Page 55 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

He narrowed his eyes on hers. “What if he professes an interest and asks to see it—workshop or invention?”

She held his gaze and lightly shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.” Her chin firmed. “Regardless, it’s time we knew for certain whether or not Mayhew poses a danger to us. William John will be running the final tests tomorrow, and the exhibition is only days away—if Mayhew is intent on sabotage, we need to flush him out.”

He didn’t disagree and couldn’t argue. He held her gaze steadily. “I’ll be in the woods, as close as I can be. I’ll be watching Mayhew’s every move.”

Her smile bloomed, warm enough to banish all his fears. “Yes, of course. I was counting on that.”

CHAPTER 10

At three o’clock the following afternoon, Felicia was seated at the far end of the south lawn in one of the cane armchairs from the terrace; her back was to the house, and her parasol was raised, artfully shading her face.

Before her, Clive Mayhew sat behind his easel, his entire focus on the sketch he was creating with swift, sure strokes.

Felicia wasn’t even sure he saw her as an animate entity.

It had taken a good few minutes for him to direct her into the correct pose. She’d been sitting with her shoes flat on the grass, her head raised a fraction and tilted to her left, with the parasol riding over her left shoulder for the last thirty minutes.

About them, the summer afternoon stretched, somnolent and lazy. The air was weighted with the smell of freshly cut hay, the sweet scent wafting under the hand of an oh-so-gentle breeze. Insects—bees in the kitchen garden, perhaps—droned in the distance, while nearer to hand, the occasional bird chirped in the thick undergrowth beneath the wood’s trees.

Felicia stifled a sigh. She was already well and truly bored. Before she’d struck her pose, she’d glimpsed Rand in the dappled shadows of the wood—not behind Mayhew but to her left. The last glimpse she’d had of him, he’d been leaning with one shoulder propped against a bole, arms crossed, his gaze undeviatingly fixed on her and Mayhew.

For his part, Mayhew had been so focused on the view he’d intended to sketch, he’d spared not a glance for the woods; she would wager her mother’s pearls he was utterly oblivious to their watcher beneath the trees.

Even if Mayhew did look searchingly around, she doubted he would spot Rand; that helpful bole would largely screen him from Mayhew’s sight.

Without shifting position, she studied Mayhew. He was seated on his folding stool, his attention wholly on his sketch. He was using several pencils, one, then another, gripping those not in use in his left hand while his right hand moved swiftly across the paper. He didn’t seem to even look to decide which pencil was which; his fingers seemed to know them by feel.

Again, the proof that Mayhew truly was an artist was displayed for anyone to see.

Felicia inwardly sighed and started composing a suitable incidental comment with which to allude to inventions and inventors.

She’d almost crafted a workable sentence when a massive bang! exploded from the house—from the workshop.

She managed not to react—to turn and stare—but Mayhew had blinked and was now staring at the house.

“It’s just another pipe.” It wasn’t—this time it is was something even more troublesome than a valve. Mayhew glanced at her, and she waved dismissively. “The staff will take care of it.”

Mayhew hesitated, then settled to his sketching again, although Felicia noted he glanced toward the house—toward its rear—more frequently than before.

She could only pray that the workshop door hadn’t blown open and that clouds of steam weren’t gushing forth.

That morning, she’d worked with William John to solve what they had hoped was the last little glitch that had kept the engine from running perfectly; they’d been so pleased and heartened—buoyed by a sense of impending success. Now…

Damn it! We haven’t all that many days left.

Mayhew looked at her sharply. Briefly, she smiled, erasing her frown, and schooled her features back into her pose of bucolic serenity.

Rand was steadily and stealthily making his way back toward the house. Mayhew was all artist, at least at that moment, and given how near to completion the engine was and how close the exhibition, Rand felt compelled to see what had gone wrong—what had blown now.

This time, it hadn’t been anything he and William John had arranged.

As Rand retreated, he glanced back frequently, but Mayhew and Felicia remained seated as they had been, at the far end of the lawn. From all Rand had seen, he suspected Felicia would, indeed, need to tempt Mayhew to test the man’s interest in the engine. Rand had to admit he was increasingly feeling his and her suspicions regarding Mayhew owed more to paranoia than reality.

He was still some way from the house, following a deer trail through the wood, when, after checking on Mayhew and Felicia yet again, he noticed Flora, who in her role as chaperon had been seated prominently on the terrace, had quit her post and, presumably, gone into the house.

That suggested the explosion was serious.

His heart sinking, Rand increased his pace.