The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance. Stephanie Laurens
nodded down the street. “Who’s that man?”
William John sat up and peered over the now-depleted wagon. “The one walking toward the inn?”
“Yes. Him.”
William John studied the man, then shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
“He’s not a local?”
“No. I can’t tell you who he is, but I’m quite sure of that.”
At that moment, the wagon driver came out of the store, tipped his hat, and called his thanks to Rand, then the wagoner climbed up and set his horse plodding slowly down the street.
Rand shook the reins and set the cart rolling in the wagon’s wake. Ahead, the unknown gentleman strode along, then turned under the archway of the inn.
By the time the cart had drawn level with the inn yard, the man had disappeared.
Rand faced forward. He waited until the wagon had turned left, back along the lane to Ashampstead. Then he turned the cart right, into the lane, and set the horse trotting back to Throgmorton Hall.
A personable gentleman, apparently unknown in those parts.
Rand reminded himself that it was none of his business to whom Miss Felicia Throgmorton chose to speak. However, a personable gentleman unknown in those parts who happened to strike up a conversation with the daughter of William Throgmorton might be set on gaining rather more than just Miss Throgmorton’s smiles.
And that, most definitely, legitimately fell within Rand’s purview.
On their return to the Hall, given Miss Throgmorton was still in the village, Rand put aside the issue of the unknown gentleman and what business he’d had with her and followed William John into the workshop.
William John had explained that, despite not having the boiler and therefore no steam to harness, there were various tests and trials he could run, all part of his search to rectify the problem of the uncontrollable rise in pressure resulting from the improvements he and his father had made to the engine.
“You make one thing work better, and some other part fails.” William John shook his head. “It’s always the way, but you can never predict exactly where the new problem will be—not until you run the damned thing.”
Rand perched on a stool and, for the next hour, watched as William John changed this and adjusted that.
Finally, they heard the luncheon gong rung rather forcefully, and Rand realized he’d heard the gong earlier, but rung less stridently.
He fished out his watch, checked it, and, somewhat surprised, reported, “It’s after one o’clock.”
William John stepped back from the engine and sighed. “We worked so hard to increase the efficiency—it’s what we absolutely needed to do. But now we’ve done it, that’s upended the balance that gives us control of the power.” He frowned at the pipes and gauges. “I’m sure that’s what the problem is, but be damned if I can figure out how to correct it.”
Rand 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