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PROLOGUE
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
March 1906
Late for work, Reginald Oren raced across the street, the cobblestones slick from the night’s rain. Dodging a horse and carriage, he jumped over a puddle, then ran toward a brick building that took up half a city block. He shrugged out of his overcoat, hung it on a hook just inside the door, and quietly entered a large workroom filled with a half dozen young men sitting at their desks, their attention focused on the office on the far side of the room. No one noticed that Reginald was late, and he took his seat, glancing toward the office’s open door, where Charles Rolls and Henry Royce, both dressed in dark suits, were talking to a policeman.
“That looks ominous,” Reginald said, glancing over at his cousin, Jonathon Payton, who sat at the desk next to his. “What did I miss?”
“It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“The forty-fifty prototype.”
“When?”
“Last night. They went there this morning to finish up the coachwork, and it was gone.”
Reginald leaned back in his chair as he looked around the room, then focused on the men in the office, imagining what this would do to the company. Rolls-Royce Limited had put all their money, and that of their investors, into this improved six-cylinder engine. Every last penny had gone into the design of that, as well as a chassis meant to withstand the harsh country roads. When the world seemed to laugh at them, saying it couldn’t be done, they’d persevered. And now, when they were on the verge of accomplishing the impossible . . .
Jonathon leaned toward him, lowering his voice. “Was Elizabeth pleased?”
“Pleased?” he said, unable to draw his gaze from the office. Reginald’s wife, Elizabeth, had taken their newborn son to visit her mother, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Jonathon would bring her up at a time like this. “About what?”
“About the pianoforte.”
A shame he couldn’t hear what they were discussing in there, and he finally turned toward his cousin, belatedly recalling last night’s conversation, when he’d solicited Jonathon’s assistance. “Undoubtedly, she will be. Meant to thank you for helping my friends and me move it, but you’d disappeared. One minute you were next to me, the next you were gone.”
“I guess I had a bit much. Not sure what happened.” He was quiet a moment, then whispered, “You won’t mention that to my father, will you?”
“Of course not.” Jonathon’s father, Viscount Wellswick, had raised both boys after Reginald’s parents died, though Reginald always suspected he’d have ended up in an orphanage if not for the intervention of Jonathon’s mother. Ironic, considering that she was the reason their fathers had been the bitterest of enemies. Reginald’s father had been in love with her, but her fortune was needed to restore the viscountcy, so she was wedded to Jonathon’s father instead. He often wondered if she regretted the marriage. Her husband, the Viscount, was frugal beyond belief, as well as a strict disciplinarian. He certainly wouldn’t have approved of either of them spending a night at one of the local taverns, drinking ale with the neighborhood residents. The Viscount was all about propriety. How it would look to his friends if his son and nephew stepped out of line. Appearances were everything, which was why Reginald and Jonathon were expected to oversee the running of the orphanage that bore the Viscount’s name. Jonathon, in line to be the next viscount and heir to the Payton estate, was expected to be there six days a week, usually stopping in after work. In Reginald’s mind, that was the one advantage of being the poor relation living under his uncle’s roof. He was only expected to volunteer his time at the orphanage twice a week. Of course, that was in addition to the six days a week both men spent working for Rolls-Royce.
There were no free rides in the Payton home, the old man thinking that working at a job each day built character. Had the Viscount discovered Reginald had led Payton astray, he’d likely toss Reginald, his wife, and their son out on the street. “Not to worry,” Reginald said, turning his attention back to the office. “Your secret of drunken debauchery is safe with me.”
Reginald watched the men talking in the office, the faces of the two owners, Rolls and Royce, looking drawn, the loss weighing on them. The stolen car, named the Gray Ghost for the col
or of the body and the quietness of the forty-fifty engine, had been kept a secret from all but their investors for fear that someone might try to steal their ideas. Apparently, it had never occurred to them that someone might steal the entire car. Payton’s father, the Viscount, had offered the family warehouse to store the car while they were fitting it with its custom coachwork, hoping to enter it into the Olympia Motor Show in just a few months. Reginald and Jonathon had discussed the idea that the vehicle would be more secure there, less likely to fall prey to anyone skulking around the factory, stealing plans. Jonathon, however, was the one who’d presented it. “Tough break, this happening on your watch, don’t you think?” Reginald said.
“Quite. I expect they’ll sack me for it.”
“Have they said anything to you?”
“No,” Payton whispered, his face paling as Mr. Rolls shook the officer’s hand, then escorted him out the door.
Mr. Royce stepped out after them, looked right at Jonathon. “Do you have a moment?”
“Right away, sir.” Jonathon Payton rose, not looking at his cousin as he walked toward the office.
“Close the door.”
“Yes, sir.” He shut the door behind him.
