The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh Read online

  So much was riding on that outcome; until now, he hadn’t realized how much—inside, he was still grappling with the full scope of the impending threat.

  He kept his gaze steady on William John’s face—refusing to give in to the impulse to glance at Miss Throgmorton to see how she was coping with what had clearly been a painful revelation—and suggested, “Why don’t you outline for me where the invention stands at present?”

  To any inventor, such a request was an invitation to be seized, and William John proved he was as single-minded as his father; he eagerly complied and rattled on. Several times, when his descriptions became too technical, Rand halted the flow and asked for clarification. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, any doubts that William John was his father’s son had been laid to rest.

  Whether he could accomplish what his father had not managed to achieve prior to his death was another matter.

  While William John related all he had done since their father’s death, Miss Throgmorton, Rand noticed, sat back in her chair and listened intently. Her mind did not wander; judging by the steady focus of her gaze, she was able to understand William John’s explanation, possibly as well as Rand could.

  Eventually, William John reached the present. “So, you see, now that we’ve finally got the flow adjusted and the mechanisms properly aligned, it’s purely a matter of getting the controls correctly reset to allow for the increased power.” He grimaced. “That’s why the boiler blew. I still haven’t got the settings right.”

  Miss Throgmorton made a disapproving sound. “That was the third boiler in as many weeks.”

  William John shrugged. “The adjustments to the controls are...complicated. If they’re not correct, then the pressure in the boiler continues to increase, and if we can’t release it or shut down the engine quickly enough...” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

  Miss Throgmorton sniffed.

  Rand studied the younger man. “I have a question.” The point was puzzling. “Your father died in January, yet I continued to receive reports on his—your—progress until the end of March. From what you’ve told me, those reports were accurate, yet they were in your father’s hand...” He realized. “But they weren’t, were they?”

  William John shook his head. “I’ve been writing the reports for Papa for years. I just...continued.”

  Rand nodded. “Very well. My last question. When your father died, why didn’t you inform me and the syndicate of his death?”

  William John compressed his lips and stared levelly back at Rand.

  Rand waited. He was grateful that Miss Throgmorton also remained silent.

  Eventually, without shifting his gaze from Rand’s face, William John said, “I worked alongside Papa on this invention from its inception. From an inventor’s perspective, I have just as much invested in it as he. It was and still is my hope—my very real ambition—to complete the engine and take it to the exhibition. I knew that I would meet you and perhaps some of the other investors there. I thought I could explain what had happened then and, in so doing, establish myself as an inventor in my own right.” He glanced briefly at his sister, then looked back at Rand. “As my father’s heir invention-wise, so to speak.”

  Rand knew that answer was the unvarnished truth. William John was like many inventors—incapable of guile, at least when it came to inventions and inventing. In that field, they spent so much time focused unrelentingly on facts that dissembling did not come easily; indeed, most saw any form of lie as a waste of time.

  Moreover, Rand could understand William John’s position. The son would need to prove himself to move out of the shadow of an established personality. Indeed, Rand’s own quest for recognition separate from the large presence of Ryder and the marquessate was what had led him to the Throgmortons’ drawing room. As much as William John, Rand needed this invention to work. He’d staked a great deal more than mere money on it; his reputation as a leader of investment syndicates was riding on this project. If he failed...his chances of attracting investors to any future syndicate would dim considerably.

  While not strictly correct, William John’s approach to the situation was entirely understandable, at least to Rand.

  Slowly, he nodded. “Very well. We now know where we stand.” His personal strength lay in evaluating options and finding the best way out of any difficulty. He straightened in his chair. “What we need to do next is to define the problems facing us.”

  Still reeling from the impact of successive revelations, Felicia felt that defining their problems was a very good idea. That both her father and her brother had been so duplicitous, at least in her eyes, deeply troubled her; the scope of what had been going on under her nose while she’d remained entirely unaware had shaken her to her foundations. She’d always believed she had been the one steering the ship of their household, while in reality, she hadn’t even known in which direction they’d been headed.

  She focused on Lord Cavanaugh as, with a slight frown—one of concentration—drawing down his dark brows, he stated, “With only three weeks to go before the exhibition, we cannot withdraw from the event—not without sustaining considerable damage to all our reputations. A withdrawal at this stage would signal to everyone that the invention had failed. That, of course, is the one result we would all prefer to avoid.”

  His lordship’s gaze rested on William John. Felicia had already noticed that Cavanaugh had eyes of the warmest mid brown she’d ever seen—like heated caramel or melted toffee.

  “I believe,” he continued, “that in the circumstances, we must hold to our goal of getting the steam engine working per your father’s plans and successfully unveil the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage at the exhibition. If we fail to do so”—he shot Felicia a glance, then returned his gaze to William John—“William John’s future as an inventor will be ruined before he truly starts. You will become an investment pariah”—again, Cavanaugh glanced Felicia’s way—“and as I understand it, you don’t have the capital to undertake further inventing of this nature on your own.”

