Chapter 2
Rand followed William John into the front hall. The younger man led the way to the wooden door Rand had earlier noted.
Someone had shut the door, no doubt against the still-definite smell, but apparently oblivious, William John lifted the latch and started down the stairs.
“Our laboratory-workshop takes up most of the lower level of the house. My father set it up when he was a young man, and it’s been in use ever since. ”
Descending the spiral stairs on William John’s heels, Rand asked, “How do you get heavy machinery into the workshop?” The stairway was too narrow to get even a smallish engine down.
“Ah. As I said, it’s a lower level of the house—not a cellar. The land behind the house is lower than in the front, so we have a pair of double doors that open to a paved courtyard at the rear of the house—we just roll the engines in and out.”
They rounded another curve, and William John halted. “Damn!”
Rand stopped two steps up and looked over William John’s head at the drifting murk blanketing the enclosed space below them.
A noxious stench, sulfurous and metallic, rose from the cloud.
The miasma wafted, veiling benches and the large bulk of an engine, plus any number of other contraptions dotted about the wide, stone-walled chamber.
“I forgot the door was shut.” William John clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and plunged into the fug. He rushed across the room to a pair of large wooden doors, fumbled with the latch, then pushed the doors wide.
The cloud of heavy gases shifted, then settled again. William John stood on the flagstones outside and frantically waved his arms, attempting to encourage fresh air to flow in, but his efforts were largely ineffectual.
He dragged in a breath, then rushed back through the haze to the stairs. Climbing to where Rand had waited, William John sighed. He looked down and across the room. “Perhaps we’d better leave any inspection until tomorrow.”
Rand grunted in agreement. “I doubt inhaling tainted steam will do either of us any good.” He turned and led the way back up the stairs.
William John followed; even his footfalls sounded disappointed. “My man, Corby—well, he used to be Papa’s, so he’s accustomed to dealing with explosions. He’ll see to getting the place tidied up first thing tomorrow.”
Rand merely nodded. He emerged into the front hall to find the butler hovering.
At the sight of Rand, the butler—middle-aged, tallish, of average build, with thinning brown hair and a stately manner—came to attention and bowed.
“Lord Cavanaugh. Welcome to Throgmorton Hall.” The butler straightened.
“I regret we were somewhat distracted when you arrived. My name is Johnson. Should you require anything during your stay, please ring and we will endeavor to meet your needs. Miss Throgmorton asked for a room to be prepared. If it’s convenient, I can show you to your room now. ”
Rand realized he felt as if, in driving up the Throgmorton Hall drive, he’d stepped into some strange and unpredictable world; a butler who, despite appearing strictly conventional, referred to dealing with an in-house explosion as being “somewhat distracted” seemed all of a piece.
“Thank you.” Taking a few moments to reassess the situation appealed to his naturally cautious self.
“I would appreciate shedding the dust of my journey.”
Johnson bowed again. “Indeed, my lord. I’ll have a maid bring up some water. If you’ll follow me?”
Rand turned to William John; the younger man was standing, frowning at the floor. “I expect we’ll meet at dinner.”
“What?” William John blinked owlishly, refocused on Rand, then his face cleared. “Oh yes. I’ll look forward to it.”
Rand resisted the urge to shake his head, nodded instead, and followed Johnson up the stairs. One thing he’d already ascertained: William John was as vague and as given to fits of absentmindedness as his father had been.
The room the butler led Rand to was a pleasant bedchamber located in the northwest corner of the first floor.
Comfortably furnished, with upholstery, curtains, and bedspread in a striped fabric that was neither masculine nor feminine, the room felt airy and was blessedly uncluttered.
The bed was a half tester, wide and well supplied with pillows.
Two side tables flanking the bed, an armoire, a tallboy, a desk with a straight-backed chair set beneath one window, plus a small dressing table tucked into a corner with a stool before it, rounded out the furniture.
Two windows looked out over the grounds, one facing north, the other west. Late-afternoon light streamed into the room through the west-facing window.
Noting that his bags had already been unpacked and his brushes and shaving implements laid ready on the dresser, Rand dismissed the hovering Johnson, then crossed to look out of the west window.
As he’d expected, that window afforded an excellent view of the drive leading to the forecourt, plus the woodland beyond, and, farther to the north, the shrubbery.
