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

Rand bit back a comment to the effect that they didn’t have time to investigate anything. Fix, yes. Explore and investigate, no.

William John turned to survey the state of the workshop. Rand followed his gaze, noting that the floors were once more clear of debris, the tool racks and welding equipment had been straightened and wiped clean, and the engine was now gleaming and free of all smuts.

William John smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen—if you’ve finished with your tidying, let’s make a start on removing this.” With one hand, he thumped the side of the ruptured boiler.

Both footmen and Shields, plainly curious, put away their implements and readily drew near. Corby tucked his rags away and joined the group.

Rand stepped back and watched as William John, wielding a wrench and directing the others on what he needed them to do, set about releasing the gaskets that locked the ruptured copper boiler in place amid the plethora of tubes and pipes.

When it came to doing anything to his invention, Rand had to admit that William John remained unrelentingly focused. No hint of vagueness intruded as he loosened this nut, then that, all the while telling Shields, Joe, and Martin just where to put their hands as they supported the boiler as well as the various loosened pipes, tubes, gauges, and valves. Corby hovered, handing tools to his master as and when required.

Leaving them to their task, Rand drifted to the open double doors. Pausing on the threshold, he looked out and around. The paved area before the doors was level with the floor of the workshop, with only a narrow drain set between two rows of flagstones to allow rain to drain away rather than spread under the doors and into the workshop. Straight ahead, a walled kitchen garden lay on the other side of the paved area. Beyond it, a swath of lawn was bordered by the surrounding woodland. To the right, lawns stretched away, eventually joining the south lawn, while to the left, a gravel path, more than wide enough for a carriage, ran along the side of the house and around the northeast corner.

Rand raised his gaze and, beyond a short stretch of lawn, saw the end of the stable block; presumably, the path was an extension of the section of the drive that linked the forecourt and the stable. He could appreciate the foresight; once the engine was working, the path would make it easy to bring the carriage-body to the workshop.

On turning back into the workshop, he spied a series of pulleys and thick chains piled with a conglomeration of heavy beams and iron struts in a corner near the doors. Presumably a part of the mechanism by which the engine would be lifted out of its supporting frame and lowered into the carriage.

Rand surveyed the workshop—the racks and shelves, the purpose-built frame and benches. It was clear the Throgmorton males had spent considerable time and thought—and expense—on their favored domain. Despite Miss Throgmorton’s plaint that the rest of the house was invisible to her father and brother—something Rand suspected was true—he doubted the men’s devotion to their workspace had contributed to keeping Miss Throgmorton out of it.

That she hadn’t been down there for over a decade...he had to wonder why.

With a rattle and a clang, Shields and Martin hauled on cables connected to a smaller set of pulleys attached to the ceiling above the engine. William John and Joe held back tubes and pipes, and, with a screech of metal on metal, the ruptured boiler rose out of the body of the engine.

“Excellent.” William John released the parts he’d been holding, seized the freed boiler, and guided it away from the rest of the engine, toward the open space before the doors. “Let’s set it down here. Gently, now.”

Shields and Martin let the cables out slowly, and the boiler lowered to the floor.

“Right.” William John signaled, then released the webbing that had cradled the boiler. Straightening, he looked down at the twisted metal.

Rand joined him. “It looks like the seams gave way.”

William John humphed. “Indeed.” He crouched and ran his hands over the sides of the boiler. “I wonder if we can beat it out and resolder...”

Rand stared at the crumpled, folded-back metal. “No. We can’t.” He’d learned enough from other inventors about the risks one ran in resoldering such things—namely an increased risk of re-rupturing. “The second soldered seam will be weaker than the first.” William John looked up, and Rand caught the younger man’s eyes. “We don’t have time to take that risk. If it explodes again, we’ll have lost days and got no further. We need a new boiler.”

William John stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. “Yes. You’re right. I keep forgetting...”

About the exhibition and their deadline. From their earlier discussions, Rand had already realized that. He turned his mind to the logistics required. “I assume you have a cart we can use to ferry the boiler to the nearest blacksmith’s. He can reuse the metal, which will get us a better price on the replacement.”

His gaze on the destroyed boiler, William John waved toward the stables. “Struthers—our stableman—knows which cart to use.”

“Shields?” Rand glanced at his man.

Shields 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.”