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