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  The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

  Stephanie Laurens

  ISBN-13: 9781488082986

  The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

  Copyright © 2018 by Savdek Management Proprietary Limited

  The name Stephanie Laurens is a registered trademark of Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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  The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

  She’d been kissed before, but never like this—with such direct and compelling mastery that she and all her senses had surged in response. Her lips parted beneath the temptation of his; she quelled a delicious shiver as his tongue teased the slick softness, then slid between and settled to explore.

  To engage and expand her senses.

  Her wits had gone wandering; to where, she didn’t care.

  Instinctively, she came up on her toes the better to participate in the enthralling exchange; she leaned into him, her hands coming to rest, palms flat, on his chest.

  Even through the fabric of his coat and shirt, she felt the alluring heat of him. Beneath her hands, she sensed the reality of a flesh-and-blood man.

  Desire bloomed. She’d never felt it before, yet she knew it for what it was and embraced it.

  The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

  Stephanie Laurens

  PROLOGUE

  June 1843

  London

  “I’m prepared to pay off all your debts provided that you complete a particular task for me.”

  The pale-faced, neatly dressed gentleman elegantly seated in one of the Antium Club’s armchairs blinked, then stared through the fug of the smoking room at the older gentleman in the armchair opposite—his uncle. “What—all of them?” His tone suggested he was having difficulty believing his ears.

  His uncle nodded portentously. “Indeed. And yes, I comprehend that’s a significant sum. I also understand that you owe most if not all of that amount to... Shall we say a somewhat notorious lender-of-last-resort?” The older gentleman paused, then continued, “I assume you appealed to me because you’re desperate, and you know your brother and brothers-in-law won’t lend you a sou regardless of any threats to your continuing good health.”

  The younger gentleman’s lips tightened. “Just so.” He hesitated, then asked, “What task do you need attended to?”

  What could possibly be worth that much to you? The unvoiced question hung in the smoky air between them.

  The older man’s expression eased, and he waved a manicured hand. “Nothing too onerous.” He paused as if ordering his thoughts, then went on, “You’re aware that I invest in various projects, that I lead syndicates who fund enterprises such as railways and gas companies and the like. All very much above board. Unfortunately, these days, there’s a welter of upstart inventors pushing wild ideas and making a lot of noise.” He frowned. “Steering investors away from such ideas—ideas that will never amount to anything—isn’t always easy. Men with money but little sense often behave like children—they get excited over the latest new thing. At present, there’s a great deal of talk about improvements to steam engines, the sort that might make steam-powered horseless carriages into a commercial reality. All balderdash, of course, but it’s making my life much harder.” His frown darkened to a scowl.

  After several moments of, apparently, dwelling on the iniquities of any situation that dared to make his life more difficult, his voice lowering, the older man said, “There’s one particular invention that I’ve heard is nearing completion. It’s due to be unveiled at the exhibition to be held in Birmingham on the twenty-second of July.”

  The older man’s eyes, their expression shrewd and hard, cut to his nephew’s face. “I need to be assured that that invention will fail—or at the very least, that it will not be successfully demonstrated at the exhibition, which will be attended by Prince Albert. I need to be able to hold that failure up to my investors as an example of the dangers of putting their money into such ill-envisioned, poorly designed projects. Projects that are not simply speculative but that have next to no chance of success.”

  The younger gentleman steepled his fingers before his face. He studied his uncle for several long moments, then murmured, “I assume you’re asking me to interfere with—to sabotage—this invention.” When his uncle’s jaw set, and he returned the younger man’s gaze levelly, the younger man asked with patently sincere curiosity, “How do you imagine I might do that?”

  His uncle sat back and fussily straightened his trouser legs. “As to that... I can tell you where the inventor lives. His workshop is at his house. As to how you gain access or exactly how to...thrust a spoke in the invention’s wheels, I will leave that to you to decide.” The older gentleman met the younger man’s eyes. “You are, apparently, a creative person—I’m sure you’ll think of a way.”

  Despite his current situation, the younger gentleman was no fool. The sum of money his uncle was offering was substantial. To pay so much for tampering with a piece of machinery seemed a poor deal. Yet his uncle was known as a shrewd, ostentatiously rigid businessman, one who held on to his coin with a tight grip, and although he was a childless widower, he’d never previously shown any mellowness or warmth toward the members of his wider family.

  The younger man leaned forward, his gaze on his uncle’s face. “What is it about this particular invention that makes it so”—threatening—“undesirable?”