  William John grimaced. “All you say is true. That’s why I’ve forged on so doggedly—I have to get the engine working perfectly and present it at the exhibition.”

  Cavanaugh inclined his head. “But there’s more at stake than just your future.”

  Felicia nearly laughed—humorlessly—at the surprise that showed in William John’s face. As she well knew, inventors never thought beyond the invention. Beyond their work.

  She felt Cavanaugh’s gaze touch her face again, then he said, “Forgive me if I mistook the implications of your earlier exchange, but it seemed to me that absent the funds advanced to support this latest invention, this household would not be solvent.”

  Felicia met Cavanaugh’s eyes and grimly nodded. “No need to apologize—you’re quite correct.” For an instant, she allowed herself to hold to the steady warmth in his gaze while she rapidly reviewed the household accounts. “Put simply”—she looked at William John—“if this latest invention isn’t a success, the family will be financially ruined. We do not have sufficient income from other sources to continue the upkeep of the Hall.” She allowed her gaze to weigh on her brother. “We would be forced to sell up.”

  William John flinched. “Really?” He met her eyes as if willing her to say she was joking.

  “Yes.” It was past time he faced the truth of the dire straits to which inventing and inventions had driven them.

  After a second, Cavanaugh went on, “And, sadly, the repercussions do not end there.”

  Felicia looked at him, puzzled as to what else might be at stake, but his gaze seemed to have turned inward.

  “While this project is not my first as the head of a syndicate, it is the most prominent of my investment projects to date. It’s the project my coterie of investors are most interested in seeing succeed. If we”—he refocused on William John, then inc
luded Felicia with his gaze—“do not deliver on the promise of that investment, do not live up to the assurances of success I gave, then my carefully nurtured reputation as an investment syndicate leader will be...severely compromised.”

  Only now that he’d considered the possibility—if not likelihood—of the Throgmorton steam engine failing had Rand realized just how much he’d staked on its success. “Of course, on top of that, my own funds will take a sizeable hit.” But that was the least of his worries.

  Silence fell—a moment of staring into the abyss as they all dwelled on the consequences of failure.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was William John who first stirred and said, “Well, we’ll just have to make sure the engine works as advertised.”

  Rand took in the young inventor’s unwavering determination and had to wonder...

  Regardless, there seemed no other way forward, yet long acquaintance with the species had taught Rand that where time was a factor, even when deadlines loomed, inventors could not be trusted to keep their focus.

  He felt as if the circumstances were forming up around him and all-but-physically herding him into taking on a role he never had before. Into taking a large step beyond the comfort of the arenas in which he was knowledgeable and embarking down a path of unknown risks and unforeseeable challenges.

  Nevertheless...

  He glanced again at Miss Throgmorton, then looked at William John. “I agree. At this point, I can’t see any alternative way forward—not for any of us—other than to persevere, get the engine working, and present it successfully at the exhibition.”

  William John nodded, his expression resolved and sure.

  Rand glanced at Miss Throgmorton. If they were to have any hope of succeeding in time, they would need her support as well.

  Felicia met and returned Cavanaugh’s gaze. Only when he faintly arched his brows did she realize he was waiting for—asking for—her agreement. She blinked, then cleared her throat and said, “I agree. There seems no other viable way to proceed.” Until the last moments, she hadn’t realized just how dire—how absolute and inevitable—the consequences of failure would be.

  Only now did she fully comprehend what was hanging over their heads.

  Yet another revelation she would need time to fully assimilate.

  Cavanaugh nodded. “So we three are resolved.”

  Rand shifted his gaze to William John. “Given how much is riding on the outcome, I’ll remain and assist you as required, at least until you get the engine going. I can’t work on the mechanics as you do, but I am very good at managing time and resources, and we’ll need everything running smoothly if we’re to succeed in attaining our mutual goal.”

  Far from being put out by the thought of having someone looking over his shoulder, William John’s face lit with eagerness. “I’ll be delighted to explain the engine to you.” He paused, his mind clearly going to the invention, then he grimaced and refocused on Rand. “The boiler will be too hot for us to dismantle it today, but I can show you the workshop and explain what does what and where our current problems lie—if you’d like that?”

  Rand nodded and pushed out of the armchair. “That sounds an excellent place to start.”

  He glanced at Miss Throgmorton. A faint frown on her face, she was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the low table. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up, and he caught her green eyes. He inclined his head. “Until later, Miss Throgmorton.”

  She dipped her head in reply. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’ll have a room prepared for you.” To her brother, she added, “I’ll see you both at dinner.”

  William John waved vaguely and headed for the door.

  Rand followed and wondered just what he’d let himself in for.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rand followed William John into the front hall. The younger man led the way to the wooden door Rand had earlier noted.

  Someone had shut the door, no doubt against the still-definite smell, but apparently oblivious, William John lifted the latch and started down the stairs. “Our laboratory-workshop takes up most of the lower level of the house. My father set it up when he was a young man, and it’s been in use ever since.”

