A Passion For Pleasure Page 3

  Now he could no longer do that, even if his father hadn’t issued a command.

  Finding it difficult to draw in air, Sebastian headed through the adjoining room toward the gardens. Alexander would help him financially if he asked. But asking meant he would have to divulge more than he wanted. Asking would mean disrupting Alexander’s own life, now finally one of happiness and contentment. Asking would mean defying Rushton and forcing Alexander to do the same.

  Asking would mean eliciting his brother’s pity.

  Not for the first time, Sebastian experienced a pang of envy at the thought of his elder brother.

  Alexander fixed things. If he were in Sebastian’s position, he would force things back into place—by the strength of his will alone if there were no other method. He wouldn’t capitulate to their father’s wishes because he had no other choice.

  Then again, Rushton wouldn’t give Alexander an ultimatum of any kind. Since the scandal and divorce, Alexander’s successes had only illuminated Rushton’s failings as both a peer and a father. Now that Rushton’s new appointment as Undersecretary at the Home Office had garnered a degree of prestige among his fellow peers, he intended to ensure that the rest of his family fell into a straight and precise line right behind Alexander.

  Starting with Sebastian.

  Chapter Two

  She dreamed of him again. For two nights after seeing Sebastian Hall for the first time in a decade, Clara’s slumberous mind filled with images of the man she remembered from her past. The handsome young musician whose eyes creased with smiles, whose graceful hands flew across the piano keys like soaring birds. She dreamed of herself, so many years ago when she, William, and their mother had lived within the enchanted land of Wakefield House, when they had greedily seized those summer days like children grabbing cream-filled cakes.

  She dreamed of the grassy hills cresting around the warm, rustic stones of Wakefield House, the wildflowers popping up in fragrant clusters, the gliding foam of the sea as it surged forth to meet the sandstone cliffs hugging the coast.

  Sebastian Hall was inextricably woven into the fabric of those very memories because it was there, in Dorset, where Clara had first encountered him in all his vibrant, unruly glory. At balls and dinner parties, he’d enticed people with the beauty of his performances and the allure of his attention.

  She’d watched him from a distance, delighted by the way his charm seemed so genuine. He looked directly at people when he spoke to them. He listened. He laughed. He wore his prestige and talent like a cloak that had been bequeathed to him—not as if he deserved the honor but as if he knew he was fortunate to have received it.

  And when she woke from the secret warmth of such dreams, the ash-colored light of London spilling into her room, Clara remembered that in the past ten years, all of that had fallen away.

  For her. And now, it seemed, for him. But why? How?

  Her encounter with Sebastian in the Hanover Square rooms had kindled an intense curiosity to know the truth of what had happened to him. Now, with dreams still clinging to her like threads, that curiosity almost eclipsed her persistent ache of loss.

  Clara dressed quickly and splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it returning her to her senses. Nothing could divert her from her purpose, not even memories of a man who had once seemed the epitome of everything she wanted. Everything good and kind.

  She scrubbed a towel over her face and took a wooden box from her dressing table. She removed the lid and looked at the contents—a dozen satin ribbons jumbled together in a rainbow of colors.

  Red, yellow, blue, green. She dumped them onto the scarred table. The ribbons spilled into a heap like the tangled cobweb of a vivid, exotic spider.

  Clara rubbed the length of a red ribbon between her fingers, then a green one. Although she knew it wasn’t the case, she imagined that each ribbon felt different. The red ribbon was slippery and warm, the green smooth-textured like a new leaf, the yellow coarse like the rind of a lemon, the blue polished as a tissue-paper sky.

  As she stood looking at the ribbons, a threadlike sunbeam sliced through the fog and shone against the vibrant satin. More recent memories flashed through her. She pushed aside the dark ones in favor of happier thoughts of her boy with his chestnut hair and missing front tooth. When she thought of Andrew like this, she could almost believe she would one day hold him in her arms again and live within the folds of joy and safety.

  Clara tucked the ribbons back into the box and went downstairs. Tom had lit fires in the hearth and turned on the lamps in the drawing room, which served as the main exhibition room of Blake’s Museum of Automata. Years ago, her uncle had purchased the town house as both his residence and workshop, but when word of his creations began to grow, he opened the house to visitors.

  Dozens of his automata and mechanical toys were displayed on shelves, alongside various machine parts, wires, and tools that Clara was forever trying to contain. Since coming to live with her uncle over a year ago, she had tried to make the museum more of a profitable business, which meant turning the main rooms into exhibition spaces and trying to convince Uncle Granville to keep the mechanics in his workshop.

