The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance. Stephanie Laurens
a comfortable gentleman’s residence. The house faced west, and the long-paned white-framed windows of the lower two stories and the dormer windows of the upper story overlooked a wide swath of lawn. More lawn ran away to the south, dotted with several large old trees and ultimately bordered by the woodlands, which, as far as Rand could see, completely encircled the house.
He’d slowed the horses to a walk. As they drew nearer the house, to his left, he spotted a shrubbery backing into the woodland, with a decent-sized stable tucked tidily beyond it.
The drive ended in a large oval forecourt before the steps leading up to a semicircular porch shielding the large front door. A small, circular fountain stood in the center of the forecourt, directly opposite the door.
Rand drove his curricle into the forecourt and around the fountain and drew up beside the edge of the lawn opposite the front steps. He set the brake, then handed the reins to Shields and stepped down. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.” He spotted a lad coming from the stables. “Perhaps an hour—maybe two. Do what you think is best.”
Shields grunted.
Rand left him to deal with the horses and carriage and set off across the forecourt.
He’d taken only two paces when a muffled boom! fractured the slumbering silence.
The sound came from inside the house.
Rand checked, then his face set, and he ran toward the house.
Wisps of vapor seeped out from around the door, then the door was wrenched open, and people—maids, footmen, and others—came streaming out, along with billowing clouds of steam.
Even as he raced toward them, Rand registered that none of those coughing and waving aside the steamy clouds seemed the least bit panic-stricken. He slowed as he neared the steps. Those escaping from the house looked at him curiously—then an older lady came tottering out, one hand clutched to her impressive bosom.
Rand leapt up the steps. “Here—take my arm.”
The lady blinked at him, then smiled. “Thank you. No matter how often it happens, it’s always a shock.” The rest of those who had emerged from the house had gathered around the fountain and stood looking expectantly at the door. The matronly lady pointed down the steps to a bench set before the flowerbed along the front of the house. “I usually sit there and catch my breath.”
Swallowing the many questions leaping to his tongue, Rand assisted the lady down the steps and guided her to the bench.
She sat with a heartfelt sigh, then looked up at him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, but thank you.” She looked past him at his curricle, then raised her gaze—now openly curious—to his face. “I take it you’ve just arrived.”
“Indeed.” Before Rand could give his name, a commotion in the open doorway drew his and the lady’s attention.
Someone was attempting to propel a slender gentleman outside. He was clad in a long, gray inventor’s coat and sported a pair of goggles, now hanging about his neck. The coat was smudged in several places, the gentleman’s dark-brown hair was sticking out from his head in tufts, and he appeared rather dazed.
The person behind him prodded more violently, and staggering somewhat, the gentleman stumbled out of the steamy interior onto the front porch.
He was followed by a young lady. Scowling ferociously, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at the hapless gentleman.
Rand blinked, then looked again.
Slender, of middling height, with a pale complexion and fine features, clad in a sky-blue gown and all but vibrating with reined emotion, courtesy of her stance, the young lady looked every inch a virago with rose-gold hair.
Rand had never seen a more fascinating creature.
“That’s it!” the virago declared. Her voice was pleasingly low, yet presently carried the razor-sharp edge of frustrated ire. “Enough!” she continued, still addressing the gentleman, who was shaking his head as if to clear smothering clouds from his brain. “You have to stop! You can’t keep blowing the wretched contraption up!”
The gentleman frowned into the distance. “I think I know what went wrong.” He turned toward the virago, clearly intending to argue her point. “It was the feed—”
As the gentleman swung to face the young lady, his gaze landed on Rand, and his words died.
The virago followed the gentleman’s gaze. She saw Rand and stiffened. Her expression blanked, and she lowered her arms to her sides. Along with the apparently dumbfounded gentleman, she stared at Rand.
The gentleman faintly frowned. “Good afternoon. Can we help you?” His gaze flicked across the forecourt, and he took in Rand’s curricle—an expensive equipage drawn by top-of-the-line horseflesh. The gentleman’s eyes widened, and he looked back at Rand.
With a murmur of “Excuse me” to the older lady, Rand left her on the bench and climbed the steps to the porch. He halted a yard from the younger lady and the gentleman. Now he was on the same level, he realized the gentleman was nearly as tall as he was, although of slighter build. By the cast of the gentleman’s features and his bright hazel eyes, he was plainly William Throgmorton’s son. As for the young lady...despite her eyes being more green than hazel and her wonderful hair a tumbling mass of rose-gold curls, judging by the set of her lips and chin, Rand rather thought she must be William’s daughter. He inclined his head to her, then focused on the gentleman. “My name is Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. I’m here to see Mr. William Throgmorton.” He paused, then added, “I assume he’s your father.”
Silence greeted his announcement.
The gentleman continued to stare even as he paled; Rand had little doubt he’d recognized Rand’s name.
Rand glanced at the virago. Her eyes had widened in what had to be shock; as Rand looked, she paled, too.
Then her green eyes narrowed, her lips and chin firmed, and she looked at the young gentleman. “William John...?” Her tone was both questioning and demanding.
Judging by William John’s expression, all sorts of unwelcome thoughts were tumbling through his brain; they left him looking faintly terrified. He glanced at his sister, and guilt was added to the mix.
What is going on here?
Rand laid a firm hand on the reins of his own temper. He glanced past the pair into the house; the steamy haze was evaporating. Evenly, he asked, “Is Mr. William Throgmorton at home?”
He looked back at the younger man, apparently William John Throgmorton.
Finally, William John focused on Rand’s face and somewhat sheepishly said, “Ah. As to that...”
When, apparently lost for words, William John fell silent again, Rand looked to the virago.
Briefly, she raised her eyes to his, then dipped in a curtsy. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’m Miss Throgmorton, and, as you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my brother, William John Throgmorton.” She paused, then clasped her hands before her, tipped up her chin, and met Rand’s eyes. “As for our father, I regret to inform you that he passed away in January.”
It was Rand’s turn to stare. In his case, unseeing, while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head. Eventually, his accents clipped and curt, he stated, as much for himself as anyone else, “William Throgmorton is dead.”
It wasn’t a question, and no one replied.
Rand blinked and refocused on William John. “In January?” Despite his hold on his temper, incensed incredulity underscored his words.
Helplessly, William John stared back.
From the corner of his eye, Rand saw Miss Throgmorton, her gaze fixed on her brother, her expression close to an open accusation, confirm that telling detail with a decisive nod.
Rand returned his