The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance. Stephanie Laurens

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 gaze on her face, he nodded, and they passed the point beyond which the garden walls hid the workshop doors.

      Felicia led Mayhew onto and down the south lawn, then they followed the tree line and circled past the old fountain, now no longer in use.

      Just past the fountain, Mayhew, who had been constantly glancing toward the house, halted. He stared at the front of the house, from that perspective seen at an angle. “This is the spot.” He made the pronouncement with absolute certainty. After a moment, he looked at Felicia. “Miss Throgmorton, I would very much like yours and your family’s permission to sketch your home from this angle for inclusion in a series I’m doing for the News, featuring England’s country homes in the Home Counties.”

      Not once had Mayhew even obliquely referred to inventions or workshops; he hadn’t even asked about the house itself, seemingly only interested in its visible exterior—precisely as an artist with his declared interest would be. Felicia smiled and inclined her head. “There’s only my brother I need to consult, and I know he’ll see no reason to deny you.”

      “Excellent.” Mayhew looked at the house. His expression eager, he went on, “That’s the west face, so I’ll need the afternoon light, as now.” He glanced at Felicia. “Perhaps I could come and sketch tomorrow afternoon—from about two o’clock, if that would be convenient?”

      “I know of no reason it wouldn’t be. We lead a quiet life, and Cousin Flora hasn’t mentioned any visits, so I believe that arrangement will suit.” With a wave, she indicated the raised terrace that ran along the house’s south face, overlooking the long lawn. “But let’s join Flora and ask, just to make sure.”

      They walked back to the house and up the steps to the terrace. Flora was waiting, seated at the round wrought-iron table, which had already been set with plates, cups, and saucers, with a multitiered cake stand in the table’s center. Felicia made the introductions. Flora gave Mayhew her hand and smiled in her usual soft and comfortable way, then she waved them both to sit.

      Mayhew held Felicia’s chair. Once she’d settled, he claimed the third chair at the table.

      Despite Flora’s overtly gentle and feminine appearance, Felicia knew her chaperon was shrewd and observant. Flora poured tea and chatted in amiable vein, professing her delight at the thought of Mayhew sketching the Hall. She confirmed Felicia’s expectation that there was no reason Mayhew couldn’t ply his pencil the following afternoon and approved of his choice of view.

      Flora waited until Mayhew had sampled one of Cook’s lemon cakes and sipped his tea before leaning forward and declaring, “I have to confess, Mr. Mayhew, that I am quite impatient to see the sketches Felicia said you would bring to dazzle us.”

      A faint flush stained Mayhew’s long cheeks. He shot Felicia a self-deprecating glance. “I wouldn’t describe my work as ‘dazzling,’ ma’am.” He set down his cup and reached into his pocket. “However, I have brought several of my sketches—of Ashampstead and of the river nearby. I hope you’ll recognize the view and approve of my poor talent.”

      He withdrew a roll of paper about nine inches long that was wound about a thin wooden rod. Seeing Felicia look curiously at the roll, Mayhew explained, “I carry my sketches in this way so they don’t crease.”

      “Ah. Of course.” Felicia watched while Mayhew unrolled several sheets of fine artist’s paper from the spool. When he handed the curling sheets to her, she eagerly took them. Flora quickly cleared a space on the table between her and Felicia, and Felicia laid the sketches down.

      She and Flora stared, mesmerized by the pencil-and-ink sketches that had captured views with which they were both familiar with such accuracy and felicity that the scenes were not just instantly recognizable but the sketches somehow conveyed a sense of the atmosphere pertaining to each place. The sketch of Ashampstead village street on a market day was abustle with life, while the delicate sketch of the pool on the river Pang to the east of Hampstead Norreys invoked a sense of bucolic peace.

      Once she’d looked her fill, Felicia glanced up and, across the table, met Mayhew’s eyes. “These are exquisite. You are, indeed, very talented.”

      Somewhat to her surprise, Mayhew didn’t smile but lightly raised one shoulder, as if he remained unsure of his skill or was, for some reason, uncomfortable acknowledging it.

      Looking again at the sketches, Felicia felt vindicated in having agreed to allow him to sketch the Hall; such an opportunity, dropped into her lap by Fate, shouldn’t be lightly passed up, and if it helped Mayhew continue and gain more confidence in his work, well and good.

      “I admit,” she said, raising her gaze once more to Mayhew’s face, “to being intrigued to see what you make of the Hall, sir. It was a lucky chance that sent you our way.”

      Flora added her compliments, too.

      Mayhew blushed anew and, yet again, disclaimed—although with the evidence of his talent lying before Felicia and Flora, he might as well have saved his breath. Then, with all three of them transparently pleased with the outcome of Mayhew’s visit, they settled to finish their tea.