  She opened the curtains in the drawing room and parlor, admitting a watery grayish light. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with adjustable animals, painted musical boxes, novelty clocks with moving pictures, and mechanical performers and musicians. Clara straightened the objects, cleared away a tangle of wires her uncle had left on a table, and dusted the surfaces.

  “Mrs. Winter?”

  Clara left the room, schooling her features into a polite expression of cordiality. Mrs. Rosemary Fox stood in the foyer, which also served as the reception room for the museum. She pulled off her rain-speckled cloak, her tall figure slender and rigid as a tree branch.

  “Is it nine already?” Clara glanced at the clock, a bit disconcerted to think she’d lost track of time.

  “Only just.” Mrs. Fox rubbed her gloved hands together and shivered. Her skin was bleached of color, her sharp, elegant features pinched from the dreariness and cold. “I don’t expect we’ll receive many visitors in this weather.”

  “Mrs. Marshall hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll fetch you a pot of tea.”

  “There’s no need to bother.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if it was a bother.” Clara went to the kitchen while Mrs. Fox began straightening the papers and ledgers that covered the front desk.

  After brewing the tea, Clara found several currant buns and put them on the tray along with a cup and saucer. She brought it all to Mrs. Fox and placed it on the desk, where the other woman had stacked the museum’s admission receipts.

  “Any word from Mr. Blake?” Mrs. Fox poured her own tea and added sugar.

  “Yes, he’s expected to return tomorrow, thank goodness, so he’ll be at Lady Rossmore’s ball. It would be a great misfortune if we missed the opportunity to secure her patronage.”

  After seeing one of Granville’s mechanical toys on display at a gallery on Regent Street, Lady Rossmore had paid a visit to his Museum of Automata. She’d been utterly delighted with Granville’s creations and insisted that he create something entirely new and astonishing for debut at one of her famous balls in support of the Society of Musicians. Only after Clara had convinced him had Uncle Granville agreed to present Millicent, the Musical Lady, an automaton on which he had been working for months.

  “Lady Rossmore has already expressed interest in commissioning an automaton with dancing dolls,” Clara said.

  Mrs. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but her dark-lashed eyes flickered upward for an instant. “I believe it’s more important that Mr. Blake continues to work as he wishes, rather than be indebted to a patron.”

  “He won’t be able to work without patronage,” Clara replied, her voice tart. “We’ve several appointments next week to discuss special commissions, so it’s important that Uncle Granville be present.”

  “I’m certain Mr. Blake views
no other meeting as important as that of consoling and assisting Monsieur Dupree’s bereaved family.” Mrs. Fox held her teacup in both hands, as if attempting to warm her chilled fingers. Her eyes remained steady on Clara’s face.

  Clara stepped back. Shame curdled in her stomach. Of course, Rosemary Fox was right. Her uncle had remained close to Monsieur Dupree and his family in the twenty years since completing his apprenticeship. When Granville received word that his mentor and former teacher had died, he’d wasted no time in procuring a ticket to Paris.

  “Yes, well, he’ll return in time to conduct the demonstration, so that’s what matters,” Clara said. “I expect Millicent will garner a significant amount of attention from her ladyship’s guests as well.”

  “If you believe that is for the best, then I shall not argue,” Mrs. Fox murmured.

  Clara’s shoulders tightened with irritation. In the thirteen months since she had come to live with Uncle Granville, Clara had found that though Mrs. Fox was sometimes circumspect with her opinions, every flicker of her gaze, every nuance of her expression, carried a weight of meaning.

  Self-righteous meaning, Clara thought. Mrs. Fox possessed the air of a woman who had never done anything wrong in her life, who shaped herself to the world rather than expecting the world to accommodate her.

  Safe though it might be, how one actually accomplished anything with such a manner, Clara had not the faintest idea. Then again, Mrs. Fox likely had little reason to harbor fear so caustic it would forever scrape her throat like salt water.

  Feeling as if the scales of balance had tipped decisively in Rosemary Fox’s direction during this conversation, Clara nodded toward the array of ledgers and papers on the desk.

  “I’ve ordered new curtains for the front room. Please ensure the bill is listed in the museum accounts and not those of the household.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Fox nudged a stack of letters toward her. “The morning’s post, I believe.”

  Clara leafed through the stack. Her heart stuttered when she saw one stamped with the seal of her uncle’s solicitor. Clutching the letter in her fist, she hurried toward the music room.

