Читать книгу The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 12
ОглавлениеFelicia swept through the door of the breakfast parlor at her customary hour of eight o’clock. Dinner the previous evening had been an entirely uneventful and rather stiff affair; she’d still been grappling with the ramifications of the revelations Cavanaugh’s arrival had brought, William John had been frowning and muttering over what had caused the explosion, and Cavanaugh had seemed disinclined to push further regarding the invention, perhaps wanting to wait until he’d seen it. He’d spent more time chatting with Flora than with anyone else.
As usual, Felicia found William John already at the table, frowning direfully at several diagrams while he sipped his coffee, but she nearly jumped when Cavanaugh rose from his chair farther around the circular table.
Her eyes wider than she would have liked, she managed to smile with reasonable composure and wave him back to his chair. “Good morning, my lord.” I didn’t expect to see you before noon. “I trust you slept well?” She headed for the sideboard.
“I did, thank you.” He resumed his seat. “The bed was comfortable, and after the constant noise of the capital, the silence of the country at night is a welcome relief.”
She glanced briefly his way. “You live in Mayfair?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t need to know. She gave him her back and concentrated on helping herself to a portion of kedgeree—and tried to drag her wits away from their sudden obsession with whether her bodice was straight and her hair properly pinned.
“I have lodgings in Jermyn Street.”
Of course he did. The street inhabited by all the most fashionable bachelors.
“That said, I spend most of my time in my office in the City.”
Turning, she approached the place opposite him. Johnson arrived with a teapot and a fresh rack of toast; he quickly set them down and pulled out and held her chair for her. She thanked him with a smile, sat, then glanced again at Cavanaugh. “I suppose you have to meet and discuss projects with your investors.”
He lowered his gaze to his plate of ham and eggs. “That, and meet with my contacts so that I hear of any new inventions looking for funding.” He raised his gaze and, across the table, met her eyes. “That takes more hours than I like, but it’s essential to keep on top of the field. Inventions arise more or less unheralded—one has to keep one’s ear to the ground.”
She nodded and, fixing her gaze on her plate, sampled the kedgeree, then settled to consume it. To her irritation, she was keenly aware of her every movement. Was there a bit of herring on her lip? She must be careful not to overload her fork.
Such thoughts—such awareness of her appearance and how a gentleman might be seeing her—were so alien, they jarred.
What was the matter with her?
Whatever it was—whatever affliction Cavanaugh had inflicted on her—she needed to ignore it.
Feeling his gaze on her, she very nearly squirmed.
“You know,” William John said, “I think you’re correct.” He leaned across to show Cavanaugh a diagram. “If I move the inlet valve to here, then the gauge should be more sensitive to the changes in pressure.” William John frowned. “Theoretically, anyway.”
Cavanaugh shrugged. “At times, one simply has to try things and see if they work.”
Slowly, still frowning, William John nodded. “Once we have the workshop cleared and the boiler replaced, we’ll try it. That, however, won’t be the only change we’ll need to make.”
Accustomed to her brother’s ramblings, Felicia, nevertheless, pricked up her ears at his use of “we.” Ever since their father’s death, with respect to the steam engine, William John had always spoken in the singular.
She continued to eat her kedgeree and sip her tea, and surreptitiously watched as Cavanaugh made another suggestion, and William John readily discussed the pros and cons...freely, without the slightest reservation.
In less than twenty-four hours, Cavanaugh had won her brother’s confidence, something she knew was not easy to do.
Clearly, she would be wise not to make assumptions about Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, and already, he’d surprised her twice.
She was surprised again when Cavanaugh turned to her and asked if William John’s proposal to commandeer the footmen and gardener for cleanup duties in the workshop would inconvenience her.
She was tempted to say it would, but she’d promised to assist as she and the household could. She shook her head. “There’s nothing on their plates this morning that they can’t do later, once they’ve finished in the workshop.”