  Descending the spiral stairs on William John’s heels, Rand asked, “How do you get heavy machinery into the workshop?” The stairway was too narrow to get even a smallish engine down.

  “Ah. As I said, it’s a lower level of the house—not a cellar. The land behind the house is lower than in the front, so we have a pair of double doors that open to a paved courtyard at the rear of the house—we just roll the engines in and out.”

  They rounded another curve, and William John halted. “Damn!”

  Rand stopped two steps up and looked over William John’s head at the drifting murk blanketing the enclosed space below them. A noxious stench, sulfurous and metallic, rose from the cloud. The miasma wafted, veiling benches and the large bulk of an engine, plus any number of other contraptions dotted about the wide, stone-walled chamber.

  “I forgot the door was shut.” William John clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and plunged into the fug. He rushed across the room to a pair of large wooden doors, fumbled with the latch, then pushed the doors wide.

  The cloud of heavy gases shifted, then settled again. William John stood on the flagstones outside and frantically waved his arms, attempting to encourage fresh air to flow in, but his efforts were largely ineffectual.

  He dragged in a breath, then rushed back through the haze to the stairs. Climbing to where Rand had waited, William John sighed. He looked down and across the room. “Perhaps we’d better leave any inspection until tomorrow.”

  Rand grunted in agreement. “I doubt inhaling tainted steam will do either of us any good.” He turned and led the way back up the stairs.

  William John followed; even his footfalls sounded disappointed. “My man, Corby—well, he used to be Papa’s, so he’s accustomed to dealing with explosions. He’ll see to getting the place tidied up first thing tomorrow.”

  Rand merely nodded. He emerged into the front hall to find the butler hovering.

  At the sight of Rand, the butler—middle-aged, tallish, of average build, with thinning brown hair and a stately manner—came to attention and bowed. “Lord Cavanaugh. Welcome to Throgmorton Hall.” The butler straightened. “I regret we were somewhat distracted when you arrived. My name is Johnson. Should you require anything during your stay, please ring and we will endeavor to meet your needs. Miss Throgmorton asked for a room to be prepared. If it’s convenient, I can show you to your room now.”

  Rand realized he felt as if, in driving up the Throgmorton Hall drive, he’d stepped into some strange and unpredictable world; a butler who, despite appearing strictly conventional, referred to dealing with an in-house explosion as being “somewhat distracted” seemed all of a piece. “Thank you.” Taking a few moments to reassess the situation appealed to his naturally cautious self. “I would appreciate shedding the dust of my journey.”

  Johnson bowed again. “Indeed, my lord. I’ll have a maid bring up some water. If you’ll follow me?”

  Rand turned to William John; the younger man was standing, frowning at the floor. “I expect we’ll meet at dinner.”

  “What?” William John blinked owlishly, refocused on Rand, then his face cleared. “Oh yes. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Rand resisted the urge to shake his head, nodded instead, and followed Johnson up the stairs. One thing he’d already ascertained: William John was as vague and as given to fits of absentmindedness as his father had been.

  The room the butler led Rand to was a pleasant bedchamber located in the northwest corner of the first floor. Comfortably furnished, with upholstery, curtains, and bedspread in a striped fabric that was neither masculine nor feminine, the room felt airy and was blessedly uncluttered. The bed was a half tester, wide a
nd well supplied with pillows. Two side tables flanking the bed, an armoire, a tallboy, a desk with a straight-backed chair set beneath one window, plus a small dressing table tucked into a corner with a stool before it, rounded out the furniture.

  Two windows looked out over the grounds, one facing north, the other west. Late-afternoon light streamed into the room through the west-facing window. Noting that his bags had already been unpacked and his brushes and shaving implements laid ready on the dresser, Rand dismissed the hovering Johnson, then crossed to look out of the west window. As he’d expected, that window afforded an excellent view of the drive leading to the forecourt, plus the woodland beyond, and, farther to the north, the shrubbery.

  After surveying the scene, he moved to the other window. From there, he could see the eastern edge of the shrubbery and the stable and stable yard more or less directly ahead. Farther to the east lay a structured garden. From the profusion of blooms and their sizes and colors, Rand suspected it was a rose garden.

  As he watched, a lady walked purposefully from the rear of the house toward the arched entrance of the garden, a basket swinging from her hand. Despite the distance, Rand recognized Miss Throgmorton.

  He’d been acquainted with William Throgmorton for over four years. Rand had known William had a son, of whom he was quite proud.

  The old inventor had never mentioned a daughter.

  Rand watched as Miss Throgmorton halted in the middle of the garden, dropped her basket, then set about attacking the tall bushes with what, from her rather vicious movements, he assumed was a pair of shears.

  He focused on her, his senses drawing in to the point he didn’t really see anything around her. Just her, her lithe figure topped by her flaming red-gold hair, lit to a fiery radiance by the warm rays of the westering sun. Regardless of the distance, he sensed the vitality that animated her; for some reason, she all but shone in his sight, a beacon for his senses.