Felicia watched as Mayhew attached the paper to the board of the easel with pins, then he searched in the satchel again and drew out three pencils. He set the pencils on the tray of the easel and bent to prop the satchel against the easel’s rear leg.
Then he unfolded his stool and set it before the easel.
Puzzled, Felicia said, “I thought you used ink as well as pencil.”
Mayhew flashed her a smile. “I do. But I add the ink later, at a desk. I can get all the detail I need down with pencil, then later, I pick out the strongest lines with ink to complete the sketch.” His expression turned faintly awkward. “Do excuse me if I sit.”
Felicia waved him to his stool. “Of course.” She watched him settle, then asked, “Do you mind if I watch?”
He was already assessing his subject, but in reply, he threw her a vague smile. “By all means.” He looked back at the house. “Some of my brethren dislike anyone near when they work, but as I often sketch in busy streets, I long ago lost all such sensitivity.”
“Ah—of course.” Felicia surveyed the thick grass; courtesy of the warm day, it was dry. She’d draped an old shawl over her elbows in the hope she could remain. She shook out the shawl, spread it on the sward to the side and a little back from Mayhew’s stool, then sat. From her position, she could see his sketch as it came into being. She also had a clear view of his profile.
She bided her time as with swift, sure strokes he laid in the initial lines of his creation. It was pleasant in the shade, with the distant sounds of Reilly snipping canes in the kitchen garden and the occasional clop of hooves and jingle of harness from the stable overlaid by the twittering calls of birds flitting in the woods at her back.
After a time, Mayhew sat back, his gaze rising, then dipping as he compared his rendering with the reality before him, then he set down the pencil he’d used to that point and picked up another.
“Can you talk while you work?” she murmured.
“Hmm? Oh—yes. To a point. If I get caught by a difficult section, I might forget to listen, but in general”—he shot her a swift glance, one that invited her to laugh with him at himself—“I can manage well enough. So if you have questions, by all means, ask away. It’s not often I get to sketch with a delightful lady looking on.”
She suspected he meant questions about his sketching. Her expression relaxed, faintly smiling, she asked, “Did you train to be an artist, or is this a natural talent?”
“Very much a natural talent. My family would have had a fit if I’d set out to be an artist.”
“So what did you set out to be?”
“An idle gentleman, like the majority of my peers.”
“And what changed that?”
“You might say my art called to me. Being idle, I was ripe for distraction, and this—sketching—became my chosen vice.”
“Do you live in London, then?”
“I have lodgings there—nothing salubrious, being a younger son and all.”
“What of your family? Are they in London, too?”
He paused for a moment, but Felicia judged that to be more because he was paying a great deal of attention to the perspective between the house and the stable. Sure enough, a moment later, he straightened on his stool, and his pencil moved on to the shrubbery, and he murmured, “What was that? Ah yes. My parents. They now spend their days at home in Sussex. My brother and sisters are scattered about London. They spend more time in tonnish circles than I do.” Smiling, he glanced her way. “Us bachelors tend to lurk on the fringes, but I’ve been known to be hauled to a ball or two by my sisters or sister-in-law.”
Felicia smiled and continued her questioning, apparently lighthearted and inconsequential, yet his answers were painting a picture of him that she recognized from her year in London. The Clive Mayhews of the ton, the idle, drifting younger sons, were personable, charming, with unexceptionable manners—the sort of gentlemen chaperons approved of as escorts to the theatre and the opera and to the occasional ball, but unless love struck, they were never going to be regarded as eligible parti. They were innocuous stand-ins, safe arms on which a young lady could lean.
Other idle younger sons might be a great deal more dangerous, but those like Mayhew constituted no threat.
Felicia realized that was what lay behind her continuing vacillation over casting Mayhew as their current villain. While, logically, she accepted she had to suspect him and continue to be on her guard, when she was with him, his character and personality were such strong reminders of the sort of man he was, she found it difficult to view him as any sort of threat.
