Page 54 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

They reached the oak, and Mayhew halted. He turned and surveyed the house, then he embarked on a voluble examination of angles and light and shadow.

She listened and observed, yet not once did she glimpse anything incongruent in his actions or words, not even in his tone or his expression.

Mayhew was an artist intent on sketching the house. There wasn’t anything else—any hint of ulterior motive or mission—to be seen.

Was that because their imputed ulterior motive didn’t exist, or was it there, but he was glib enough not to let it show?

Could Mayhew be this superbly duplicitous?

Felicia eyed him and simply didn’t know.

Eventually, he fell silent. After several moments of staring at the house, now frowning slightly, he turned to her. “I don’t like to ask it of you, but to make this sketch the best it can be, I need something—some object—in the foreground to anchor the perspective and make sense of the view.” He caught her gaze. “You’ll have seen how I do that in some of those sketches I showed you earlier. The object in the foreground. Like the pump in the inn yard, or the signpost in one of the landscapes.”

She did remember and nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she asked, “What sort of object do you need for this view?” She tipped her head toward the house.

He drew breath and, with one of his most appealing smiles, said, “I would really like you.” He swung to gesture with both arms. “Sitting in one of those chairs from the terrace—the cane armchairs. Just there.” He waved at the spot, then looked toward the house, eyes narrowing as if examining the effect he wanted to create. His voice soft and low, he murmured, “If you have a flowy gown, something in a pale and lightweight fabric, and a parasol…that will do wonders for contrasting with the sharp lines of the house, throwing them into greater visual relief.”

Felicia consulted her instincts. Mayhew was standing only feet away, yet her instincts still did not see him as a threat; they never had. It was her mind that harbored suspicions of him.

And if she was sitting out here with him…he wouldn’t have any chance to wander closer to the house, to perhaps attempt to get into the workshop. Meanwhile, she would have an opportunity to further interrogate him in a setting and at a time when he might let down his guard.

She’d already observed that, when they were working, artists and inventors were much alike; they became absorbed and forgot about the wider world and, indeed, most else.

She looked at Mayhew and met his eager, almost childishly pleading gaze. “All right.” She nodded. “I’ll sit for you.”

She wouldn’t be alone with him; she felt absolutely certain Rand would be only as far away as the nearest cover.

After weathering Mayhew’s abundant gratitude and making arrangements for him to return at two o’clock the next day, Felicia walked him back to the forecourt and waved him on his way.

He was now driving a gig, hired from some inn during his travels, she assumed; she hadn’t recognized the brand on the rear panel.

Once Mayhew had rattled out of sight around the curve in the drive, she looked around, expecting to see Rand emerge from the woods. When he didn’t, she walked around to the south side of the house and climbed the steps at the end of the terrace.

Stepping onto the flags, she saw Rand waiting, leaning against the balustrade outside the drawing room.

Unhurriedly, she walked toward him, very aware of the way he watched her as she approached. His gaze appeared dark and intent, ruthlessly focused, and something powerful lurked behind the molten caramel of his eyes.

The touch of that gaze felt delicious and left her faintly breathless.

Nevertheless, she summoned a slight smile and, with it curving her lips, she halted beside him. He straightened from the balustrade. She placed her hands on the stone coping and looked down the lawn.

He settled beside her, idly glancing in the same direction before he brought his gaze to her face. “Anything?”

“He reacted to the valve blowing.” A sudden thought occurred, and she slanted a glance at his face. “Did you arrange that, by any chance?”

He shrugged. “We wanted to test Mayhew—I asked William John to fake something minor.”

She humphed. “Well, Mayhew reacted, but as I wasn’t warned, I only caught the tail end of his response.” She frowned as she replayed the moment in her mind. “There was something in his eyes…but I can’t say what it was. It might have been nothing more than surprise, yet it seemed rather more calculating.” She shook her head. “Other than that, there was absolutely nothing in his behavior to point to—no hint of awareness of the invention and not a single sign he has any designs on gaining entrance to the house.”

She looked up and briefly met Rand’s eyes. “It’s intensely frustrating. On the one hand, I feel ready to declare him nothing more than the artist he purports to be—and I really don’t think there can be any doubt that he truly is that. But whether he also intends to tamper with the invention…as to that, I’m still in two minds.”

She fell silent, frowning out at the lawn.

Rand looked down the green expanse to the oak tree and strengthened his hold on his temper’s reins. “I heard you agree to sit for him tomorrow. What the devil possessed you?”

Somewhat to his own surprise, his tone suggested that, while her agreeing to sit for Mayhew very definitely didn’t meet with his approval, he was prepared to hear that she had some logical and rational reason for doing so.

The glance she threw him, the light in her green eyes, suggested she’d heard and interpreted his words in just that way. A faint smile curved her lips as she proved him right. “If I’m sitting for Mayhew, then he, in turn, will be sitting before me, under my eye the entire time. He will have no opportunity to sneak away anywhere.” She paused, then, meeting his eyes, admitted, “I’m leaning toward accepting that Mayhew is simply an artist, and his appearance here at this time is, indeed, nothing more than coincidence. However, it would be best for us to settle our suspicions of him once and for all, so if he reaches the point of finishing his sketch without doing or saying anything to suggest an interest in the invention, I plan on mentioning the workshop and, possibly, the engine, and seeing if he rises to more specific bait.”