The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh Read online

  To her abiding amazement, she continued to find interacting with her brother, following his lines of thought and catching where he went wrong, challenging in an intriguing and satisfying way. Even though it might take her a few hours, invariably, her mind supplied a way around whatever obstacle William John had encountered.

  Rand sat and watched and quietly encouraged—if the pair of them faltered, he would pose a question, starting them off again. To her, he was a necessary catalyst—one who lent the spark that fired her resolve, and that, in turn, drove her to find the way over or around the next hurdle.

  During those hours in the workshop, the three of them merged into a highly effective team.

  And when William John made an adjustment she’d suggested and it worked...the thrill of pleasure that coursed through her was worth every iota of effort; the effect only grew stronger and more intense as the days rolled on.

  She’d told Rand truly; if her father had encouraged her to become involved, even if only tangentially, in his inventions, she would have understood his and William John’s obsession and would have viewed their behavior in more tolerant and supportive vein.

  Nevertheless, contributing or not, she would have remained the practical one—the one who ensured the household ran smoothly around the laboratory-workshop. But her view of the workshop would have—and, indeed, had—changed; she now saw that space and what went on in it as an integral part of life at the Hall and not as an offshoot to be endured and otherwise deplored.

  She was well aware that for her change of heart, for her rekindled interest in inventions, and for her greater understanding of her father and her brother, she had Randolph Cavanaugh to thank.

  She’d spent the past two afternoons with the Reilly girls—Petunia, Primrose, Poppy, and Pansy; as she’d explained to Rand, the girls’ father was the gardener and loved his flowers. As a group, they’d set about cleaning and polishing the carriage the engine would eventually power along the roads.

  William John and Rand had examined it carefully, going over every panel and checking the wheels and struts, and pronounced it whole and in perfect repair. Once they’d left, armed with cloths and all manner of polishes, Felicia and the maids had fallen on the carriage and set to with a vengeance.

  In midafternoon, Felicia returned to the house to join Mrs. Reilly in the sitting room to check over the weekly orders for the grocer and the butcher. On entering the sitting room, Felicia smiled at the housekeeper, who was waiting by the empty fireplace. “By tomorrow, your girls will have the carriage spotless—spick, span, and gleaming.”

  A fond mama, Mrs. Reilly beamed. “They’re good girls, and they’ve been excited to do their bit for one of the master’s inventions. And it started with your father and all—like a bit of a memorial for him, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed.” Felicia sank into her favorite armchair and waved Mrs. Reilly to the one facing it. “I have to admit that I’ve never before felt so excited myself. Lord Cavanaugh, William John, and I went over the engine in fine detail this morning—we believe that after the last adjustments William John is making, the engine will be ready for its final tests. And then we’ll be able to lift it into its place in the carriage, hook everything up—and the carriage will go.” She couldn’t help sharing a smile with the older woman, who had seen the household through the ups and downs of so many inventions over the years. “We’re trying to contain ourselves, but we all believe the engine will perform splendidly!”

  “That’s good to hear, miss. A happy outcome all around.”

  “Indeed.” Salvation beckoned on so many fronts—for her and William John, for their household, and for Rand and his investors as well. Felicia drew in a breath, then focused on the lists Mrs. Reilly held on her lap. “So—is there anything particular we need to get in?”

  After she and Mrs. Reilly had made their decisions on the purchases for the next week and the housekeeper retired to write out her orders, Felicia crossed to the escritoire that stood against the wall between the windows. She owed her aunt-by-marriage a letter, and her cousins, too.

  She was sitting at the escritoire, filling a page with the usual local news, when a firm tap fell on the door.

  Puzzled, she called, “Come.”

  She grew even more puzzled as, her expression unusually grim, Petunia—who, when she wasn’t busily cleaning the horseless carriage, acted as lady’s maid for Felicia and Flora both—propelled her youngest sister, Pansy, into the room. “No help for it, Panse.” A force not to be denied, Petunia pushed a clearly reluctant Pansy to the middle of the room, then stood back, folded her arms, and fixed a stern look on the young housemaid. “Now, my girl, you tell Miss Felicia what Diccon asked.”

  Pansy looked from Petunia to Felicia. Straightening, she scrunched her now-dusty white apron between her hands and bent a wary gaze on Felicia.

  Although nearly ten years older than Pansy, Felicia had known the girl from birth. She had no idea what this was about—why Petunia had brought Pansy to her and not to the girls’ redoubtable mother—but endeavored to smile encouragingly. “What did Diccon ask, Pansy?”

  Pansy screwed up her face, but after a second during which she seemed to order her thoughts, she replied readily enough, “Diccon—he’s the lad as helps at the butcher’s, miss—we got to talking yesterday, when I was in the village with Poppy and Primrose, while I was waiting for them to come out of the general store. They got stuck in the queue behind Miss Limebeck, so I sat outside to wait, and Diccon came up, and he and me got talking.” Pansy paused, her blue eyes wide and her expression serious. “Then out of the blue, Diccon asked if I could get ahold of the plans that Mr. William John works from.”

  Shocked, Felicia sat back.

