Chapter 9 #4
His eyes on hers, he knew and sensed it, too. “Later.” He drew breath and lowered his hand. “After the project is completed and we’re free to think of only ourselves.”
With that, he inclined his head, then stepped back, turned, and walked away, leaving the room and heading toward the front hall.
Presumably back to the workshop.
Discovering she could, she drew in a long, deep breath and turned back to the peonies.
Very little thought was needed to conclude that he was correct. What with the engine, the exhibition, and would-be saboteurs, they had too much on their collective plate at the moment to think of other things.
Personal things.
Not that, all in all, they hadn’t just taken a step closer to what they both, quite clearly, desired in that sphere.
She humphed. “Men!” She picked up the vase, destined for the table in the front hall, and determinedly carried it forth.
“Thank you, Mr. Mayhew.” Felicia handed Mayhew a full cup and saucer for Flora, and he carried it to the older lady, comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the drawing room.
When Mayhew returned, Felicia handed him his cup, then sat back with her own and watched as Mayhew elegantly arranged his long limbs in the armchair opposite hers.
She and Flora had been waiting in the drawing room when Mayhew arrived; the instant he had, she’d rung for the tea tray.
That had also been the signal for one of the footmen to inform Rand, who had retreated to the workshop with William John after luncheon, that their visitor had arrived.
Felicia didn’t doubt that, by now, Rand was near, lurking out of sight—either in the front hall or more likely on the terrace given she’d left the doors propped wide. She sipped and waited for Flora to open the discussion.
Smiling in her customary, sweet fashion, Flora lowered her cup and said, “Dear Felicia tells me that you wish to draw more sketches of the Hall, Mr. Mayhew.”
“Yes, indeed.” His charm to the fore, Mayhew launched into an explanation of how the Hall in its rather unusual setting called to him.
Although Mayhew’s gaze flicked her way several times, Felicia kept silent and observed. Closely.
Eventually, Mayhew ran down, and Flora responded with a smiling “I can see you’re extremely devoted to your art, sir.”
Felicia seized the moment. “Is there any particular aspect you had in mind to sketch on this occasion?” She half expected him to own to a wish to sketch the house from the rose garden, or from some other angle that would give him a view of the workshop.
Mayhew smiled and waved toward the terrace. “The perspective from that side is by far the best. I would like to make several sketches from that direction.” He turned and glanced out of the open doors. “From farther down the lawn—toward the woods.”
“I see.” Flora smiled benignly. “I’m sure we can have no objection to that.” She cast a faintly questioning look at Felicia.
Caught in the act of raising her cup, Felicia inclined her head, sipped, then lowered her cup. “Indeed.”
“Actually, my dear Mr. Mayhew,” Flora said, “I was wondering if you’re acquainted with the Mayhews of Tonbridge. Gerrard and his wife, Kitty.”
Hiding an inner smile, Felicia listened as Flora embarked on just the sort of inquisition a widowed lady of her years might be expected to have an interest in; in truth, Flora rarely had the chance to air her interrogatory skills, but given they wished to know more of Mayhew, inquiring as to his family connections was potentially pertinent.
However, Flora uncovered no inherently suspicious connections, and, rather more telling, Mayhew suffered her questions with easy grace. His charm and ready-to-please air never faltered.
Felicia—straining her ears for any hint of an out-of-place intonation and, with her eyes sharply focused, searching for any sign of a mask—had reached the point of acquitting Mayhew of being anything other than the charming and easygoing artist he seemed, when a sudden pop! sounded.
The distinct and rather odd noise apparently came from outside, reaching them through the open doors. They all glanced that way, and Felicia realized William John must have the workshop doors open, or at least ajar. The noise had come from there, from around the side of the house.
She glanced back in time to see an expression she couldn’t read flash across Mayhew’s face. It was there and gone so quickly, she had no idea what it might have meant.
The instant Mayhew saw her looking his way, his smile returned, combined with an inquiring look.
She waved dismissively. “Just a pipe clanking. They sometimes do when the sun heats them.”
It hadn’t been any pipe, but a valve blowing. She recognized the sound. What the devil was William John doing? He was supposed to be finishing off and getting ready for the final tests, not blowing valves.
Felicia drained her cup. She saw Mayhew had done the same. “Perhaps,” she said, setting down her saucer and reaching for his, “you and I should go outside, and you can show me the view you’d like to sketch.”
“Excellent.” Mayhew rose and, with ready courtesy and his never-failing charm, took his leave of Flora, shaking her hand and promising to mention her to a distant relative who they’d agreed she might have met.
When Mayhew straightened and looked her way, Felicia waved him to the open doors and the terrace beyond, then led the way.
As she stepped onto the terrace flags, she swiftly glanced to her left, but if Rand had been there, he’d beaten a retreat. With Mayhew by her side, she descended the central steps to the lawn and started strolling down its length.
Mayhew, with his long legs, easily kept pace. After several moments, he glanced at her face. “I do hope you don’t think I’m”—he gestured vaguely—“taking advantage, as it were.”
Puzzled, she glanced at him. “No. You’re quite welcome to sketch the house.” You’re not welcome to interfere with our invention.
“Oh, right, then.” Mayhew’s smile returned, and he looked ahead, then pointed to the large oak at the bottom of the lawn. “I think the best spot will be somewhere around there.”
Felicia had been wondering where Rand was. She’d glanced at the woods bordering the lawn several times, but hadn’t seen him. Then from the corner of her eye, she fleetingly glimpsed a shadowy figure keeping pace along one of the deer trails.
He was too far away to hear their words, but close enough to watch and observe.
They reached the oak, and Mayhew halted. He turned and surveyed the house, then he embarked on a voluble examination of angles and light and shadow.
She listened and observed, yet not once did she glimpse anything incongruent in his actions or words, not even in his tone or his expression.
Mayhew was an artist intent on sketching the house. There wasn’t anything else—any hint of ulterior motive or mission—to be seen.
Was that because their imputed ulterior motive didn’t exist, or was it there, but he was glib enough not to let it show?
Could Mayhew be this superbly duplicitous?
Felicia eyed him and simply didn’t know.
Eventually, he fell silent. After several moments of staring at the house, now frowning slightly, he turned to her.
“I don’t like to ask it of you, but to make this sketch the best it can be, I need something—some object—in the foreground to anchor the perspective and make sense of the view.
” He caught her gaze. “You’ll have seen how I do that in some of those sketches I showed you earlier.
The object in the foreground. Like the pump in the inn yard, or the signpost in one of the landscapes. ”
She did remember and nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she asked, “What sort of object do you need for this view?” She tipped her head toward the house.
He drew breath and, with one of his most appealing smiles, said, “I would really like you.” He swung to gesture with both arms. “Sitting in one of those chairs from the terrace—the cane armchairs. Just there.” He waved at the spot, then looked toward the house, eyes narrowing as if examining the effect he wanted to create.
His voice soft and low, he murmured, “If you have a flowy gown, something in a pale and lightweight fabric, and a parasol…that will do wonders for contrasting with the sharp lines of the house, throwing them into greater visual relief.”
Felicia consulted her instincts. Mayhew was standing only feet away, yet her instincts still did not see him as a threat; they never had. It was her mind that harbored suspicions of him.