No.” He met her eyes. “When I spoke with Mayhew last time he was here, I told him I was a friend of the family visiting for a few days. I suspect he’ll imagine I’ve left by now, and if he’s a villain, it’ll be to our advantage for me to play least in sight.” He paused for a heartbeat, then went on, “However, that doesn’t mean I can’t watch, and while you’re serving him tea, I’ll hover close enough to hear all that’s said.”

She frowned. “Perhaps that was why he left for barely a week—because he knew you were here and thought it wiser to wait until you were gone.”

“Very possibly. If you recall, he intimated to me that he would be away for longer—a few weeks—yet in barely a week, he’s back.”

“Hmm. Despite his charm and innocuous appearance, it’s little things like that that keep me wondering about him.” Felicia paused. She was quite pleased with the way the discussion had unfolded; for a minute, when Rand had first come striding in and she’d told him about meeting Mayhew and inviting him to tea, she’d feared that Rand was going to convert to some overbearing, arrogant, and pompous male, but he’d throttled any such impulse, and the discussion had proceeded on a sensible, rational plane. She straightened away from the bench. “For now, let’s see what direction he takes when he comes for tea at three o’clock. Flora will be with me, of course.”

Rand caught her gaze and held it for a second, then he, too, pushed away from the bench and straightened to his full height. She raised her gaze to his face, and he looked down at hers. Then he nodded. “All right.”

He half turned to leave, but then swung back—and she found herself swept into his arms.

She looked up in surprise as he bent his head, then his lips found hers, and her lids fell, and with a fleeting inner smile, she gave herself over to returning the caress.

His lips were firm, masterful; at their command, she parted hers and almost shivered with delight as his tongue slipped past the slick curves to claim her mouth, to stroke and tempt.

She leaned into him, pressed her hands to his chest, and stretched up, the better to meet him. Through the kiss, through the pressure of his lips, she sensed his approval.

His encouragement.

She seized the opportunity and pressed her own kiss on him, and he let her. Let her explore the communion of their mouths, the simple, unalloyed pleasure of such caresses.

He’d splayed his hands on her back; now, they moved in long, slow strokes, up, then down, urging her closer, molding her slighter frame to his much larger one. Her breasts swelled, the peaks tightening almost to the point of discomfort. That he knew what he was doing—how each touch, each increment of pressure, affected her—was never in any doubt, but that he allowed her to play, too, thrilled her. Drove her to push her hands up, over his shoulders. She sank her fingertips into the broad muscles of his upper back, testing their resilience, then gripping and claiming them as, in response, he angled his head, and the kiss heated by several degrees…