Cavanaugh turned back to William John and continued—artfully, gently, almost imperceptibly—to steer her brother, again and again drawing his peripatetic mind back to the issue at hand and keeping him firmly on the shortest path to completing the necessary modifications to the engine.
Felicia had to be grateful for that; if left to himself, William John had a tendency to follow whatever vague notion popped into his brain. From comments he’d let fall, she’d long ago formed the opinion that her brother’s brain was literally awhirl with thoughts, even more so than their father’s had been.
Now Cavanaugh had won William John’s trust, Cavanaugh was in a position to harness William John’s undoubtedly able mind and keep it focused on fixing the engine.
Watching the pair, for the first time since learning of the true nature of what faced them all, she felt a smidgen of hope.
With Cavanaugh at the helm, they might just win through.
Finally, William John slapped his palm on his pile of diagrams. “Right, then!” He looked at Felicia for the first time since she’d entered the room and grinned. “It’s time we got working.”
The enthusiasm in his eyes...she hadn’t seen that for quite some time. She found herself smiling back, then she set down her empty teacup, pushed back her chair, and rose as both men came to their feet.
She turned and made for the door; she had her usual morning meeting with Mrs. Reilly, the housekeeper, to attend, then she needed to take stock of the kitchen garden with Cook and decide if they should try for another crop of peas.
Cavanaugh and William John followed her into the front hall. William John made straight for the door to the workshop stairs, but Cavanaugh hesitated. When, heading for her sitting room on the other side of the hall, she glanced his way, he caught her eye. “Don’t you want to see how things are in the workshop?”
She slowed, her gaze steady on his. “No. I don’t go down there. I haven’t been down since I was twelve years old.”
His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed there was some tale behind that.
She summoned an entirely meaningless smile, turned, and walked on.
Rand watched the fascinating—and now enigmatic—Miss Throgmorton walk to the door of the room opposite the drawing room, open the door, and disappear inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
He shook aside the feeling of...he didn’t know what. Ridiculous to feel that, now, he needed to find out what had happened when she was twelve years old that had kept her out of her father’s workshop ever since.
With a shake of his head, he strode after William John and started down the stairs.
He had to admit that William John’s performance in the breakfast room had certainly borne out his sister’s view; William John had been utterly oblivious to her presence. He hadn’t even looked her way when Rand had asked her about the footmen.
Rand was well aware that inventors—most of them—behaved in exactly that fashion, that their minds were so blinkered they were aware of nothing beyond their invention. Yet since he’d spoken with Miss Throgmorton, his eyes had been opened to the harm that trait could cause.
There was, sadly, nothing he could do to alter or even ameliorate that.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, raised his head, and surveyed the challenge before him.
William John and the Throgmorton steam engine.
That was a challenge he could do something about.
Although the workshop doors had been closed during the night, they’d been propped open again at daybreak, and the air inside the laboratory-workshop was now fresh and clear.
Rand paused on the last stair and scanned the chamber. With no wafting cloud to obscure his view, he took in the racks and shelves that filled every available foot of wall. Every inch of storage space was crammed with cogs, tubes, pistons, valves, pipes of every conceivable sort, and a cornucopia of engine parts. Two large, moveable racks were hung with a plethora of tools. The paraphernalia for welding was piled on a large trolley.
There were no windows; given the likely frequency of explosions, that was probably a good thing. Instead, a gantry with multiple beams hung from the ceiling; it was rigged with gaslights that, once lit, would shed strong, even light over much of the room.
A large, rectangular frame, roughly five feet long, three feet wide, and reaching to chest height, held pride of place, positioned squarely in the center of the space between the stairs and the double doors. Suspended within the frame was the steam engine designed to power the Throgmorton version of John Russell’s modification of Trevithick’s horseless carriage.
Although presently smudged with soot and grease and liberally sprinkled with coal dust, the engine was a gleaming mass of copper and steel pipes and cylinders, of connections and joints and screws. The body was smaller than Rand had expected, between three and four feet long and possibly the same in width, and about two feet in height. Regardless, the combination of solidity and complexity made it an impressive sight.
