The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance

Her lips curved, and she inclined her head. “Very well.”

Trapped by the warmth of his caramel eyes, a warmth that had only grown more definite with his smile, Felicia hesitated for only an instant before suggesting, “And given our connection”—she shot a glance through the doorway to the dining table, where William John was already seated—“I daresay it would be appropriate for you to use my name. It’s Felicia.”

Cavanaugh—Rand—gracefully inclined his head. “So we’re agreed.” He hesitated, as if debating the wisdom of his next words, then said, “I was in the village with William John, visiting the blacksmith about replacing the boiler.”

“I see. How did that go? I know Ferguson was losing patience over the continuing destruction of his work.”

“Indeed, but we might have made a minor breakthrough with the boiler’s construction—no doubt we’ll know once the new boiler is delivered. Ferguson promised it by noon tomorrow.”

She allowed her brows to rise. “That’s...excellent.” She very much doubted that it had been William John who had reinvigorated the blacksmith’s interest.

But rather than claim credit, Cavanaugh—Rand—continued, “While in the village, we happened to notice you speaking with a gentleman—one William John couldn’t place. I thought the man looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t see his face well enough to be sure.” Those molten caramel eyes held hers trapped. “Did he mention why he was in the area?”

She didn’t appreciate having been watched, much less being quizzed. Yet there was no reason she shouldn’t answer, especially given the arrangements she’d made with the gentleman in question. “He’s an artist from London. He does sketches for the London News, and during the summer, he’s traveling through the villages of the Home Counties, sending in sketches of country vistas and views.”

Rand nodded. “I’ve seen those sketches—they’re quite good.”

“Indeed. And the reason the gentleman approached me was that the villagers had told him about the Hall, how it sits surrounded by woodland, and he was keen to take a look at the house with a view to doing a sketch of it for the paper.” Still returning Rand’s gaze, she calmly stated, “I’ve invited him for afternoon tea. I suggested he arrive about half past two, and I’ll take him for a stroll about the grounds before tea. On fine days such as this, we—Cousin Flora and I—take tea on the terrace outside the drawing room, if you would care to join us.”

Cavanaugh—Rand—hesitated, then slowly said, “Thank you, but no.” He glanced into the dining room. “I’d better remain with William John.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Keeping his nose to the grindstone?” When Rand lightly shrugged, she let her smile widen. “I assure you, he needs no encouragement. It’s usually a battle to get him to lift his nose off said grindstone.”

Rand’s lips curved. “So I’ve discovered.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “Nevertheless, he seems given to...distraction. And we no longer have time for him to pursue every idea that comes to him.”

She nodded. “Very true.”

When Rand continued to look at her and made no move to step aside, she tipped her head and asked, “So, do you know Mr. Mayhew—the artist?”

Rand blinked. “Is that his name?”

“Mr. Clive Mayhew.” She studied Rand’s face. “Does that ring any bells?”

“No.” Rand couldn’t keep his frown from his eyes. “If he’s an artist, it’s possible I’ve met him in London. I know several artists, and I’m connected to others, so our paths might have crossed at some function.” That said, his claim to have recognized the man had been false—a ruse.

He studied Miss Throgmorton—Felicia—and wondered whether he should share his misgivings...not that he could be certain, even in his own mind, exactly what was making his nerves twitch. Was it seeing the personable Mayhew with her...or knowing an unknown gentleman had suddenly arrived in the vicinity of such a critical invention?

She held his gaze steadily—as if aware there was more to his interest in Mayhew than he’d yet owned to.

Rand drew in a breath, glanced briefly at William John, busily eating and utterly oblivious to Rand and Felicia’s conversation, then he looked at Felicia and quietly said, “I’ve been working with investors and inventors for more than five years. I’ve learned first-hand that when an exciting invention is nearing completion, other inventors or other investors sometimes take steps to...ensure that exciting invention doesn’t come to fruition.”

Her eyes widened. “You think Mayhew has been sent to...sabotage our engine?”

Our engine. He was making headway on that front at least. “You have to admit that Mayhew suddenly appearing out of the blue...”

Her lips set; her chin firmed. “Papa was always careful. From childhood, he taught us never to speak of what he was doing or even where the workshop was—not to people we didn’t know well, well enough to trust.”

“Sound advice.” Then Rand wrinkled his nose. “But Mayhew’s an artist. I have to admit it sounds like paranoia speaking, yet...” After several seconds, he focused on Felicia’s green eyes. “Can I suggest it might be wise to avoid all mention of our current project and to steer Mayhew well away from the workshop?”

Her eyes on his, she slowly nodded. “I certainly won’t mention the engine or even inventions in general—what possible interest could that have for an artist? And if he asks, we’ll know that, regardless of being an artist, he’s here for some nefarious purpose. I can also make sure he doesn’t see the workshop, but it would help if you could ensure that all the doors are kept shut during the afternoon.”

He nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re shut and stay that way.” He still wasn’t happy at the thought of her strolling the lawns with Mayhew, but he really had no justification for suggesting she put the man off.

