rose from his stool. “It’ll come to you.” He fervently hoped so; if not, they were sunk. “Meanwhile, we’d better appear at the luncheon table or your staff are going to complain.”
William John grinned. “They do, you know. Complain that I don’t turn up in time and dishes get cold.” He frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t know why they get upset—I still eat everything.”
Rand inwardly shook his head. He waved William John to the stairs and followed him up.
Luckily, as it was high summer, there was a cold collation laid out on the dining table, so as yet no noses had been put out of joint by their tardiness. William John led the way into the dining room. He greeted his sister with a wave and made straight for the table.
It appeared that Miss Throgmorton had already finished her meal and was making for the door.
Rather than follow William John through the doorway, Rand stepped back and waited for Miss Throgmorton to step into the corridor.
When she did and halted, he inclined his head to her, but didn’t move aside to let her pass.
Briskly, she nodded. “Good afternoon, Lord Randolph.”
Rand caught her gaze. “All of my friends and most of my acquaintances call me Rand. Given we are working together in common cause, perhaps you might use that name, too.” He summoned a deliberately charming smile. “I do get tired of being my lorded.”
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