There was no carriage, only the engine; the frame supported the engine’s body at bench level so William John could easily poke and prod and tinker, as he was presently doing, crouched on the other side of the frame.
Unfortunately, it was obvious that the engine wouldn’t be working anytime soon. The gleaming boiler that was essentially the heart of the contraption was ruptured, its sides peeled back like a banana skin.
Frowning slightly, Rand stepped down to the workshop floor. The flagstones were littered with bits and pieces of metal. One of the tool racks had been tipped back over the welding equipment, and tools lay scattered amid the debris.
Something metallic crunched under Rand’s boot, and he halted.
William John straightened and, across the wreck of the boiler, smiled at Rand. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Rand couldn’t stop his brows from rising. “I’ll have to take your word for that.” He glanced around, peering deeper into the far reaches of the chamber that extended beneath the house. “Where’s the carriage part of it?” He glanced at William John. “It is built, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes.” His gaze almost lovingly cataloguing what remained of the engine, William John went on, “We keep it in the stable, tucked safely away. We won’t bother putting the engine into the carriage until we have the engine working perfectly.”
Rand hid his relief and nodded at the blown boiler. “That certainly appears wise.” He hesitated, then said, “Your sister mentioned you’d blown several boilers over the past weeks.”
William John frowned at the engine. “We—Papa and I—redesigned the feed of heat off the burner to the boiler. We increased the efficiency and therefore the steam generated, but that’s led to difficulties with the mechanisms downstream, especially the controls. We can achieve smooth and significant acceleration, but deceleration...” His frown deepened. “Papa died before we’d fixed the problem, and up to now, everything I’ve tried... Well, I’ve improved the system to the point we can accelerate and decelerate once, but further acceleration seems to be cumulative, and then...” William John gestured at the ruptured boiler. “I still haven’t got it right.”
Footsteps coming down the stairs had both William John and Rand glancing that way. “Ah,” William John said, “this will be Corby, plus Joe and Martin, the footmen.”
A dapper-looking man of fifty or so appeared. He halted, and the two footmen Rand had previously seen halted on the stairs behind.
The older man bowed to Rand. “My lord.” Then he looked at William John. “Are you ready for us to tidy the place, sir?”
“Yes, please, Corby.” William John’s wave encompassed the entire workshop. “Sweep, tidy, and clean. All of you know where most things go. As usual, if you find any bit of metal or tool that you don’t recognize, just leave it on the bench”—William John pointed to a workbench set to one side—“and I’ll sort it out later.”
Rand watched the footmen walk deeper into the chamber and return with brooms and brushes. Corby pulled out a bag of rags tucked behind some piping. While the footmen started sweeping, Corby commenced lovingly wiping the pipes and cylinders of the engine, removing the grime that coated them.
Rand looked at William John. The younger man was frowning vaguely at the engine and muttering under his breath. Rand circled the engine and halted beside William John. “Explain to me how the engine works. Start at the point where you turn it on.”
All vagueness dropping from him, William John eagerly and enthusiastically complied.
Rand put his mind to ensuring he understood. When William John went too rapidly, he stopped him and hauled him back.
William John traced the path of the steam from the ignition of coal in the box beneath the boiler, through the various modifications he and his father had made to the way the steam was generated within the boiler before it moved through the complicated series of pipes, cylinders, and valves to the piston chambers—also modified—that would ultimately drive the twin shafts to turn the horseless carriage’s wheels.
The explanation took time. They walked from one side of the engine to the other as William John pointed to this and that.
Relatively early in the exercise, Shields came down the stairs and offered his services to Corby, who readily accepted and set Rand’s man to wiping off the grime deposited on the various racks of equipment.
While William John declaimed and Rand questioned, Rand noticed their four helpers paid closer and closer attention. He had to admit the mechanism of the engine—that such a thing could work—was enthralling.