Indeed, at no time had she sensed that he posed any danger to her. Her antennae had been well honed during her year in London; she knew beyond question that no matter how attentive and charming Mayhew might be, he had absolutely no designs on her.
As his sketch took shape and the answers to her questions took longer to come, and sometimes didn’t come at all, it became crystal clear that the one thing Clive Mayhew was extremely serious about was his art.
Wryly smiling to herself, Felicia couldn’t help thinking that, when it came to interacting with them, an artist was no different from an inventor.
* * *
By the time the first sketch was done—or, as Mayhew explained, done to the point of being ready for the application of ink—it was time for afternoon tea.
Apparently having decided that the cool shade beneath the oak was too tempting, Flora came drifting over the lawn, with Joe and Martin lugging the wrought-iron table behind her.
Johnson followed with a chair. In short order, the footmen returned with two more chairs, and Johnson carried out the tea tray.
Once they were settled about the table and Flora had poured cups of tea, Mayhew showed Flora his sketch. “It’s the first—I’ll essay another after tea. The second attempt is usually better.”
“Dear me!” Flora studied the sketch, then swiveled on her chair to stare at the house. “You’ve quite captured it. It’s a remarkable likeness.”
“Thank you.” Mayhew sipped his tea and watched while Felicia took the sketch from Flora and studied it.
As with the other sketches of his she’d seen, he’d not just depicted the house and, with simple lines, somehow conveyed the gardens and grounds, he’d also managed to capture a feeling of the place—its inherent atmosphere. She raised her gaze, met Mayhew’s eyes, and handed the sketch back to him. “I feel quite honored to have been able to watch as you created it. Thank you for permitting that.”
Mayhew took the sketch and inclined his head gracefully. “Thank you for permitting me to sketch here. It truly is my pleasure.”
“Is there any chance of us getting a copy of your best sketch once it’s published?” she asked.
Mayhew arched his brows. “I should be able to get you one of the first-run prints. The final sketch itself is the property of the paper, but they allow me a few prints for my own collection.”
“If we could have a copy to hang here, dear Mr. Mayhew, that would be lovely.” Flora looked thoroughly pleased; Felicia could imagine Flora sharing that news with her far-flung correspondents.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mayhew returned with a smile.
While he drew out his spool-like contraption and carefully added the sketch to the sheets already on the roll, Felicia reflected that there really wasn’t any reason—any fact, any tiny incident, or even a word said—to suggest that Mayhew was in any way linked to the attack on the engine.
That morning, Rand’s man, Shields, and Struthers had gone into the village and discreetly inquired about any strangers seen in the area. Struthers knew who to ask. But other than Mayhew, there’d been no one sighted even riding through.
Of course, as Rand had pointed out, there were many small villages and hamlets within a few miles—lots of places a stranger might be lurking. Impossible to search
them all.
Yet no matter how she tried, she couldn’t imagine Mayhew as the man she’d seen fleeing into the woods last night.
Telling herself that continuing to suspect him was futile, she relaxed, smiled, and chatted.
They finished their tea. Mayhew rose and prettily thanked both Felicia and Flora for their hospitality—a subtle hint that he wished to return to his sketching.
When, laughing, Flora tasked him with that, Mayhew looked sheepish. “The light will only last for so long, and”—he turned to view the house—“you must admit the lines are particularly sharp at the moment.”
Now that he’d pointed it out, Felicia could see what he meant. The westering sun lit the front façade and left every line of the house sharp and stark. She could appreciate why Mayhew had chosen this position from which to sketch...which itself suggested that the sketch was his reason for visiting the Hall. If he’d wanted to sketch the house from the rear, from where he could see the workshop doors... Instead, he’d shown absolutely no interest in them.
The table had been placed to the side of where Mayhew had elected to site his easel; they could leave the table and chairs as they were without interfering with his view. Smiling, increasingly at ease with Mayhew—the artist who patently was just an artist—Felicia rose as Flora pushed to her feet.
