Page 80 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

“Send a letter to that address tomorrow,” Rand advised, “detailing the scope of your work and where you can be contacted. I’m out of town for the next few days, so it may be a week or more before I’m there to read it, but you can expect to hear from me within a few weeks.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Finlay was clearly still in awe of his own luck.

Rand nodded, as did Felicia, and Finlay swept them a bow. As they moved away, Felicia smiled and looked up, meeting Rand’s eyes. “You’ve made his day—his exhibition.”

Rand quirked his brows. “It’s perfectly possible he’s made mine—well, at least looking beyond the steam carriage. Speaking of which”—he halted, letting the crowd part and flow around them—“I should get back and relieve William John.”

Felicia tilted her head. “If you don’t have need of me—and I’m sure William John won’t—I rather think I’ll wander farther and see what I can see.”

Rand nodded. “By all means do.” If it hadn’t been for her, he would very likely have missed seeing Finlay. Even if he had noticed the man with his small and unprepossessing exhibit, as until now Rand hadn’t seen much to interest him in the latest pens, he might not have ventured close enough to speak to the inventor and recognize the value of what he’d produced.

Unlike him, Felicia was coming to the field of inventions with an entirely open and highly educated inventive mind. He squeezed her hand, then released her. “Wander, study, and investigate—and let me know if you see anything you think I should look into.”

She smiled and graciously inclined her head. “If you wish it, I will. Have fun with William John.”

He chuckled, and they parted, she continuing up the line of inventions while he made his way across the aisle and back to where the Throgmorton steam carriage stood proudly displayed—with a long line of people waiting to ask questions of its inventor.

Rand grinned at the sight and made his way to William John’s side. The Throgmorton steam engine was creating an even bigger stir than he’d hoped.

Clive Mayhew threaded his way through the crowd clogging the wide aisle of the exhibition hall. He moved slowly—carefully—keeping his eyes peeled for any of the denizens of Throgmorton Hall. The crowd reassured him; as long as he remained alert, it was unlikely anyone from the Hall would spot him among the jostling throng. And if they did, he would have time to flee and plenty of other bodies for cover.

Besides, Clive doubted Miss Throgmorton or Mrs. Makepeace would have made the journey; of those Clive had met at the Hall, only Cavanaugh was likely to be there, and as Clive understood things, his lordship would almost certainly remain close to the Throgmorton invention, which Clive had learned was at the far end of the hall.

All Clive wished to do was find his uncle and tell old Horace that he had had enough. Regardless of his dire need of the ready, Clive was finished with his uncle’s grubby schemes.

At that moment, Sir Horace Winthrop was parading up the exhibition hall, projecting his customary and—to his mind—entirely appropriate superior air. He was the most established leader of investing syndicates in London, and, as such, he was recognized by many and was determined to be accorded all due deference. He inclined his head to the two older inventors who, on seeing him eyeing their exhibit—one involving modifications to a horse-drawn plow—bowed low.

As they should. It was Sir Horace’s prerogative to decide which of the owners of displayed inventions he would honor with an invitation to speak with him in his office in the City. Effectively, it was in his gift to decide which invention prospered and which sank without trace.

Given that it was widely known that he disapproved of the entire panoply of steam-powered inventions, stigmatizing them as entirely unnecessary, the inventors of such things didn’t attempt to catch his eye; regardless, he passed their exhibits with his nose in the air—wordlessly declaring his view of their works.

On entering the hall, he’d made his way as quickly as his dignity permitted to view the Throgmorton exhibit—from a safe distance. Seeing it displayed in all its glory, he’d smiled to himself and made a mental note to congratulate his nephew on having the good sense to damage the steam engine in such a way that the failure would not be evident until they started the engine on the exhibition floor. How Throgmorton had managed to pass the assessors’ inspection, Sir Horace had no idea, but, presumably, the engine was simply fired up to make sure it worked, and that was that.

He had little idea how the blessed things functioned and even less interest.

All that mattered was that the Throgmorton machine failed most spectacularly—and having it fail in front of Prince Albert was as spectacular a failure as Sir Horace could conceive.

He truly was thoroughly pleased with Clive.

On the thought, he saw his nephew easing his way through the crowd toward him.

Sir Horace halted and planted his cane before him. He stood in the middle of the central aisle, closer to the main doors than the rear of the hall; entirely pleased with his world, he ignored the annoyed looks as members of the public were forced to tack around him.

Clive reached him and halted before him. His nephew inclined his head respectfully. “Uncle. I hoped to find you here.”

The boy looked rather stern, almost grim.

Sir Horace’s nerves fluttered, and he glanced swiftly around. “What about the Throgmorton party? Is there any chance of them seeing you—us?”

“They’re nowhere near, and I don’t plan on remaining for long.”

Sir Horace relaxed, and his earlier satisfaction bloomed anew. He returned his gaze to Clive and smiled approvingly. “Excellent, my boy! I must congratulate you⁠—”

“No.”

Sir Horace blinked. Looking more closely at Clive’s face, he realized that it was, indeed, grim resolution that was increasingly overtaking his nephew’s expression.

“There’s no reason for congratulations.” Clive drew in a breath, straightened, and, from his more lofty height, looked censoriously down on Sir Horace. “The only reason I’m here is to tell you to your face that I want nothing whatever to do with your scheme. I’ve seen the Throgmorton steam carriage in action, and as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”