“And finally”—William John indicated a set of levers mounted on a panel attached to the frame—“these are the controls that allow us to manage the output.”
“And that,” Rand said, “is where things are going wrong.”
“Yes, but not with the levers themselves. They’re fairly simple and should work perfectly, at least in what they do. It’s the result of what happens that’s out of...well, control.” William John frowned. “Once we have a new boiler in place, I’ll be able to show you what I mean.” He pointed at a row of gauges that were mounted on the engine, facing where Rand assumed the driver would sit. “I’ve a suspicion it’s something to do with these gauges and the valves they’re connected to that’s causing the buildup of steam in the boiler, but until we have the new boiler in, I won’t be able to investigate.”
Rand bit back a comment to the effect that they didn’t have time to investigate anything. Fix, yes. Explore and investigate, no.
William John turned to survey the state of the workshop. Rand followed his gaze, noting that the floors were once more clear of debris, the tool racks and welding equipment had been straightened and wiped clean, and the engine was now gleaming and free of all smuts.
William John smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen—if you’ve finished with your tidying, let’s make a start on removing this.” With one hand, he thumped the side of the ruptured boiler.
Both footmen and Shields, plainly curious, put away their implements and readily drew near. Corby tucked his rags away and joined the group.
Rand stepped back and watched as William John, wielding a wrench and directing the others on what he needed them to do, set about releasing the gaskets that locked the ruptured copper boiler in place amid the plethora of tubes and pipes.
When it came to doing anything to his invention, Rand had to admit that William John remained unrelentingly focused. No hint of vagueness intruded as he loosened this nut, then that, all the while telling Shields, Joe, and Martin just where to put their hands as they supported the boiler as well as the various loosened pipes, tubes, gauges, and valves. Corby hovered, handing tools to his master as and when required.
Leaving them to their task, Rand drifted to the open double doors. Pausing on the threshold, he looked out and around. The paved area before the doors was level with the floor of the workshop, with only a narrow drain set between two rows of flagstones to allow rain to drain away rather than spread under the doors and into the workshop. Straight ahead, a walled kitchen garden lay on the other side of the paved area. Beyond it, a swath of lawn was bordered by the surrounding woodland. To the right, lawns stretched away, eventually joining the south lawn, while to the left, a gravel path, more than wide enough for a carriage, ran along the side of the house and around the northeast corner.
Rand raised his gaze and, beyond a short stretch of lawn, saw the end of the stable block; presumably, the path was an extension of the section of the drive that linked the forecourt and the stable. He could appreciate the foresight; once the engine was working, the path would make it easy to bring the carriage-body to the workshop.
On turning back into the workshop, he spied a series of pulleys and thick chains piled with a conglomeration of heavy beams and iron struts in a corner near the doors. Presumably a part of the mechanism by which the engine would be lifted out of its supporting frame and lowered into the carriage.
Rand surveyed the workshop—the racks and shelves, the purpose-built frame and benches. It was clear the Throgmorton males had spent considerable time and thought—and expense—on their favored domain. Despite Miss Throgmorton’s plaint that the rest of the house was invisible to her father and brother—something Rand suspected was true—he doubted the men’s devotion to their workspace had contributed to keeping Miss Throgmorton out of it.
That she hadn’t been down there for over a decade...he had to wonder why.
With a rattle and a clang, Shields and Martin hauled on cables connected to a smaller set of pulleys attached to the ceiling above the engine. William John and Joe held back tubes and pipes, and, with a screech of metal on metal, the ruptured boiler rose out of the body of the engine.
“Excellent.” William John released the parts he’d been holding, seized the freed boiler, and guided it away from the rest of the engine, toward the open space before the doors. “Let’s set it down here. Gently, now.”
Shields and Martin let the cables out slowly, and the boiler lowered to the floor.
“Right.” William John signaled, then released the webbing that had cradled the boiler. Straightening, he looked down at the twisted metal.
Rand joined him. “It looks like the seams gave way.”
