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

Felicia Throgmorton stared at her brother. “The one you just blew up? Yet again.” A sensation of coldness was welling inside her.

Gloomily, William John nodded.

The cold was dread, and it continued to spread. Felicia glanced at Lord Cavanaugh, then looked again at William John. “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘funded’?”

William John shifted on the sofa in a way that only chilled Felicia more. “Lord Randolph”—William John glanced at the lord sitting unmovingly and projecting all the menace of a crouching tiger—“or more accurately, he and the investors who band together with him in his investing syndicate, advanced Papa the funds to finish the engine and present it at the exhibition in return for a two-thirds share of the rights in the invention.”

Felicia compressed her lips into a tight line, holding back any too-aggressive response. As the daughter of a longtime inventor, she understood enough about rights and funding to comprehend the situation. But in the circumstances... Without looking at Lord Cavanaugh, she nodded crisply. “I see. So where are these funds as of this moment? How does the account stand?”

“Well, we’re only three weeks from the exhibition, you know.” William John cast an apologetic look at Lord Cavanaugh. “Most of the money’s been spent.”

She frowned. “Spent on what? Other than two replacement boilers and a few valves, you haven’t bought much since Papa died.” She glanced at Lord Cavanaugh; he was watching their exchange with an entirely unreadable—but by no means encouraging—expression on his handsome, autocratic face. Her nerves twitched, and she hurried to say, “I’m sure we can repay his lordship whatever sum was left at the time Papa died—”

Frantic gestures from William John had her looking back at him.

The cold inside coalesced into an icy knot and sank to the pit of her stomach. “What?” She heard her voice rise. “We can’t?”

William John stared at her, then warily said, “The money you’ve been using to pay the bills...”

“What?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded shrill. “But...” She stared at her brother. “You—and Papa—told me that money was royalties from his earlier inventions.”

“Yes, well.” William John squirmed more definitely. “We knew you wouldn’t understand, so...”

“So you lied to me.” She felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her world. More quietly, she added, “Both of you.”

When William John grimaced and looked down at his clasped hands, she forced herself to draw in a shuddering breath and, seizing the reins of her temper in an iron grip and banishing the pain of what felt perilously like betrayal from her mind, with rigid calm, she stated, “You encouraged me to use investors’ funds for the household.”

William John blinked, then frowned and met her eyes. “We had to live.”

The presence in the armchair opposite the sofa uncrossed his long, well-muscled legs.

The graceful and controlled movement immediately drew her eyes.

Rand had been waiting; he caught Miss Throgmorton’s gaze. “To clarify, Miss Throgmorton, the terms of our investment in your father’s work included a stipend for living expenses for your father and his assistant.” With a dip of his head, Rand indicated William John. “The arrangement also included funds for the upkeep of the laboratory-workshop and so on. Consequently, that the funds were used for household expenses isn’t an issue. I assure you neither I nor the investors I represent will be in any way concerned about that.”

It was, however, telling that she had known enough to be concerned. In this particular case, it didn’t matter; in many cases, it would have.

“However”—he transferred his gaze to her brother—“as William John has pointed out, the exhibition at which it was agreed that your father would demonstrate the success of his improved steam engine is now a mere three weeks away.” He met William John’s hazel eyes. “At this point, my principal concern—mine and that of the investors I represent—is whether the Throgmorton steam engine will be operational and fit to be unveiled at the exhibition as planned.”

So much was riding on that outcome; until now, he hadn’t realized how much—inside, he was still grappling with the full scope of the impending threat.

He kept his gaze steady on William John’s face—refusing to give in to the impulse to glance at Miss Throgmorton to see how she was coping with what had clearly been a painful revelation—and suggested, “Why don’t you outline for me where the invention stands at present?”

To any inventor, such a request was an invitation to be seized, and William John proved he was as single-minded as his father; he eagerly complied and rattled on. Several times, when his descriptions became too technical, Rand halted the flow and asked for clarification. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, any doubts that William John was his father’s son had been laid to rest.

Whether he could accomplish what his father had not managed to achieve prior to his death was another matter.

While William John related all he had done since their father’s death, Miss Throgmorton, Rand noticed, sat back in her chair and listened intently. Her mind did not wander; judging by the steady focus of her gaze, she was able to understand William John’s explanation, possibly as well as Rand could.

Eventually, William John reached the present. “So, you see, now that we’ve finally got the flow adjusted and the mechanisms properly aligned, it’s purely a matter of getting the controls correctly reset to allow for the increased power.” He grimaced. “That’s why the boiler blew. I still haven’t got the settings right.”

Miss Throgmorton made a disapproving sound. “That was the third boiler in as many weeks.”

William John shrugged. “The adjustments to the controls are...complicated. If they’re not correct, then the pressure in the boiler continues to increase, and if we can’t release it or shut down the engine quickly enough...” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Miss Throgmorton sniffed.

Rand studied the younger man. “I have a question.” The point was puzzling. “Your father died in January, yet I continued to receive reports on his—your—progress until the end of March. From what you’ve told me, those reports were accurate, yet they were in your father’s hand...” He realized. “But they weren’t, were they?”

William John shook his head. “I’ve been writing the reports for Papa for years. I just...continued.”

Rand nodded. “Very well. My last question. When your father died, why didn’t you inform me and the syndicate of his death?”

William John compressed his lips and stared levelly back at Rand.

Rand waited. He was grateful that Miss Throgmorton also remained silent.

Eventually, without shifting his gaze from Rand’s face, William John said, “I worked alongside Papa on this invention from its inception. From an inventor’s perspective, I have just as much invested in it as he. It was and still is my hope—my very real ambition—to complete the engine and take it to the exhibition. I knew that I would meet you and perhaps some of the other investors there. I thought I could explain what had happened then and, in so doing, establish myself as an inventor in my own right.” He glanced briefly at his sister, then looked back at Rand. “As my father’s heir invention-wise, so to speak.”

Rand knew that answer was the unvarnished truth. William John was like many inventors—incapable of guile, at least when it came to inventions and inventing. In that field, they spent so much time focused unrelentingly on facts that dissembling did not come easily; indeed, most saw any form of lie as a waste of time.