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

It was Rand’s turn to stare. In his case, unseeing, while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head. Eventually, his accents clipped and curt, he stated, as much for himself as anyone else, “William Throgmorton is dead.”

It wasn’t a question, and no one replied.

Rand blinked and refocused on William John. “In January?” Despite his hold on his temper, incensed incredulity underscored his words.

Helplessly, William John stared back.

From the corner of his eye, Rand saw Miss Throgmorton, her gaze fixed on her brother, her expression close to an open accusation, confirm that telling detail with a decisive nod.

Rand returned his attention to the pale and blinking William John. If William Throgmorton was dead, then presumably William John was his heir—legally and financially. The question burning in Rand’s brain was whether William John was his father’s successor intellectually as well.

If he was, then...

There might—just possibly—be a way out of the fire William Throgmorton’s death, his son’s failure to tell Rand of it, and the rapidly approaching exhibition in Birmingham had landed Rand in.

The three of them remained staring at each other, weighing each other up in various ways. Then Rand drew in a long, deep breath and looked past the open door. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone crisp and rigidly even, “assuming it’s safe, we might take the discussion of our dilemma—the business arrangement my investment syndicate had with your father—inside.”

The virago glanced into the hall, then looked out at the staff and called, “All’s clear.” Then she glanced at Rand; he was perfectly certain he saw wariness in her eyes. “If you will follow me, my lord.”

She led the way inside.

With an awkward wave, William John gestured for Rand to precede him.

As Rand crossed the threshold into the well-appointed front hall and the telltale scent of overheated metal reached him, he counseled himself that his first step in sorting out this mess had to be to learn all he could about the true situation at Throgmorton Hall.

“The boiler exploded, you see.” Trailing behind Rand, William John apparently thought that part of his explanation was the most critical.

Following Miss Throgmorton across the hall tiles toward the door of what Rand assumed would be the drawing room, he glanced back to see William John deviating toward a plain wooden door—the sort usually found at the bottom of tower steps—that was set into the wall to the right of the front door and presently stood ajar.

Rand halted. Beyond the door, he glimpsed stone steps spiraling down. The metallic scent was emanating from there.

“Oh no.” Miss Throgmorton brushed past him. “You are not disappearing down there.” She clamped her hands about her brother’s arm and forcibly dragged him away from the partially open door. “The drawing room, William John.” Her tone was stern. She didn’t look at Rand as she towed her brother past him. “You need to explain what’s happened to Lord Cavanaugh.” She uttered a small humph. “I’d like to hear your version of that as well.”

Rand felt his brows rise. He fell in behind the Throgmorton siblings, inwardly reflecting that the next hour was bidding fair to being significantly more fraught than he’d anticipated.

The drawing room possessed a similar ambiance to the front hall—well lit, comfortable, and unostentatious. Unfussy, yet feminine—or at least bearing the imprint of some female hand. The armchairs and long sofa were well stuffed and covered in flowery chintz. The walls were a very pale green, and the white painted woodwork gleamed. Long windows opened onto a flagstone terrace that overlooked the long south lawn and allowed slanting summer sunlight to illuminate the room.

Miss Throgmorton all but pushed her brother down to sit on the sofa, then moved to claim one of the chintz-covered armchairs—the one that faced the door. With a wave significantly more graceful than her brother’s, she invited Rand to take the armchair that faced the sofa across a low table.

Rand sat, strangely aware that he was dressed informally, wearing breeches, riding jacket, and top boots, rather than his customary trousers and well-cut coat. Why the thought popped into his mind, he had no idea. As matters stood, he had far more to worry about than the figure he cut in the Throgmortons’ eyes, and he seriously doubted William John would notice.

He focused on the younger man. He judged William John to be in his mid-twenties. Having siblings of his own, after watching the interaction between brother and sister, he would wager Miss Throgmorton was about a year younger than her transparently exasperating brother.

At present, William John was sitting upright, with his hands clasped between his knees and a slight frown on his face. His gaze was fixed on his hands.

After taking in that sight, Miss Throgmorton cleared her throat and glanced at Rand. “I apprehend you had business dealings with my father, my lord. If you would explain what those were, perhaps we might”—she gestured vaguely and rather weakly concluded—“be able to assist you.”

Rand studied her for a moment, then looked at William John. “I suspect your brother knows very well what my dealings with your father were, Miss Throgmorton. William John—it might be easier for us all if I use that name—certainly recognized my name.”

William John raised his eyes, met Rand’s, then grimaced. He looked at Miss Throgmorton. “Lord Cavanaugh is the principal investor in the syndicate that funded Papa’s steam engine.”

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.