William John humphed. “Indeed.” He crouched and ran his hands over the sides of the boiler. “I wonder if we can beat it out and resolder...”
Rand stared at the crumpled, folded-back metal. “No. We can’t.” He’d learned enough from other inventors about the risks one ran in resoldering such things—namely an increased risk of re-rupturing. “The second soldered seam will be weaker than the first.” William John looked up, and Rand caught the younger man’s eyes. “We don’t have time to take that risk. If it explodes again, we’ll have lost days and got no further. We need a new boiler.”
William John stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. “Yes. You’re right. I keep forgetting...”
About the exhibition and their deadline. From their earlier discussions, Rand had already realized that. He turned his mind to the logistics required. “I assume you have a cart we can use to ferry the boiler to the nearest blacksmith’s. He can reuse the metal, which will get us a better price on the replacement.”
His gaze on the destroyed boiler, William John waved toward the stables. “Struthers—our stableman—knows which cart to use.”
“Shields?” Rand glanced at his man.
Shields nodded and made for the double doors. “I’ll fetch it.”
Rand looked at William John. “Where is the nearest blacksmith?”
With a sigh, William John straightened. “In the village. The forge is at the far end of the village street.” He frowned. “Mind you, I’m not sure Ferguson will agree to do the job. He wasn’t best pleased last time, when he made this one—I only just talked him around.” William John glanced sidelong at Rand. “We might have to beat out and resolder this one after all.”
Rand didn’t bother wasting breath restating his refusal to hear of any such thing. It was increasingly apparent that there was an ongoing need for someone to steer William John—to unrelentingly herd him along the surest path to success. Rand turned to the doors as the distant rattle of a cart’s wheels reached them. “We’ll see,” he replied. And was determined that they would.
After they’d loaded the ruptured boiler into the back of the cart, Rand took the reins and, with William John beside him, drove out along the drive and into the lane leading to Hampstead Norreys.
Throughout the short journey, William John remained sunk in his inventor’s thoughts, occasionally muttering about pressures and gauges.
When they reached the intersection with the village street, Rand turned the plodding horse and set it walking northward, through the center of the village. Although Hampstead Norreys was by any measure a small village, in addition to the inn, it possessed a Norman church in a well-kept yard and several shops. Rand noted a large and prosperous-looking general store and post office, a bakery, a butcher’s shop, a shop that, from the goods displayed in the window, he took to be a haberdashery, and a gentleman’s outfitters.
The blacksmith’s forge lay at the far end of the village, separated by a row of old trees from the shops along the west side of the street.
Rand drew the cart to a halt in the yard in front of the smithy.
William John blinked and returned to the here and now. He shook himself and climbed down from the cart.
Rand set the brake, tied off the reins, and joined him.
A large man with heavily muscled arms came slowly out from the shadows of the smithy. Behind him, in the depths of his workshop, a furnace glowed and spat the occasional spark. Wiping his hands on a rag, the man nodded to Rand, then, with significantly less enthusiasm, nodded to William John. “Mr. Throgmorton. What is it today?”
“Ah yes. Good morning, Ferguson.” William John waved to the boiler in the back of the cart. “I’m afraid we’ve had another accident.”
The blacksmith seemed to sigh. He lumbered up to the side of the cart and looked down at the lump of crumpled metal. He shook his head. “You will keep putting them under too much pressure. There’s ought I can do to help you, and no point at all trying to repair that.”
“Yes, well.” William John shifted. “We want you to make a new one.”
“A new one.” Ferguson frowned. “I don’t rightly know whether there’s any point in that, either. With what you’re doing to them, the seams just won’t hold.”
A thought occurred to Rand. While William John applied himself to securing Ferguson’s assistance, Rand turned his sudden notion around in his mind...and decided it was worth pursuing. Or at least, asking if it was possible.
Ferguson was still shaking his head, a craftsman patently fed up with having his creations mangled.