“In that case,” Flora said, “we’ll leave you to your sketching, Mr. Mayhew. Do drop by if you find yourself in the neighborhood again.”
“Thank you.” Mayhew hesitated, then said, “Actually, I’ve been so greatly taken with the scenery hereabouts—it’s particularly well-suited to my style—that I’ve been thinking of taking a short holiday and remaining in the district to work on more sketches, entirely for myself.”
Felicia blinked as alarms jangled in her brain.
“How lovely!” Flora replied. “It really is a very pleasant region of the country.”
“Indeed.” Mayhew glanced at Felicia, meeting her gaze. “I was wondering, Miss Throgmorton, given that I will be remaining in the area, if you would be agreeable to me calling on you sometime—purely a social call?”
What? Her gaze on Mayhew’s perfectly serious face, for the first time in years, Felicia felt flustered. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, yet no matter how she stared, she couldn’t see—couldn’t sense at any level—that Mayhew was attracted to her.
So why was he asking leave to call?
Her own words from that morning echoed in her head. Of course, once Mayhew completes his sketch, there’ll be no reason for him to return.
Assuming he was innocent of having designs on the engine had been her rationale.
Her suspicions of Mayhew came roaring back.
Before she’d gathered her wits enough to form any reply, Flora, smiling benevolently, declared, “Of course we’d be delighted to see you, sir, whenever you are free to call.”
Mayhew shot a questioning look at Felicia.
She’d rallied by then and managed a creditably gracious smile. “You’ll be very welcome, sir.” What else could she say?
Mayhew bowed elegantly. “Thank you, ladies. For now, I wish you a pleasant afternoon and evening.”
With Flora, Felicia took her leave of Mayhew.
Flora linked her arm with Felicia’s as they strolled slowly across the lawn toward the open front door. Knowing full well that Flora didn’t need the support, once they were out of Mayhew’s hearing, Felicia arched a brow at her chaperon.
Flora smiled. “Petunia told me about your suspicions of Mayhew.” Petunia was the lady’s maid Felicia and Flora shared. “I’ve been living here since your mother died, and I’ve learned enough of the way things are regarding inventions to comprehend the situation. Given Mayhew asked to call again...well, my dear, let’s just say that I believe in that old adage about keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer.”
Such words coming from the soft and matronly Flora made Felicia want to laugh; if the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have. Instead, as they neared the forecourt, she patted Flora’s arm. “I believe I agree with you on that.”
* * *
Rand stood with his back against the bole of an ancient beech and watched Felicia and Flora retreat into the house.
He’d been in position for the past several hours; Johnson had tipped him off after Mayhew and Felicia had walked onto the lawn. Rand had left the workshop via the rear doors, stridden around to the stable, and slipped into the woods beyond, then he’d worked his way around under the cover of the trees until he’d found this spot; situated just inside the edge of the woods directly behind Mayhew’s back as he sat before his easel, the tall beech had branches that draped nearly to the ground. Being in full summer leaf, the dipping branches effectively screened Rand while allowing him to study Mayhew.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t close enough to have eavesdropped on the conversations between Mayhew and Felicia, and, later, Flora. He’d had to try to guess what was being said from expressions and gestures, and through most of it, Felicia had had her back to him.
Rand debated showing himself—debated what benefits or problems might accrue.
He wasn’t close enough to see the details of Mayhew’s work, but after the ladies had left him, Mayhew had fixed a fresh sheet of paper to his easel and was swiftly and efficiently sketching, to all appearances deeply immersed in his work.
Rand had to admit that even now, when he couldn’t know he was under observation, Mayhew still looked and behaved as an artist would.
That tipped the scales toward the possibility that Mayhew was, in fact, simply an artist. If so, then there was some other man lurking with intent to destroy the engine.
Rand frowned, possibilities, conjecture, and speculation whirling in his brain.
