Page 71 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

From the sack, Wayland had pulled out a quantity of rags, a large glass jar of what looked like black oil or perhaps creosote, and a long length of fuse.

For a second, Wayland stared at the items, then his features hardened, and he rose to his feet. He looked at the unknown man with utter contempt. “Not content with simply damaging timbers, this time, you planned to burn us out.”

Before Kit could react, Wayland strode to the man, reached down, tangled his long fingers in the knitted muffler, and violently wrenched it from the man’s face. “You fiend!”

The jerk brought the man half upright, gasping like a landed fish; Kit had winded him, and he was still trying to catch his breath.

As the light washed over the intruder’s face, he closed his eyes, groaned again, and slumped back on the floor.

To Kit’s surprise, Wayland had frozen, the muffler dangling from his hand as he stared in shock at the man’s face.

Then in a stunned tone, Wayland said, “Hightham?” His tone suggested he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes.

Kit glanced sharply at the man—who continued to keep his eyes shut while he tried to get his lungs working again—then looked at Wayland. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.

Passing a hand over his jaw, Wayland nodded. “His name’s John Hightham. He was working as a junior designer at Debney’s when I joined the firm.”

Debney’s was the Bermuda-based yacht workshop from which Kit had lured Wayland home.

“Hightham left shortly after I arrived, supposedly to return to England,” Wayland added, which explained why Kit hadn’t met the man.

Recovering from his shock, Wayland kicked one of Hightham’s boots and growled, “What the devil’s this about?”

Hightham—who Kit could now see was perhaps twenty-five years old at a pinch and thinner and lighter of frame than Wayland, much less Kit—scowled up at Wayland. “As if you don’t know,” Hightham spat.

Wayland sent Kit a befuddled look.

On seeing it, Hightham struggled half up and propped on one arm. “What did you expect,” he said with an obvious attempt to sound scathing, “when you stole my design?”

Wayland looked, if possible, even more at sea.

Kit focused on Hightham. “Explain what you mean about Wayland stealing your design.”

It was an invitation Hightham couldn’t resist.

Kit stood and listened as the younger man poured out a tale, accusing Wayland of having stolen a certain keel design from him. Kit knew that whatever Hightham believed wouldn’t be the truth; he’d known Wayland since Eton and knew his friend and partner through and through. Quite aside from the fact Wayland simply wouldn’t stoop to stealing anyone else’s design, there was the undeniable truth that he was a brilliant designer and had been recognized as such for nearly a decade—he didn’t need to steal designs when his own were so relentlessly cutting edge.

When Hightham, now scowling even more blackly at Wayland, reached the end of his spiel, Kit glanced at his partner and saw comprehension dawning in his face. Hightham’s details about keel designs hadn’t meant anything to Kit, but obviously, Wayland had worked out the gist of the younger man’s complaint.

His gaze resting on Hightham, Wayland asked, “That’s what this has been about? Getting back at me because you imagined I’d stolen your design?”

“I didn’t imagine anything,” Hightham shot back. “You did!”

“When?” Wayland asked.

“It was in early thirty-eight. You came to visit Debney’s. That was a couple of years before Debney persuaded you to join him.”

Wayland nodded. “I remember. You’d just started in the design office.”

“Yes, I had. And I was working on my own designs on the side.” Hightham glared pugnaciously at Wayland. “You must have seen the plans when you came poking around the office. You have a faultless memory when it comes to designs, so one good look was all it took. Then you came back to England and started building yachts with my design. Don’t bother trying to deny it—I’ve seen some of the yachts you’ve built, and they incorporate my keel!”

Hightham was still decidedly hot under the collar. He clearly believed Wayland at fault.

Unperturbed, Wayland shot Kit a glance, then held up a finger to Hightham. “One moment. Allow me to fetch a drawing that will, I trust, clarify this matter.”

Kit watched Wayland go into his office, then swung his gaze back to Hightham, who was now sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms looped around them.

“I know he stole my design,” Hightham muttered, jaw clenching tight. Now bathed in light, his face looked young, his expression more truculent than violent. “He’s not going to make me believe otherwise.”