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

Rand nodded and pushed out of the armchair. “That sounds an excellent place to start.”

He glanced at Miss Throgmorton. A faint frown on her face, she was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the low table. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up, and he caught her green eyes. He inclined his head. “Until later, Miss Throgmorton.”

She dipped her head in reply. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’ll have a room prepared for you.” To her brother, she added, “I’ll see you both at dinner.”

William John waved vaguely and headed for the door.

Rand followed and wondered just what he’d let himself in for.

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?”