Page 82 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Breath bated, he waited—dreading to hear one of the guards coming to see who had slunk past…but there were no calls, no heavy footsteps. The steady, excited murmuring of the crowd continued unbroken.

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Sir Horace turned his somewhat frantic attention to what he took to be the engine compartment. Throgmorton had erected a metal housing over the top, but although there were panels closing in the sides, the one facing Sir Horace had plainly been designed to fold down if the knob securing it was released.

Holding his breath, Sir Horace reached up, twisted the knob, and slowly lowered the hinged panel toward him, until it rested on the lip of the housing that swept up to shield the upper rim of the front wheel.

Sir Horace peered into the workings of the engine—at a bewildering array of pipes and gears and God knew what else besides. He searched for a lever he might pull, or a knob, but although he spied several levers, they were attached to rods and couldn’t be easily moved.

Now what? He knew nothing about engines—had never deigned to even listen to discussions about the bally things. Think!

Valves! He vaguely remembered that valves mattered. He peered this way and that and saw several. One was close enough to easily reach.

Feverishly, Sir Horace turned out his pockets—did he have any string?

He didn’t. All he drew forth were bits of paper, coins, and two silk handkerchiefs…

Silk was strong, wasn’t it? And these were of the finest quality silk. After stuffing the other items he’d unearthed back into his pockets, he shook out one handkerchief and, holding opposing corners, wound it into a short but very strong length. He turned back to the engine and quickly tied the silk over the valve in a way he hoped would stop the valve from working. From releasing. That was what valves did, he thought.

He paused and listened. Judging by the sounds from the crowd, the Prince was still several exhibits away.

Sir Horace looked down at the second silk handkerchief. Then he peered into the engine compartment, but none of the other valves were sufficiently accessible. Then he noticed the pipes leading back toward the rear of the carriage. He dropped to his knees and, with his head almost on the floor, followed the pipes back…

There! Another valve—a good-sized one close enough that if he lay on his back he could reach it.

Sir Horace carefully shut the side panel he’d opened, sealing away the sight of his tampering, then, dispensing with all dignity, he gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, angled his shoulders under the contraption, and, with his second handkerchief, swiftly tied the second valve down tight.

He blew out a breath, then quickly wriggled out from under the carriage and clambered back to his previous crouch.

He edged toward the end of the carriage. The door he needed to reach was two yards away, with the entire distance in full sight of the crowd.

Clinging desperately to calm, he forced himself to wait—wait—until he heard the Prince exclaim.

He didn’t hesitate but rose and walked swiftly—silently—to the door and, without even pausing to check that no one had seen him, he slipped behind the panel and closed it behind him.

In the dimness of the corridor, he waited to see if any hue and cry was raised. He was breathing stertorously; he hadn’t realized until then.

His brow was damp. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief…

Grimacing, he blotted his face with his sleeve, then, as no shouts had come from the other side of the door, Sir Horace turned and walked back up the corridor.

By the time he retrieved his hat and cane, stepped onto the tiles of the foyer, and closed the corridor door behind him, he was starting to believe.

To think that he’d pulled it off—that he’d done what was necessary all by himself. He hadn’t, after all, needed any help.

A slow tide of relief washed through him. He’d saved the day.

His day, at least.

Confidence rose in the wake of the thought that, now, all would be well. All would play out exactly as it ought, and he would return to London fully vindicated, with his position as the acknowledged leader of investment syndicates even more firmly entrenched. No one would dare question his assessments in the future.

He resettled his coat sleeves, then walked toward the exhibition hall. He had no intention of missing the glorious moment when the Throgmorton engine stalled and refused to run.

Increasingly assured, once more holding his head high, Sir Horace strode into the hall and joined the cluster of people gathered behind the Prince.

Members of the committee saw him and inclined their heads. Those of the crowd less well-connected nevertheless recognized his air of authority and shuffled aside, yielding to Sir Horace until he stood with several other worthies alongside the committee and close behind the Prince.

Thus installed in pride of place and in the perfect position to view the outcome of his actions, buoyed by a sense of righteousness in having struck a blow for his fellow countrymen—those like him with a deeper understanding, who knew beyond question that steam-powered vehicles should never be allowed on England’s roads—Sir Horace, his aloof and superior façade once more in place, pretended to an interest in the exhibits as the Prince continued down the line, and waited to bear witness to the utter failure of the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage.

After speaking with his uncle, Clive had intended to beat a retreat, but several exhibits caught his eye, and he got distracted.