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 nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re shut and stay that way.” He still wasn’t happy at the thought of her strolling the lawns with Mayhew, but he really had no justification 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,