  His uncle’s face hardened. Anger flared, readily discernible in his brown eyes, yet it was not directed at his nephew but, apparently, at the invention in question. “It’s...a travesty of an investment project. It shouldn’t be allowed—not as a syndicated investment. We don’t need bally horseless carriages—we have perfectly good horses, and there’s nothing wrong with the carriages they pull. These machines—these newfangled engines—are full of not just cogs and gears but valves and tubing and gauges and pistons. How they work is incomprehensible—for my money, deliberately so.”

  He drew in a breath. “Steam locomotives were one thing. Even steam-powered looms were straightforward enough. But this latest round of contraptions!” He flung up his hands in a gesture of either incomprehension or defeat—or perhaps both. Although he kept his voice low, he was all but ranting as he continued, “How am I supposed to deal with my investors? They rattle on about pressures and inclines
, and because I can’t explain why it’s wrong, they won’t listen to my advice that we—all of society—don’t need these things, and they shouldn’t invest in them.”

  Aha. You’re losing investors to those who are running the syndicates for these new inventions. You’re a Luddite, and you don’t understand, so... The younger man hid a smile. Now he understood that, the deal seemed much more even-handed. His life and his livelihood were under threat from his principal creditor, and this invention, the success of it, threatened his uncle’s livelihood—his uncle’s reason for being.

  He might be about to undertake to do something not entirely above board, but at least, to his way of thinking, the exchange seemed fair enough.

  His gaze still on his uncle’s now-distinctly choleric face, the younger man slowly nodded. “I see.” He paused, then quietly said, “Very well. I’ll do it. I’ll take care of this matter for you, and you will take care of my debts for me.” He held out his hand.

  His uncle studied his eyes, then grasped his hand, and they shook.

  Retrieving his hand, the younger man said, “You’d better tell me all you can about this invention.”

  His uncle complied, revealing the invention’s location, the inventor’s name, and that the invention was some sort of steam engine purported to incorporate several improvements on Russell’s reworking of Trevithick’s original of 1803.

  The younger man had less notion of what that description meant than, he suspected, his uncle did. However, he nodded. After rapidly replaying their earlier conversation, he asked, “Am I correct in thinking that, regardless of whether this engine actually runs or not, as long as it’s not unveiled to any fanfare at the exhibition in Birmingham, you will be satisfied?”

  His uncle frowned slightly. “That should suffice. If the invention isn’t successfully demonstrated there”—he smiled tightly, coldly—“no one will believe it works.” After a second, he nodded decisively. “Yes. That will be enough.”

  “Good-oh.” The younger gentleman pushed to his feet.

  His uncle looked up at him. “I will, of course, be attending the exhibition myself, so I’ll be present to view the outcome of your efforts first-hand.”

  The younger man inclined his head. “I’ll endeavor to please. And now, I’d best be on my way.”

  His uncle murmured a farewell, and the younger gentleman made for the Antium’s main door.

  He paused on the club’s front steps and looked up at the cloudless summer sky.

  How hard could it be to rearrange a lever or two, or unscrew a few bolts, or swipe the notes of some absentminded inventor?

  He suspected he could satisfy his uncle easily enough, after which his life and his future would be his again.

  Yet as he descended the steps and set out for his lodgings, he could feel uneasiness over what he’d agreed to do swirling inside. But...

  When it came down to it, he was desperate. Truly desperate. And at least, this way, no one would die.

  CHAPTER 1

  July 1843

  Berkshire

  Lord Randolph Cavanaugh—Rand to his family, friends, and associates—tooled his curricle down the leafy lanes and reveled in the fresh country air. After spending the past four months in London, he was more than ready for a change, and a long-scheduled visit to Raventhorne Abbey to catch up with his brother and sister-in-law and their children had provided the perfect excuse to leave the steadily escalating heat of the capital behind.

  However, as matters had fallen out, the trip to the Abbey in Wiltshire had coincided with an unexpected need to check up on one of the projects Rand’s firm, Cavanaugh Investments, had underwritten. For the past five years, ever since he’d reached twenty-five and come into his full inheritance, Rand had worked steadily and diligently to carve out a place—a life and a purpose—for himself. He wasn’t content to simply be Raventhorne’s half brother. He’d wanted something more—some enterprise to call his own.

  Through Ryder—Rand’s older half brother, now the Marquess of Raventhorne—and Ryder’s marchioness, Mary, Rand had come to know the Cynsters. Gabriel Cynster, one of Mary’s older cousins, had long been a renowned figure in investment circles. Rand had shamelessly apprenticed himself, albeit informally, to Gabriel. After several years of learning from the master, Rand had struck out on his own. He’d made managing investments in the latest inventions his particular area of expertise.

  One of his syndicate’s current investments was an exclusive stake in the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage. There’d been steam-powered horseless carriages before—Trevithick had demonstrated the principle in 1803—but none had solved the various issues that had kept such inventions from becoming widely adopted. William Throgmorton had made his name through a spate of steam-powered inventions that had refined the machines of earlier inventors, making the modified engines much more commercially attractive.

