Chapter 5
As dusk turned to darkness outside the windows and the clocks throughout the house chimed for ten o’clock, Rand sat at the desk in his bedchamber and penned a letter to his half brother, Ryder, and Ryder’s wife, Mary.
The couple had known Rand had been on his way to visit them; not appearing and not sending word wasn’t an option.
Even if Ryder wasn’t inclined to worry unduly, Mary would fret, and then Ryder would act—most likely by asking questions in London—which wouldn’t be helpful.
Aside from avoiding such an outcome, Rand wanted to make his excuses to his nephews and niece and assure the whole family that he would join them at Raventhorne Abbey as soon as the problems with the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage were resolved.
As his nib softly scratched across the paper, Rand felt increasingly sure that he wouldn’t be free to visit the Abbey until after the twenty-second of the month—after the exhibition at which the invention was to be unveiled. Until then…he expected to be living on tenterhooks.
They had to meet that deadline and meet it successfully. Any alternative would harm him, his investors, the Throgmortons, and their household—it was as simple as that.
Not that he communicated any of his anxieties to Ryder and Mary.
Forging his own path meant doing things himself, and while Ryder, as the Marquess of Raventhorne, possessed significant power, and Mary, as a Cynster, had her own brand of power, too, in the arena Rand had chosen as his own, that sort of power was, if not entirely impotent, then as near as made no odds.
Increasingly, these days, men like Rand were being judged by their achievements. One’s birth helped, but the achievements mattered more.
He reached the end of his missive, signed his name, then blotted the page.
He folded the sheet, inscribed Ryder’s direction, and used the stick of wax supplied to seal the flap, pressing his signet ring to a melted blob, then waving the letter to cool the seal.
That done, letter in hand, he turned down the lamp, rose—and froze, staring out of the window into the country dark.
Had he just glimpsed a figure drifting through the near-black shadows edging the lawn?
He stared, but could no longer see anything to suggest someone was out there. The figure—if figure there had been—had been moving southward. If there was someone there, they would now be out of his sight.
Rand frowned. Slowly tapping the letter against his fingertips, he stood looking through the window while he reviewed the reasons his mind might be playing tricks on him by imagining a figure flitting through the woods.
Despite his and, indeed, Felicia’s initial suspicions of Mayhew, they all—meaning Felicia, Flora, Johnson, Shields, and, reluctantly, Rand—had agreed that the man had shown no sign whatever of being anything other than what he purported to be—an artist keen on sketching the Hall.
They’d discussed the matter over the dinner table, then called in Johnson and Shields for their views of Mayhew.
Johnson had served the Throgmortons for decades and was well aware of the threat to the family a seemingly innocent man might pose, and Shields, as a Londoner, had been born suspicious, yet neither man saw Mayhew as harboring any sinister intent.
Grudgingly, Rand had accepted that his heightened instincts were, in this case, heightened for another reason entirely—one that had nothing to do with any threat to the Throgmorton engine.
In accepting that…
He snorted softly and turned from the window.
He opened the door and walked along the corridor into the gallery, then descended the stairs.
A salver for letters for the post was sitting where he’d assumed one would be—on the side table in the front hall.
He left his letter on the salver, on top of one written by either Felicia or Flora, judging by the delicate writing.
As he was about to turn away, his gaze fell on the door to the workshop. It was closed, and he’d checked the bar across the double doors on the lower level himself before he’d followed William John upstairs for dinner.
The workshop was secure. The invention was safe.
There was no danger to anyone—at least, not tonight.
Yet his nerves—his instincts—were still twitching.
His lips setting, Rand turned and went up the stairs.
Five minutes later, he settled in the bed, closed his eyes, and—somewhat to his surprise—fell instantly asleep.
A clanging commotion jerked Rand awake. The noise didn’t stop. Whatever it was continued to clatter and bang.
He leapt from the bed. As he grabbed his trousers, he glanced at the window—and, in the faint silvery light shed by a crescent moon, saw a man fleeing across the lawn to dive into the wood.
Cursing, Rand thrust his legs into his trousers and shoved his feet into his shoes. He shrugged on a shirt and headed for the door.
The clanging was slowing but hadn’t ceased.
