Chapter 14 #4
Sir Horace looked down at the second silk handkerchief.
Then he peered into the engine compartment, but none of the other valves were sufficiently accessible.
Then he noticed the pipes leading back toward the rear of the carriage.
He dropped to his knees and, with his head almost on the floor, followed the pipes back…
There! Another valve—a good-sized one close enough that if he lay on his back he could reach it.
Sir Horace carefully shut the side panel he’d opened, sealing away the sight of his tampering, then, dispensing with all dignity, he gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, angled his shoulders under the contraption, and, with his second handkerchief, swiftly tied the second valve down tight.
He blew out a breath, then quickly wriggled out from under the carriage and clambered back to his previous crouch.
He edged toward the end of the carriage. The door he needed to reach was two yards away, with the entire distance in full sight of the crowd.
Clinging desperately to calm, he forced himself to wait—wait—until he heard the Prince exclaim.
He didn’t hesitate but rose and walked swiftly—silently—to the door and, without even pausing to check that no one had seen him, he slipped behind the panel and closed it behind him.
In the dimness of the corridor, he waited to see if any hue and cry was raised. He was breathing stertorously; he hadn’t realized until then.
His brow was damp. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief…
Grimacing, he blotted his face with his sleeve, then, as no shouts had come from the other side of the door, Sir Horace turned and walked back up the corridor.
By the time he retrieved his hat and cane, stepped onto the tiles of the foyer, and closed the corridor door behind him, he was starting to believe.
To think that he’d pulled it off—that he’d done what was necessary all by himself. He hadn’t, after all, needed any help.
A slow tide of relief washed through him. He’d saved the day.
His day, at least.
Confidence rose in the wake of the thought that, now, all would be well.
All would play out exactly as it ought, and he would return to London fully vindicated, with his position as the acknowledged leader of investment syndicates even more firmly entrenched.
No one would dare question his assessments in the future.
He resettled his coat sleeves, then walked toward the exhibition hall. He had no intention of missing the glorious moment when the Throgmorton engine stalled and refused to run.
Increasingly assured, once more holding his head high, Sir Horace strode into the hall and joined the cluster of people gathered behind the Prince.
Members of the committee saw him and inclined their heads. Those of the crowd less well-connected nevertheless recognized his air of authority and shuffled aside, yielding to Sir Horace until he stood with several other worthies alongside the committee and close behind the Prince.
Thus installed in pride of place and in the perfect position to view the outcome of his actions, buoyed by a sense of righteousness in having struck a blow for his fellow countrymen—those like him with a deeper understanding, who knew beyond question that steam-powered vehicles should never be allowed on England’s roads—Sir Horace, his aloof and superior facade once more in place, pretended to an interest in the exhibits as the Prince continued down the line, and waited to bear witness to the utter failure of the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage.
After speaking with his uncle, Clive had intended to beat a retreat, but several exhibits caught his eye, and he got distracted.
Never before had he had a chance to examine mechanical devices, and after the tug he’d felt on setting eyes on the steam carriage, he was eager to see more; the machines’ lines and the symmetry many possessed beneath an overlay of weaving pipes and tubes enthralled his artist’s soul.
The way the light played over the curved metal surfaces made his fingers twitch.
He no longer had his satchel, but how he wished he had; he would have liked to take up the challenge of capturing the aura of the machines.
His fascination drew him down the hall. Although he remained alert, he didn’t see Cavanaugh, then, to his surprise, he spotted Miss Throgmorton speaking to one of the exhibitors.
She was asking questions and seemed quite animated.
At the sight of her, Clive felt a very strong prod from his conscience.
If he truly wanted absolution for his actions against the Throgmortons, then he owed Miss Throgmorton a fervent apology.
Cloaked by the crowd, he watched her for several minutes, then made up his mind.
Before he quit the hall, he would apologize to her and seek her forgiveness, but to do that…
He set his jaw, turned, and, without allowing himself time to think and balk, purposefully made his way farther down the hall.
If he wished to prostrate himself before Miss Throgmorton, he first needed to make his peace with Cavanaugh.
Exactly what the relationship between the two was, Clive didn’t know, yet given Cavanaugh’s murderous expression when he’d last seen Clive, if Clive wanted to approach Miss Throgmorton and live, he needed to explain himself to Cavanaugh.
Despite wishing to speak with the man, Clive approached cautiously. As he’d assumed, Cavanaugh was hovering within sight of the Throgmorton exhibit. Still screened by the crowd, Clive halted and seized the moment to rehearse what he wanted to say.
Cavanaugh was tracking the Prince’s progress.
His Highness was still several exhibits away from the steam carriage, but as he moved one exhibit closer, Cavanaugh raised his head and looked up the hall, then he moved into the shifting tide of bodies, unknowingly making his way toward where Clive was standing.
Guessing that Cavanaugh was on his way to summon Miss Throgmorton, Clive metaphorically girded his loins; when Cavanaugh drew level, Clive stepped into his path.
Rand jerked to a halt. Barely able to believe his eyes, he felt his jaw clench, his fists close.