Minutes ticked by. Mayhew’s hand worked at speed, rapidly covering the paper with what, from Rand’s position, appeared to be scribbles in shades of gray. Comparing what was taking shape with the earlier sketch, Rand suspected Mayhew would finish soon.
Making up his mind, Rand pushed away from the tree and quit the safety of its draping canopy. Silently, he worked his way to the right—Mayhew’s blind side as he looked from the house to his sketch. Eventually emerging onto the lawn, Rand settled his coat, then, as if he’d been taking a constitutional on the south lawn, strolled toward Mayhew.
Mayhew was so engrossed, he didn’t see or sense Rand until he halted a mere yard away.
Mayhew looked up with a start. “Ah.” He blinked, then inclined his head. “Good afternoon.” Mayhew gestured with his pencil. “I’ve permission to sketch the house.”
Rand nodded. “Felicia—Miss Throgmorton—mentioned you would be by. Mayhew, isn’t it?” Rand offered his hand. “I’m Lord Randolph.”
It was useful to have a first name that could be taken for a surname.
Mayhew rose, transferred his pencil to his other hand, and gripped Rand’s. As their hands parted and Mayhew subsided onto his stool, he asked, “You’re a neighbor?”
Rand shifted to study Mayhew’s sketch. “I’m a friend of the family. I’m visiting for a few days before I head home.”
“I see.” Mayhew waited, but when Rand said nothing more, Mayhew raised his pencil and continued sketching.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Rand considered the sketch and inwardly frowned. He did, in fact, know several artists. One of Mary’s connections was the famous portraitist Gerrard Debbington. Through attending several exhibitions of Debbington’s works, Rand had met other artists; it was becoming fashionable, once again, to be the patron of a talented artist.
Mayhew was talented. Rand had learned enough of art to appreciate that. There was something in the way he laid down lines that was insightful, that drew the observer into the picture.
Mayhew’s sketch was just lines on paper, yet it conveyed much more.
Ran
d’s inner conviction that Mayhew was behind the attack on the workshop wavered.
His hands sunk in his pockets, Rand shifted, then said, “You’re exceptionally good.”
Mayhew glanced briefly his way. A smile touched his lips. “Thank you.” After a second in which he added two fine lines, he murmured, “Grudgingly given praise is often the most satisfying.”
Rand laughed—he couldn’t help it. “That’s...very true.” He chuckled and inclined his head. “Touché, Mr. Mayhew.”
Oh, this was not good. Rand sternly told himself he didn’t want to like Mayhew. He still thought the artist turning up at just that time, his glimpse of a man lurking, and the attempted break-in was too much coincidence to swallow.
Returning to his purpose, he took advantage of Mayhew’s breaking the ice to further his knowledge of the man via the usual information men such as they might exchange during just such an impromptu meeting. They spoke of London, of clubs and hells, of the theatre and the latest generally known scandals. Mayhew knew his way about London and was also well acquainted with Fleet Street and the newspaper offices, as well as with the City—although whether his knowledge of the Bank of England and other such buildings was because of his use of their facilities or because he’d sketched them, Rand wasn’t sure.
Somewhat to Rand’s consternation, Mayhew responded to all his queries—the subtle probes as well as the outright questions—with easy candor and with answers that painted him as precisely who he purported to be, namely, the younger son of an established family who had taken to sketching to supplement his income and make his mark.
There was absolutely nothing Mayhew let fall that supported the thesis that he was an agent of some inventor or investor intent on sabotaging the Throgmorton steam engine.
Of course, as Rand well knew, the ton had no shortage of accomplished liars.
Finally, Mayhew rose from his stool, pushed it aside, and stepped back from his easel. After a moment of comparing the sketch with the house, he nodded. “That’s it.” Gathering his pencils in one hand, Mayhew reached around the easel for his satchel. He glanced up at Rand. Seeing the slight frown on Rand’s face, he said, “This is the second sketch I’ve done. The light’s going, but I’ve got all I need to be able to complete the inking at the inn. They have a room under the eaves that has lovely light—perfect for the work.”