Still buttoning his shirt, he strode down the corridor—and saw Felicia, swathed in a silk wrapper and carrying a candlestick, in the gallery ahead of him.
He caught up with her as she started down the stairs. Going down three and four at a time, he waved at her. “Stay back!”
On reaching the hall tiles, he glanced over his shoulder—only to see her hurrying down.
She pinned him with a furious glare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Cursing anew, this time under his breath, he turned and strode on. He hauled open the door to the workshop—the clanging had come from there, but had almost stopped, fading in a rather curious way.
All below him lay in inky darkness.
Tight-lipped, he swung around, seized one of the candles left on the hall table, lit the wick from the candle Felicia—her expression stoic, but concern leaping in her eyes—held steady. Then he turned once more to the workshop stairs.
“Wait!”
Rand looked around to see William John, the skirts of his dressing gown flying about him, a lighted candelabra in his hand, come hurrying down the stairs.
Johnson appeared behind his master, and Shields, Corby, and the two footmen came thundering down in their wake.
“It’s all right,” William John assured them all. “If they’d got through, the sound would have changed.”
“What was that racket?” Felicia asked.
William John grinned. “It’s an alarm Papa and I rigged up. It goes off if anyone tries to force the workshop doors.” He pushed past Rand and started down the workshop stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Everyone clattered down the stairs, even Mrs. Makepeace, Cook, Mrs. Reilly, Mr. Reilly, and their four daughters—the maids of the house.
In the workshop, William John threw the switch that, with a buzzing hum, set the gaslights blazing. He stood back and surveyed the doors, then laughed. “It worked perfectly.” He pointed to a structure mounted on the wall high above the double doors. “See there? That’s our alarm.”
Rand had noticed the contraption earlier, but had assumed that, it being connected to the bars that secured the doors, it was merely some mechanism to lift them that was no longer in use.
He came to stand beside William John and studied the mechanism of gears and levers, and what appeared to be several saucepans with their handles cut off.
He debated asking how it worked, but feared William John would immediately demonstrate.
If the noise had been so loud it had hauled the entire household from their beds, then in the stone-walled workshop, the cacophony would be horrendous.
Nevertheless…he glanced at William John.
“Very effective.” He had to give credit where it was due.
“It was, wasn’t it?” William John beamed. “I’ve been wanting to test it for an age, but there’s nothing like a true test of an invention to give one confidence.”
Rand shared a glance with Felicia, who had halted on the last stair, then dryly murmured, “Indeed.”
Felicia turned to the others, arrayed on the stairs behind her. “All’s well. Someone must have tried to force the doors, but no one got through.”
“Should we check outside?” Shields looked at Rand, as did both footmen.
Remembering the figure he’d seen fleeing into the night, Rand shook his head.
“Whoever they were, they’ll be long gone.
” And with so much woodland all around, their chances of catching anyone were slight.
“But I believe we must treat this as the sign it unquestionably is. Someone knows of the Throgmorton engine and has, tonight, targeted it.”
Rand glanced at Felicia.
She nodded slightly, in support.
He looked at the others and went on, “We’ll need to mount a guard—despite the alarm mechanism, several men, acting together, might think to push past it and damage the engine before fleeing.” He focused on Shields, Corby, and the footmen. “We’ll need two men here at all times during the night.”
Corby exchanged a glance with Shields, then volunteered, “I’ll draw up a roster. We’ve Struthers and his lads from the stable, too, so it shouldn’t be too much for anyone.”
Rand nodded. “After the recent excitement, I’m sure we’ll be safe for the rest of the night. Whoever it was who tried to break in will need to regroup.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. All except William John, who was still admiring his successful alarm mechanism.
Rand tipped his head in dismissal and turned to William John.
While Felicia urged everyone to return to their beds, Rand, with William John, checked that the doors were, indeed, still shut tight.
William John assured Rand that as long as the bars were set in their place—as they were—the alarm system could be relied on to give notice should anyone attempt the doors again.
Stepping back, looking up, and smiling at the alarm mechanism, William John sighed happily. “Papa would have been so pleased.”
Again, Rand met Felicia’s eyes, then, at her direction, William John turned off the gaslights, and he and Rand followed her up the stairs.