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

His uncle studied his eyes, then grasped his hand, and they shook.

Retrieving his hand, the younger man said, “You’d better tell me all you can about this invention.”

His uncle complied, revealing the invention’s location, the inventor’s name, and that the invention was some sort of steam engine purported to incorporate several improvements on Russell’s reworking of Trevithick’s original of 1803.

The younger man had less notion of what that description meant than, he suspected, his uncle did. However, he nodded. After rapidly replaying their earlier conversation, he asked, “Am I correct in thinking that, regardless of whether this engine actually runs or not, as long as it’s not unveiled to any fanfare at the exhibition in Birmingham, you will be satisfied?”

His uncle frowned slightly. “That should suffice. If the invention isn’t successfully demonstrated there”—he smiled tightly, coldly—“no one will believe it works.” After a second, he nodded decisively. “Yes. That will be enough.”

“Good-oh.” The younger gentleman pushed to his feet.

His uncle looked up at him. “I will, of course, be attending the exhibition myself, so I’ll be present to view the outcome of your efforts first-hand.”

The younger man inclined his head. “I’ll endeavor to please. And now, I’d best be on my way.”

His uncle murmured a farewell, and the younger gentleman made for the Antium’s main door.

He paused on the club’s front steps and looked up at the cloudless summer sky.

How hard could it be to rearrange a lever or two, or unscrew a few bolts, or swipe the notes of some absentminded inventor?

He suspected he could satisfy his uncle easily enough, after which his life and his future would be his again.

Yet as he descended the steps and set out for his lodgings, he could feel uneasiness over what he’d agreed to do swirling inside. But...

When it came down to it, he was desperate. Truly desperate. And at least, this way, no one would die.

CHAPTER 1

July 1843 Berkshire

Lord Randolph Cavanaugh—Rand to his family, friends, and associates—tooled his curricle down the leafy lanes and reveled in the fresh country air. After spending the past four months in London, he was more than ready for a change, and a long-scheduled visit to Raventhorne Abbey to catch up with his brother and sister-in-law and their children had provided the perfect excuse to leave the steadily escalating heat of the capital behind.

However, as matters had fallen out, the trip to the Abbey in Wiltshire had coincided with an unexpected need to check up on one of the projects Rand’s firm, Cavanaugh Investments, had underwritten. For the past five years, ever since he’d reached twenty-five and come into his full inheritance, Rand had worked steadily and diligently to carve out a place—a life and a purpose—for himself. He wasn’t content to simply be Raventhorne’s half brother. He’d wanted something more—some enterprise to call his own.

Through Ryder—Rand’s older half brother, now the Marquess of Raventhorne—and Ryder’s marchioness, Mary, Rand had come to know the Cynsters. Gabriel Cynster, one of Mary’s older cousins, had long been a renowned figure in investment circles. Rand had shamelessly apprenticed himself, albeit informally, to Gabriel. After several years of learning from the master, Rand had struck out on his own. He’d made managing investments in the latest inventions his particular area of expertise.

One of his syndicate’s current investments was an exclusive stake in the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage. There’d been steam-powered horseless carriages before—Trevithick had demonstrated the principle in 1803—but none had solved the various issues that had kept such inventions from becoming widely adopted. William Throgmorton had made his name through a spate of steam-powered inventions that had refined the machines of earlier inventors, making the modified engines much more commercially attractive.

When it came to inventions, Throgmorton was a known and established name. Investing in his latest project, while still ranking as definitely speculative, had seemed a good wager, one with possibly very high returns.

Rand had known William Throgmorton for several years. Through his syndicated investment fund, Rand had supported several of Throgmorton’s earlier projects, all of which had delivered satisfactorily. Rand was entirely comfortable with his current investment in Throgmorton’s latest project.

What he wasn’t so comfortable with—what had necessitated this side trip into deepest Berkshire—was Throgmorton’s recent silence. The last report Rand had received had been over three months ago. Until March, Throgmorton had reported more or less every month.

Rand trusted Throgmorton. More, he knew that inventors sometimes became so caught up in the actual work that they lost track of time, and all other responsibilities faded from their minds. Yet over the years Rand had worked with him, Throgmorton hadn’t missed reporting before.

What was even more troubling was that Throgmorton had failed to respond to not one but two letters Rand had subsequently sent. That wasn’t like Throgmorton at any time, but now, with the Birmingham exhibition—at which the presentation and demonstration of the Throgmorton engine had already been widely touted—less than a month away, Rand needed reassurance that all was progressing smoothly with the invention, not just for himself but for all his syndicate’s investors.

The cream of British inventing would be at the exhibition. Prince Albert was scheduled to open it, and the Prince could be relied on to take a keen interest in the inventions on show. Success at the exhibition was crucial for the future of Throgmorton’s engine and also for Rand’s status in the investment community. If Throgmorton failed to deliver...

Rand pushed the thought from his mind. Throgmorton hadn’t failed him yet.

Nevertheless, Rand needed to know what was going on at Throgmorton Hall. He needed to hear of progress from Throgmorton himself, and as the man wasn’t answering his letters, Rand had decided to call in person.

He hadn’t visited Throgmorton Hall before; he’d always met William in the City. All he knew of the Hall was that it lay close to the village of Hampstead Norreys, buried in the depths of Berkshire. Aside from all else, Rand would admit he was curious to see Throgmorton’s workshop.

So instead of continuing west out of Reading and thus to Raventhorne Abbey, on reaching Reading, Rand had taken the Wantage road. He’d stopped at an inn in Pangbourne for lunch, and his groom, Shields, had consulted with the ostlers. Armed with the information Shields had gained, Rand had elected to drive on to Basildon before turning off the highway onto the narrower country lanes and steering his horses first to the west, then the southwest. He’d passed through Ashampstead some time ago. According to the signposts, the village of Hampstead Norreys lay just a mile or so on.

Rand held his bays to a steady trot. After calling on Throgmorton and reviewing his progress and receiving the assurances Rand and his investors required, Rand would have plenty of time to drive on to the Abbey. With any luck, he would arrive before his eldest nephew and his niece had been put to bed. His youngest nephew was just two years old; Rand wasn’t sure what time he would be tucked in.

Rand had discovered he enjoyed being an uncle; he and his two younger brothers, Christopher—Kit—and Godfrey, openly vied for the title of favorite uncle to Ryder and Mary’s three offspring. Rand grinned to himself; he was looking forward to spending the next few days—perhaps the next week—with Ryder, Mary, and their noisy brood.