She’d been frowning, unseeing, past him; now, she looked up and met his eyes. Determination and a sort of female confidence gleamed in hers. “I could put Mayhew off, but frankly, if he is a saboteur trying to get access to the engine, given we—you and I, at least—are alert to that possibility, I would rather we give him the chance to show his true colors.”

He didn’t like it, but something about the resolution in her eyes warned him arguing would not be in his best interests. Not on any front.

He forced himself to incline his head. “I’ll keep watch while he’s here.”

“Hoi, Rand! Do you want any of this roast beef?”

They both turned to see William John peering at a dish on the table.

Shaking his head, Rand looked back at Felicia.

Just as she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “You’d better go, or there’ll be no roast beef left.”

He had to fight the urge to close his hand over hers, to hold it against his arm. His smile a trifle stiff, he inclined his head and stepped into the dining room, allowing her too-tempting hand to fall away. “One thing.” He halted and locked his gaze with hers. “While you’re with Mayhew...take care.”

She widened her eyes at him. “Of course.” Then her lips curved lightly, and she turned and walked on, into the front hall.

Rand watched her go, then turned and made for the roast beef.

* * *

Felicia used to think her father’s admonitions regarding his inventions and the workshop to be, as Rand had put it, paranoia speaking. Now, however, with so much riding on the success of the steam engine, she was more than willing to err on the side of caution.

She was waiting in the drawing room when Johnson announced that Mr. Mayhew had called. Leaving Flora, who she’d warned of the artist’s visit, to organize for afternoon tea to be served on the terrace, Felicia walked out to greet Mayhew.

He was glancing around, apparently taking in the lines of the front hall. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and a charming smile wreathed his face. “Miss Throgmorton.”

He accepted the hand she offered and, very correctly, bowed over it.

“I’m delighted to welcome you to Throgmorton Hall, sir.” She was more than capable of behaving in as charming a manner as he; her year in London had taught her how to be pleasantly civil while keeping gentlemen at a safe distance. Smoothly retrieving her hand, she waved toward the front door. “As I mentioned earlier, I suggest we stroll around the house before taking tea with my aunt. The light about the house is at its best at the moment. Even though it’s summer, the trees in the woodland are so tall, they cast long shadows over the lawns from afternoon onward.”

“Yes, indeed.” Mayhew clasped his hands behind his back and kept pace beside her as she walked to the front door, propped wide to let the sunshine stream in.

Felicia noted that the door giving onto the workshop stairs was firmly shut. Rand’s doing, without a doubt; William John rarely remembered.

She walked onto the porch and halted, then glanced at Mayhew. “As you can see, the shadows are already encroaching on the lawn.” She looked to left and right. “Keeping to the lawns, we can stroll all the way around the house. Which way would you prefer to go?”

Mayhew favored her with another charming smile; he seemed to have a ready supply that stopped just short of ingratiating. “I’m happy to be led by your experience, Miss Throgmorton.”

“In that case”—she waved toward the shrubbery—“let’s circle to the right.”

She picked up her skirts and descended the steps. Mayhew kept pace; she watched as he looked around—exactly as one might imagine an artist would.

He was as tall as Rand, but had narrower shoulders and was one of those men with a tendency to stoop, as if trying to disguise his height.

He scanned the woodland and the shrubbery as they approached. When they reached the arched entrance to the shrubbery, he paused to look back at the house. After several moments of studying it, he shook his head. He turned to follow her onward, saw her watching, and smiled wryly. “My apologies. I’m always looking for the right view. Sadly, that isn’t it.”

She smiled spontaneously. “No need to apologize. That is why you’re here, after all.”

He inclined his head. “You’re more understanding than many a young lady. Most imagine that they are the most...well, fascinating aspect of any view. And while that’s so in a way, I’m generally focused on landscapes and buildings. People are...more difficult to accurately capture.”

Felicia looked at him with burgeoning interest. “That’s an insightful comment.”

He was looking down as he walked. He snorted softly. “It’s simply the direction in which my talent runs.”

They circled through the shrubbery, then walked past the stables and into the rose garden. Again, he halted within the rose garden and looked back at the house.

“Now, this is a very pretty composition, but, sadly, I would have to capture it soon after dawn.” He glanced at her and gave a rueful grimace. “I am definitely not at my best before noon.”

She laughed. She was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine Clive Mayhew as a saboteur. But as they strolled on, between the beds of roses, it occurred to her that while he might be a saboteur, he might also genuinely be an artist; the one did not preclude the other. “Did you bring some of your sketches? You said you would this morning.”

“Indeed.” He patted his pocket, and a faint rustling reached her ears. “I thought perhaps I could show you—and is it your aunt?—over afternoon tea.”

“Mrs. Flora Makepeace is my father’s widowed cousin. She’ll be joining us for tea, and I’m sure she’ll be as delighted as I to view your work.”

“Now you’re just being kind, but I hope my poor efforts will be at least of passing interest.”

Felicia smiled. “I’m sure they will be. You cannot be too modest when your sketches are published by the London News.”

Was his story of being a sketch artist for the popular pictorial news sheet an invention? She glanced at his face, but his expression remained untroubled—innocent of guile.