  When it came to inventions, Throgmorton was a known and established name. Investing in his latest project, while still ranking as definitely speculative, had seemed a good wager, one with possibly very high returns.

  Rand had known William Throgmorton for several years. Through his syndicated investment fund, Rand had supported several of Throgmorton’s earlier projects, all of which had delivered satisfactorily. Rand was entirely comfortable with his current investment in Throgmorton’s latest project.

  What he wasn’t so comfortable with—what had necessitated this side trip into deepest Berkshire—was Throgmorton’s recent silence. The last report Rand had received had been over three months ago. Until March, Throgmorton had reported more or less every month.

  Rand trusted Throgmorton. More, he knew that inventors sometimes became so caught up in the actual work that they lost track of time, and all other responsibilities faded from their minds. Yet over the years Rand had worked with him, Throgmorton hadn’t missed reporting before.

  What was even more troubling was that Throgmorton had failed to respond to not one but two letters Rand had subsequently sent. That wasn’t like Throgmorton at any time, but now, with the Birmingham exhibition—at which the presentation and demonstration of the Throgmorton engine had already been widely touted—less than a month away, Rand needed reassurance that all was progressing smoothly with the invention, not just for himself but for all his syndicate’s investors.

  The cream of British inventing would be at the exhibition. Prince Albert was scheduled to open it, and the Prince could be relied on to take a keen interest in the inventions on show. Success at the exhibition was crucial for the future of Throgmorton’s engine and also for Rand’s status in the investment community. If Throgmorton failed to deliver...

  Rand pushed the thought from his mind. Throgmorton hadn’t failed him yet.

  Nevertheless, Rand needed to know what was going on at Throgmorton Hall. He needed to hear of progress from Throgmorton himself, and as the man wasn’t answering his letters, Rand had decided to call in person.

  He hadn’t visited Throgmorton Hall before; he’d always met William in the City. All he knew of the Hall was that it lay close to the village of Hampstead Norreys, buried in the depths of Berkshire. Aside from all else, Rand would admit he was curious to see Throgmorton’s workshop.

  So instead of continuing west out of Reading and thus to Raventhorne Abbey, on reaching Reading, Rand had taken the Wantage road. He’d stopped at an inn in Pangbourne for lunch, and his groom, Shields, had consulted with the ostlers. Armed with the information Shields had gained, Rand had elected to drive on to Basildon before turning off the highway onto the narrower country lanes and steering his horses first to the west, then the southwest. He’d passed through Ashampstead some time ago. According to the signposts, the village of Hampstead Norreys lay just a mile or so on.

  Rand held his bays to a steady trot. After calling on Throgmorton and reviewing his progress and receiving the assurances Rand an
d his investors required, Rand would have plenty of time to drive on to the Abbey. With any luck, he would arrive before his eldest nephew and his niece had been put to bed. His youngest nephew was just two years old; Rand wasn’t sure what time he would be tucked in.

  Rand had discovered he enjoyed being an uncle; he and his two younger brothers, Christopher—Kit—and Godfrey, openly vied for the title of favorite uncle to Ryder and Mary’s three offspring. Rand grinned to himself; he was looking forward to spending the next few days—perhaps the next week—with Ryder, Mary, and their noisy brood.

  An arched gray-stone bridge appeared along the lane; Rand slowed his horses and let them walk up and over. A small sign at the crest of the bridge informed him he was crossing the Pang, presumably the upper reaches of the same river he’d earlier crossed at Pangbourne.

  “Looks like the village we want just ahead,” Shields said from his perch behind Rand. “Seems it stretches away to the right.”

  Rand nodded and shook the reins. The horses picked up their pace, and the curricle bowled smoothly on.

  To the left, the lane was bordered by trees, with more trees behind them—a thick forest of oaks and beeches, much like the old outliers of the Savernake that still lingered near Raventhorne.

  The trees thinned to the right, where the village stretched parallel to the stream; Rand glimpsed roofs of thatch and lead through breaks in the canopies.

  A sign by the road declared they’d reached the village of Hampstead Norreys. As Shields had predicted, the village street lay to the right, stretching northward, with shops and houses on either side. An inn—the Norreys Arms—squatted at the nearest corner.

  Rand drew up in the lane opposite the inn. The lane led on, heading west through an avenue of trees before curving to the left—to the southwest.

  Shields dropped to the lane. “I’ll go and ask.”

  Rand merely nodded. He watched as Shields strode into the inn yard and spoke with the stable lad sweeping the cobbles by the inn’s side door.

 
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