When William John paused for breath, Rand spoke up. “Mr. Ferguson. I’m Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. I’m the lead investor in a syndicate backing Mr. Throgmorton’s invention. I appreciate your point about the seams being necessarily a weak point in the construction of the boiler, especially as Mr. Throgmorton is putting the system under pressure. However”—Rand threw a glance at William John, including him in Rand’s question—“I wonder if it’s possible to construct a boiler that’s balloon-like—with no seams but only an inlet and outlet.”
Rand saw blankness overtake William John’s expression as his mind turned inward to evaluate the notion. Rand looked at the blacksmith. He was frowning, too, but more in the way of working out how to do what Rand had suggested.
William John blinked several times, then his face came alight. “By golly, I think that would work.” Eagerly, he looked at Ferguson. “Can you create such a thing, Ferguson?”
The big man was looking distinctly more interested. “If I was to work from a sheet and bend it...” He stared unseeing between Rand and William John for several more seconds, then he refocused on Rand and nodded. “Aye, I think I can do it—and you’re right. It’ll get around a lot of the problems Mr. Throgmorton here has been having.”
Rand smiled. “Well, then, the only question remaining is how fast you can have the new boiler ready.”
William John leapt in to describe the outlets he would need added to the top of the boiler, and, in turn, Ferguson questioned William John as to the connection between the heating system and the boiler.
Once they’d thrashed out the details to their mutual satisfaction, Ferguson looked at Rand. “As it happens, my lord, I’ve not got much on today. I can start this new boiler straightaway, but it’ll need to cool overnight before I can do the final additions—so tomorrow afternoon would be the soonest.”
Rand nodded. “I’ll add a ten-percent bonus to your bill if you can get the new boiler to the Hall by noon tomorrow.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Ferguson grinned. He dipped his head to Rand and touched a finger to his forehead. “I’ll take you up on that, my lord.” He looked toward William John. “Tomorrow by noon, I’ll have it to you.”
“Excellent!” William John clapped his hands together and beamed.
“I’ll relieve you of this lump.” Ferguson turned and roared to his apprentices. Two hulking lads appeared, and he directed them to lift the twisted wreck of his previous creation from the bed of the cart and carry it inside.
Satisfied—and faintly chuffed at having been able to make a real contribution to the invention, however small—Rand climbed back to the cart’s box seat and untied the reins. William John, happy as a grig, climbed up and sat, and Rand turned the horse out of the smith’s yard and set it trotting back down the village street.
A wagon laden with produce of various types had drawn up outside the general store, and the driver and a lad were carting boxes and crates inside. As a gig had halted outside the butcher’s shop on the other side of the street, Rand had to halt the cart, yet with the issue of the boiler resolved and no reason to rush back, he was content to sit on the box and wait.
William John, of course, was miles distant, no doubt mentally back in his laboratory-workshop.
Rather than get too close to the wagon being unloaded, Rand had halted a short distance up the street. He was idly scanning the various denizens of Hampstead Norreys, mostly the female half of the population busy about their morning shopping, when the door to the general store opened, and Miss Throgmorton stepped out onto the pavement.
A gentleman had held the door for her; he followed close behind, and Miss Throgmorton turned to speak with him, plainly continuing a conversation struck up inside the store.
Rand frowned. “What’s your sister’s Christian name?”
“Hmm? What? Oh.” Absentmindedly, William John volunteered “Felicia,” then returned to his ruminating.
Presentiment tickled Rand’s nape as he watched Felicia Throgmorton chat animatedly to the gentleman as, side by side, they walked down the street, then crossed to the opposite pavement. The pair paused outside the bakery, exchanged several more words, then Miss Throgmorton farewelled the gentleman and went into the shop.
For a moment, the gentleman remained standing outside; Rand wished he could see the man’s expression. Then, with a decidedly jaunty air, the gentleman turned and continued down the street.
The wagon wasn’t yet ready to move. Rand elbowed William John.
“Huh?”
Rand 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.
