Page 83 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Never before had he had a chance to examine mechanical devices, and after the tug he’d felt on setting eyes on the steam carriage, he was eager to see more; the machines’ lines and the symmetry many possessed beneath an overlay of weaving pipes and tubes enthralled his artist’s soul. The way the light played over the curved metal surfaces made his fingers twitch. He no longer had his satchel, but how he wished he had; he would have liked to take up the challenge of capturing the aura of the machines.

His fascination drew him down the hall. Although he remained alert, he didn’t see Cavanaugh, then, to his surprise, he spotted Miss Throgmorton speaking to one of the exhibitors. She was asking questions and seemed quite animated. At the sight of her, Clive felt a very strong prod from his conscience. If he truly wanted absolution for his actions against the Throgmortons, then he owed Miss Throgmorton a fervent apology.

Cloaked by the crowd, he watched her for several minutes, then made up his mind. Before he quit the hall, he would apologize to her and seek her forgiveness, but to do that… He set his jaw, turned, and, without allowing himself time to think and balk, purposefully made his way farther down the hall. If he wished to prostrate himself before Miss Throgmorton, he first needed to make his peace with Cavanaugh.

Exactly what the relationship between the two was, Clive didn’t know, yet given Cavanaugh’s murderous expression when he’d last seen Clive, if Clive wanted to approach Miss Throgmorton and live, he needed to explain himself to Cavanaugh.

Despite wishing to speak with the man, Clive approached cautiously. As he’d assumed, Cavanaugh was hovering within sight of the Throgmorton exhibit. Still screened by the crowd, Clive halted and seized the moment to rehearse what he wanted to say.

Cavanaugh was tracking the Prince’s progress. His Highness was still several exhibits away from the steam carriage, but as he moved one exhibit closer, Cavanaugh raised his head and looked up the hall, then he moved into the shifting tide of bodies, unknowingly making his way toward where Clive was standing.

Guessing that Cavanaugh was on his way to summon Miss Throgmorton, Clive metaphorically girded his loins; when Cavanaugh drew level, Clive stepped into his path.

Rand jerked to a halt. Barely able to believe his eyes, he felt his jaw clench, his fists close.

Mayhew held up a hand. “Before you take a swing at me, please hear me out.”

The man’s nerve was breathtaking, but also intriguing, and, combined with his steady, direct regard, served to give Rand pause. After a second of staring at Mayhew’s face—and recalling that someone must have hired the man—Rand stiffly inclined his head. “I’m fascinated to hear what you have to say.”

Mayhew drew in a deep breath, then stated, “When my uncle asked me to interfere with the Throgmorton invention enough to ensure it wouldn’t appear at this exhibition, I didn’t understand what he was, in fact, asking me to do. I thought inventions and exhibitions such as this”—Mayhew glanced around—“were…well, more like games. Games played by men with the funds to tinker and dabble in such things—nothing serious at all.” Mayhew glanced around again and his lips tightened. “Obviously, I was ridiculously naive, but this isn’t an area in which I’ve previously been interested—I had nothing more than popular notions by which to judge.”

Before Rand could ask who Mayhew’s uncle was, Mayhew rolled on, “Then I got to Throgmorton Hall and met Miss Throgmorton and Mrs. Makepeace, and you, too, and none of you seemed silly and frivolous. You all seemed normal and, well, nice. Honest and welcoming—straightforward, sensible people. I started having second thoughts then. When I left the area the first time, I was debating whether I should continue, but then it seemed I had to, so I returned and tried to find some way to do what my uncle wanted.” Mayhew moistened his lips and lowered his voice. “But then in the woods, when I was chasing Miss Throgmorton, I suddenly realized what I’d done—what sort of man I’d become, or rather, was on the cusp of becoming.”

Mayhew met Rand’s eyes; Mayhew’s remorse was clear to see. “I didn’t want to be that man. I ran from you both, but I also ran from what I almost became. I waited long enough to see the steam carriage drive away from the Hall—that was the first time I’d seen it. And instantly, I could understand why people get so excited by such things—by the promise they hold for advancements of all sorts.”

Rand noted the spark that ignited in Mayhew’s eyes, the eager lift in his voice, and recognized the signs.

“And now…” Mayhew paused, then lightly shrugged. “I’ve given you no cause to believe me, but I swear by all that’s holy that I will never lend myself to such a scheme again.” He hesitated, then rather diffidently added, “I would like to make my apologies to Miss Throgmorton, but I felt it would be wise to clear the air with you first.”

That was undoubtedly true. And as well as that statement, everything Mayhew had said had rung with sincerity. He was, at base, an honest man, seduced into acting—into attempting to act—outside his nature. So why…? Rand fixed his gaze on Mayhew’s face. “What hold did your uncle have over you?”

Mayhew shrugged again, and his gaze wandered over the crowd. “The usual.”

“Debts?”

Mayhew tried to suppress a grimace. “Too many.” Then he pressed his lips tight.

That brought them to the most critical question. “Who is your uncle?”

Mayhew met Rand’s eyes. “Sir Horace Winthrop. Do you know him?”

Rand nearly laughed, although it wouldn’t have been humorously. His lips thinning, he nodded. “Oh yes. We’re acquainted.”

“Ah.” Mayhew glanced around. “Well, he’s here somewhere.”

So Rand had assumed. Despite his dislike of steam-powered machines, there were enough other inventions present to ensure Winthrop’s attendance.

“The main reason I came,” Mayhew continued, “was to tell old Horace that I hadn’t damaged the steam carriage and wasn’t going to. I told him if he wanted the thing sabotaged, he’d have to do it himself.”

Rand stilled. A frisson of premonition slithered down his spine. “When did you speak with your uncle?”

Mayhew frowned. “I’m not sure… Twenty minutes ago, perhaps? It might have been half an hour.” Mayhew glanced at Rand. What he saw in Rand’s face made him draw his hands from his pockets and straighten. “Surely you don’t think…?”

“You told him to sabotage the engine himself.” Rand turned to look over the heads at the Throgmorton exhibit.

“It was just a figure of speech.” Mayhew looked, too.

“Perhaps.” Rand started to push his way toward the exhibit. “But what if old Horace took it literally?”