They reached the end of the rose garden, and she led the way on, along the swath of lawn that ran behind the kitchen garden. For just a few yards—before the walls of the kitchen garden intervened—the doors to the workshop were visible to their right. She was on Mayhew’s left; she needed to keep his gaze on her. Airily, she asked, “Have you had a chance to exhibit your work in the capital?”

He flicked a glance her way and sighed. “Sadly, no—although I must confess that’s one of my most cherished ambitions.” His lips twisted cynically. “Along with every artist in the land, of course.”

“It must be quite...cutthroat.” She caught his eye. “Having to find a patron.”

His gaze on her face, he nodded, and they passed the point beyond which the garden walls hid the workshop doors.

Felicia led Mayhew onto and down the south lawn, then they followed the tree line and circled past the old fountain, now no longer in use.

Just past the fountain, Mayhew, who had been constantly glancing toward the house, halted. He stared at the front of the house, from that perspective seen at an angle. “This is the spot.” He made the pronouncement with absolute certainty. After a moment, he looked at Felicia. “Miss Throgmorton, I would very much like yours and your family’s permission to sketch your home from this angle for inclusion in a series I’m doing for the News, featuring England’s country homes in the Home Counties.”

Not once had Mayhew even obliquely referred to inventions or workshops; he hadn’t even asked about the house itself, seemingly only interested in its visible exterior—precisely as an artist with his declared interest would be. Felicia smiled and inclined her head. “There’s only my brother I need to consult, and I know he’ll see no reason to deny you.”

“Excellent.” Mayhew looked at the house. His expression eager, he went on, “That’s the west face, so I’ll need the afternoon light, as now.” He glanced at Felicia. “Perhaps I could come and sketch tomorrow afternoon—from about two o’clock, if that would be convenient?”

“I know of no reason it wouldn’t be. We lead a quiet life, and Cousin Flora hasn’t mentioned any visits, so I believe that arrangement will suit.” With a wave, she indicated the raised terrace that ran along the house’s south face, overlooking the long lawn. “But let’s join Flora and ask, just to make sure.”

They walked back to the house and up the steps to the terrace. Flora was waiting, seated at the round wrought-iron table, which had already been set with plates, cups, and saucers, with a multitiered cake stand in the table’s center. Felicia made the introductions. Flora gave Mayhew her hand and smiled in her usual soft and comfortable way, then she waved them both to sit.

Mayhew held Felicia’s chair. Once she’d settled, he claimed the third chair at the table.

Despite Flora’s overtly gentle and feminine appearance, Felicia knew her chaperon was shrewd and observant. Flora poured tea and chatted in amiable vein, professing her delight at the thought of Mayhew sketching the Hall. She confirmed Felicia’s expectation that there was no reason Mayhew couldn’t ply his pencil the following afternoon and approved of his choice of view.

Flora waited until Mayhew had sampled one of Cook’s lemon cakes and sipped his tea before leaning forward and declaring, “I have to confess, Mr. Mayhew, that I am quite impatient to see the sketches Felicia said you would bring to dazzle us.”

A faint flush stained Mayhew’s long cheeks. He shot Felicia a self-deprecating glance. “I wouldn’t describe my work as ‘dazzling,’ ma’am.” He set down his cup and reached into his pocket. “However, I have brought several of my sketches—of Ashampstead and of the river nearby. I hope you’ll recognize the view and approve of my poor talent.”

He withdrew a roll of paper about nine inches long that was wound about a thin wooden rod. Seeing Felicia look curiously at the roll, Mayhew explained, “I carry my sketches in this way so they don’t crease.”

“Ah. Of course.” Felicia watched while Mayhew unrolled several sheets of fine artist’s paper from the spool. When he handed the curling sheets to her, she eagerly took them. Flora quickly cleared a space on the table between her and Felicia, and Felicia laid the sketches down.

She and Flora stared, mesmerized by the pencil-and-ink sketches that had captured views with which they were both familiar with such accuracy and felicity that the scenes were not just instantly recognizable but the sketches somehow conveyed a sense of the atmosphere pertaining to each place. The sketch of Ashampstead village street on a market day was abustle with life, while the delicate sketch of the pool on the river Pang to the east of Hampstead Norreys invoked a sense of bucolic peace.

Once she’d looked her fill, Felicia glanced up and, across the table, met Mayhew’s eyes. “These are exquisite. You are, indeed, very talented.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Mayhew didn’t smile but lightly raised one shoulder, as if he remained unsure of his skill or was, for some reason, uncomfortable acknowledging it.

Looking again at the sketches, Felicia felt vindicated in having agreed to allow him to sketch the Hall; such an opportunity, dropped into her lap by Fate, shouldn’t be lightly passed up, and if it helped Mayhew continue and gain more confidence in his work, well and good.

“I admit,” she said, raising her gaze once more to Mayhew’s face, “to being intrigued to see what you make of the Hall, sir. It was a lucky chance that sent you our way.”

Flora added her compliments, too.

Mayhew blushed anew and, yet again, disclaimed—although with the evidence of his talent lying before Felicia and Flora, he might as well have saved his breath. Then, with all three of them transparently pleased with the outcome of Mayhew’s visit, they settled to finish their tea.

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