  Pansy saw her reaction and nodded. “Aye—I was shocked and all, too. I said no and asked Diccon who wanted them—the plans. Obviously, it wouldn’t’ve been him. He said as how one of the ostlers at the Arms said a gent from London, who called in for a drink in the tap, had said to him after, as the gent was leaving, that if he—the ostler, that is—could get ahold of the plans, he’d see gold for his trouble.”

  When Pansy fell silent, her blue eyes huge, her hands still wrapped in her apron, Felicia—horrified—looked at Petunia.

  Arms still crossed, the older maid nodded soberly. “That’s not the end of the tale. Panse here came home and—eventually—had the sense to tell Pa after lunch today. Pa went off then and there to the village. He found Diccon, who told Pa it was Harry at the Norreys Arms who’d asked him. Pa went to see Harry. Of course, Harry—being the silly knockhead he is—tried to say he didn’t know anything about it. But Pa and Joe-the-barkeep wore Harry down. In the end, Harry said it was like Diccon had said. The gentleman called at the tap night before last—that’s when he spoke to Harry. Yesterday morning, Harry—knowing Diccon often speaks with Pansy—got Diccon alone and asked him to ask Pansy, just like Diccon did. Harry thought that if the plans were just lying around the place, no one would miss them.”

  Petunia, Pansy, and Felicia shared a look. The notion of William John not noticing, within the hour if not sooner, that one of his precious diagrams had been moved, let alone stolen, was simply too fanciful to contemplate.

  “Like I said,” Petunia went on, “Harry’s a knockhead, and Diccon’s too good-natured and trusting. Pa asked Harry when the gent said he’d be back, but seemed he’d already called in again early this afternoon, and Harry’d told him he couldn’t get the plans. Apparently, the man looked angry and swore, then he shrugged and got back on his horse and rode off.”

  “Did Harry have any idea who the man was?” Felicia asked. “Could he describe him?”

  Petunia shook her head. “He said he reckoned the man was from London from his accent, but as the man was a gent—both Harry and Joe-the-barkeep agree on that—his accent doesn’t necessarily mean he lives in London, does it?”

  “No,”
Felicia agreed. “It just means he’s from a good family and went to a good school.”

  Petunia nodded and went on, “Harry swore he’d never seen the man before. Both he and Joe said the man had a hat pulled low and a muffler wound round his face. Harry couldn’t see anything but the gleam of the gent’s eyes.” Petunia paused, then added, “The only thing Harry could say was that the horse was from the Crown at Pangbourne, and the man rode away in that direction—he assumed heading back to London.”

  Felicia stared unseeing at the maids while she digested the unwelcome and troubling news.

  Petunia lowered her arms and straightened; Felicia glanced at her. “Pa just got back with the news. He said he had to get on with lifting the potatoes if we was to have any for the table tonight, and that Pansy and I should come in and tell you the whole.”

  Felicia summoned a weak smile for the girls. “Thank you both for coming and telling me—and please thank your father as well.”

  Petunia and Pansy curtsied, then Petunia followed her youngest sister out of the room.

  Felicia stared at the door for several moments. Then, frowning, she rose and headed for the workshop.

  Rand was standing by the engine, cleaning one of the several levers William John had removed from the control panel, when he heard Felicia’s light footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned and was waiting, when she reached the last step and her gaze swept the room, to meet her eyes.

  She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped down and walked closer.

  Taking in her sober expression and the frown in her eyes, he arched his brows. “You don’t normally grace us with your presence at this hour.”

  She looked at William John, who hadn’t raised his head from his intent examination of the pins connecting the control panel to the engine, then returned her gaze to Rand’s face. “There’s been a development of which, I believe, you both need to be informed.”

  Alerted by her tone, William John looked up, then straightened, a wrench in his hand. “What’s happened?”

  Briefly, she told them what she’d just learned, concluding with “So although we know that some gentleman tried to get our staff to steal the plans, there’s little more to be gleaned.”

  Her tale had sent a slight chill through Rand, but... “This really shouldn’t come as a surprise. As we’ve already discussed, there are various parties who would prefer the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage to never see the light of day.” He focused on Felicia. “However, as the man involved has already quit the area, there’s no sense wasting our time—time we don’t really have—in trying to trace him or those who sent him.”

  “He’d hidden his face, too,” William John pointed out. “Without any way to identify him, it’s difficult to point to any particular gentleman as our villain.”

  Rand inclined his head, wondering if there was more to the man having so assiduously concealed his features.

  Felicia put his speculation into words. “Given we can’t identify the man, then he could have been Mayhew, but I understood he was planning to be out of the area for longer than a few days.”

  “If it was him, he would have wanted to conceal his face,” William John said, “but equally, as I understand it, we have no reason to think he’s in any way involved with these attempts to sabotage the engine or that he even has an interest in inventions.”

  He looked at Rand and Felicia both.

  Reluctantly, Rand nodded. “You’re right. We have no evidence that Mayhew is a threat. On the other hand, this, on top of the attempted break-in, is irrefutable evidence that someone—some decently bred gentleman most likely hired by as-yet-unknown others—is intent on sabotaging this project.”

  William John grimaced and nodded.

  Felicia looked grave. “What should we do?”