After surveying the scene, he moved to the other window.
From there, he could see the eastern edge of the shrubbery and the stable and stable yard more or less directly ahead.
Farther to the east lay a structured garden.
From the profusion of blooms and their sizes and colors, Rand suspected it was a rose garden.
As he watched, a lady walked purposefully from the rear of the house toward the arched entrance of the garden, a basket swinging from her hand. Despite the distance, Rand recognized Miss Throgmorton.
He’d been acquainted with William Throgmorton for over four years. Rand had known William had a son, of whom he was quite proud.
The old inventor had never mentioned a daughter.
Rand watched as Miss Throgmorton halted in the middle of the garden, dropped her basket, then set about attacking the tall bushes with what, from her rather vicious movements, he assumed was a pair of shears.
He focused on her, his senses drawing in to the point he didn’t really see anything around her.
Just her, her lithe figure topped by her flaming red-gold hair, lit to a fiery radiance by the warm rays of the westering sun.
Regardless of the distance, he sensed the vitality that animated her; for some reason, she all but shone in his sight, a beacon for his senses.
A magnetic, compelling, distracting beacon.
How long he stood and stared he couldn’t have said; footsteps approaching along the corridor had him shaking off the compulsion and turning to face the door.
After the briefest of taps, the door opened, and Shields—Rand’s groom, who, in a pinch, also served as his gentleman’s gentleman—came in.
“Ah—there you are.” Bearing an ewer, Shields nudged the door closed, then advanced to set the ewer on the dresser. “I’ve unpacked, and I brushed that blue coat of yours for the evening. If that’ll suit?”
Rand nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“Are we staying for a while?” Shields asked.
Rand frowned. “A few days at least.”
Shields grunted. “Just as well we were on our way to Raventhorne, then. At least we’ve both got clothes enough for a stay.”
Putting his back to the view, Rand leant back against the windowsill. “What are your thoughts on the household here?”
“Despite what we saw when we drove up, it’s a well-run house. Calm and well-ordered, even if a mite eccentric. The staff are longtimers, all of them—and if they’re not that old, then their parents were here before them. Very settled, they are, and…I suppose you’d say they’re content.”
“The explosions don’t trouble them?”
“Seems they’re used to them—and apparently, there’s never been anyone hurt. Just lots of noise and nasty smoke.”
Rand nodded. A well-run household and contented staff were excellent indicators of the qualities of a house’s master. Or mistress, as the case might be.
He straightened from the sill and turned to look out of the window again.
“Country hours here, so dinner’s at six.” Shields retreated toward the door. “Do you need me for anything else?”
Rand shook his head. “Not today.” His gaze flicked to the stable. “How are the horses?” He’d purchased the pair only two months ago; they were young and still distinctly flighty.
“They didn’t approve of the bang and the smell, but the stable’s well away from the house, and they settled happily enough.”
“Good.” Rand paused, then said, “I doubt I’ll need the horses for the next few days at least. Other than keeping an eye on them, I won’t need you for much, but let me know if you see or hear anything that strikes you as odd.”
“Aye. I’ll do that. I’m off for my tea, then.”
Rand heard the door open and shut. His gaze had already found and refocused on Miss Throgmorton.
She was still attacking the roses.
Rand wavered, prodded by an impulse to go down and speak with her. About what, he wasn’t all that clear. Judging by the energy with which she was clipping, she was still distinctly exercised over what his arrival had revealed.
She’d had no inkling of Rand’s or the syndicate’s existence. More, Rand sensed her antipathy toward inventing—an attitude that had reached him perfectly clearly during their meeting in the drawing room—had a deeper source than mere female disapproval of such endeavors.
Yet her support would be vital in keeping her brother’s nose to the grindstone, and they all needed William John to finish the invention within the next three weeks.
Rand wasn’t sure how much he could actively help William John—that remained to be seen—but at the very least, he could ride rein on the younger man and ensure he remained focused on solving the issues bedeviling his father’s machine.
William John had already shown strong signs of the absentminded mental meandering Rand had observed in many other inventors.
In his experience, time was the one dimension to which inventors rarely paid heed.
Yet in this case, time was very definitely of critical importance.
Rand refocused on Miss Throgmorton.