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