  “When it comes down to it, there really isn’t much more we can do, other than ensure that the guards we already have on duty understand that the threat is real and keep alert throughout their watch.” Rand met Felicia’s eyes, then William John’s. “Despite our successes, we still have a lot to do to prove the engine and then get it inserted into the carriage and check that over, too—all before we set out for Birmingham.”

  “Six full days before we need to leave.” William John nodded decisively. “We’ll make it.”

  “What about the journey?” Felicia met Rand’s gaze. “Surely that would be the perfect opportunity to...well, thrust a spoke in the carriage’s wheels.”

  He nodded. “But against that, during the journey, we’ll have extra guards to keep the steam carriage safe. Whoever our ill-wishers are, they will expect that and would presumably conclude that, in reality, it will be easier for them to strike at the invention here, while it’s still at the Hall.”

  Felicia frowned, then refocused on Rand’s face. “Is there any way to guess who is behind these attacks?”

  Rand thought, then shook his head. “There are too many possibilities, none of which we can discount—too many groups that might have hired a gentleman like the one who recently visited the Norreys Arms. Sadly, ‘gentlemen’ like him are easy to come by in the capital.”

  He paused, then, when both Felicia and William John seemed to wish it, he listed their possible opponents. “Other syndicates working on similar projects—I don’t know of any openly working on a steam-powered carriage at this time, but if they kept the work secret, they might now view us as a real threat. Then there are the usual suspects who hold strong views on allowing any steam-powered carriage to succeed. They managed to discount Trevithick’s original, managed to ignore Russell’s improvements and the works of others who’d attempted similar modifications. Yet none of those inventions held the promise of the Throgmorton engine. If they understand the potential, then they would be very keen to see our project fail. And we mustn’t forget the railway companies, the toll-road owners, and all their shareholders. And last but not least, any inventor who feels envious or threatened, or feels he’s been in any way damaged by your father’s past successes—this is, after all, William Throgmorton’s last great invention.”

  Felicia and William John pulled almost identically dejected faces.

  After a moment, Felicia said, “So at this stage, there’s no chance of identifying who was responsible and therefore no sense in wasting our time attempting to gain sufficient evidence to point a finger.” She nodded more definitely. “This evening, we should warn the men mounting the night watches of the increased chance of another attack.” She met Rand’s eyes, then inclined her head and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll speak to the rest of the household now. They, too, will need to remain alert.”

  Rand watched her go, then turned back to William John, who, apparently, had consigned all responsibility for increased security into Rand’s and Felicia’s hands and had dived back into the engine.

  * * *

  A certain tension pervaded the house. Watchful and on guard even during the day, alert for the slightest movement or noise out of place, the household went about their business, eyes peeled, ears strained.

  But there was suppressed excitement running beneath the tension—a sense that no one would be taking aim at the steam engine if it wasn’t a worthy target, implying that William Throgmorton’s last great invention was, indeed, slated to be a spectacular success.

  Two nights after the discovery of the attempt to steal the plans, after Flora had retired, Felicia remained in her sitting room, determined to complete her letters to her cousins. She lost track of the time, then Johnson tapped and looked in.

  The butler smiled when he saw her. “You’re late, Miss Felicia.”

  She glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. “Good gracious.” She looked at the letter she was writing. “I’ll just finish this page, then go up.”

  Johnson smiled benignly, then circled the room, checking that the windows had been locked
.

  Felicia laid down her pen with a sigh and looked up. “A last and final check?” Johnson usually did his final check soon after he wheeled the tea tray away.

  “Indeed, miss. Given the circumstances, one cannot be too careful, and I have to admit I sleep a lot easier if I check the locks late.”

  She nodded. “No blame to you. As whoever wishes to break in and steal the plans or sabotage the invention has presumably learned that the workshop doors cannot be forced, then it must surely be on the cards that they might attempt to gain access through a door or window on this level and make their way down to the workshop.”

  Johnson somewhat diffidently remarked, “Lord Cavanaugh did canvass that possibility with me. It seems you and he think alike, miss.”

  She smiled. “That’s not really surprising. We’re both committed to ensuring this invention remains safe all the way to the exhibition, and as you know, William John is somewhat...”

  “Absentminded?” Johnson smiled. “Indeed, miss. But a very clever gentleman, nonetheless.”

  Felicia allowed her smile to grow and inclined her head. “As you say, Johnson.” Seeing he had completed his circuit of the room’s windows, she said, “I’ll be going up momentarily. You can turn down the lights elsewhere.”

  “Yes, miss.” Johnson bowed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Felicia remained in the chair by the escritoire and let her mind wander—first to assessing the steps they’d taken to secure the Hall, searching for any weakness and finding none, then to the revelations of recent days and the changes those revelations had wrought.

  Eventually, with the house settling to nighttime quiet about her, she rose, turned off the twin sconces she’d had burning, and made for the door. She opened it and stepped into the front hall, shutting the panel quietly behind her. As per her instructions, Johnson had turned the two small sconces in the hall and the one on the stair landing to their lowest setting; they cast the faintest of pale glows, just enough for someone like her, familiar with the house, to be sure of their way. She started toward the stairs.