  With shaking fingers, she tore open the letter.

  Dear Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter,

  We regret to inform you of the final ruling handed down 4 October 1854 by the Court of Chancery at Lincoln’s Inn Hall, Chancery Lane, regarding the ownership of Wakefield House, a property located at…

  Several neat rows of writing swept across the page, but individual phrases jumped out and stabbed one by one into Clara’s heart.

  Upheld conditions of the trust…possession of the house remains in the hands of Mrs. Clara Winter…prohibited from selling or bequeathing the house…

  Regret.

  Our deepest apologies.

  Final ruling.

  No further recourse.

  The letter fluttered from Clara’s limp fingers. She stared at a table piled high with layers of silk and tangled ribbons. For a moment, she was numb, trying to deflect the emotions converging upon her with the force of a battering ram.

  Wakefield House was the only point of advantage she had against her father, the only thing she possessed that Lord Fairfax wanted. The financial obligations of Manley Park, including a new studhorse and the cost of a new wing he’d added onto the house, as well as the mortgages of his other properties, had left him facing bankruptcy.

  If Wakefield House were transferred to his name, Fairfax could then sell it and use the funds to settle some of his debts. But the terms of the trust forbade Clara from either selling or signing over the property to anyone, which meant she could not offer it to her father with the proposal that he relinquish custody of Andrew in exchange.

  Now the courts had made the terms of the trust inviolable.

  Regret…apologies….regret…no further recourse…

  Clara’s heart was crushed like a piece of paper. Anguish roiled through her. The clock chimed. She clenched her hands as a gleaming image of her son rose through her despair.

  She had to think of another strategy to get him back. She had no other choice. There would never be another choice except to fight and fight and fight again.

  Her father’s soul had twisted long ago like tangled ivy choking the breath from a tree. And if Clara didn’t do something now, Fairfax’s grip would suffocate both her and her son.

  Sebastian stepped from the carriage in front of Blake’s Museum of Automata. He hadn’t expected that helping Darius locate the plans for some incomprehensible machine—plans purported to be at this museum—would mean an excuse to see Clara Whitmore again. That alone lent his task a new and welcome sense of purpose.

  Anticipation flickered to life in him as he thought of his encounter with her two nights prior. He couldn’t ask her outright about the machine plans that Darius sought, but perhaps he could convince her to reveal what she knew.

  If anything.

  Even if his efforts came to naught, the moment to approach her could not have been better—she knew him from her past, and he might see her again at Lady Rossmore’s ball. Like a cat seeking entry into a garden mouse hole, all he needed to do was paw at the opening until it widened just enough.

  A fence wrapped around the front garden of what appeared to be a former town house. Wrought-iron balconies and pedimented windows perforated the façade of the building, and a crooked metal sign hung on the fence proclaiming the museum’s hours.

  Sebastian knocked on the door and waited, hunching his shoulders against the cold morning drizzle. He knocked again, louder. He checked his pocket watch, then turned the door handle and stepped inside.

  A single light glowed in the foyer, illuminating a long desk covered with papers. The doors to what had once been the dining and drawing rooms stood open. Mechanical toys, boxes, and clock parts cluttered the tables and shelves along with an array of tools—saws, chisels, planes, hammers—and limbs of porcelain dolls and animals.

  Eerie place with its dismembered dolls, twisted bits of metal, and frayed wires. Dirty windows. Faded wallpaper, peeling paint. Musty smell, greenish brown like decaying moss.

  Not wanting to hear the sound of his own voice in the silence, Sebastian ventured farther. Another door stood open at the end of a corridor, spilling light onto the worn carpet. Placing his hand on the door, he pushed it open.

  And stopped. Sunlight bloomed through the vast windows of what must have once been the music room. Tables were strewn with brilliant fabrics—green silk, red velvet, blue satin. Ribbons and gold braid cascaded from their spools, spilling onto the floor in colorful puddles. Paintbrushes, wires, balls of thread, and pots of paint cluttered a shelf, along with feathers, flowers, bits of tulle and gauze, garlands.

  In the midst of this bright wonderland, Clara Whitmore sat, her dark head bent as she worked a needle through a piece of cloth. She wore a plain cotton dress protected by a white apron. Stripes of blue and red paint smeared the bodice. The coil of hair at the back of her head had loosened, streaming tendrils over her nape.

  Something crackled through Sebastian at the sight of her, an energy that made his spine straighten and his blood warm.

  He cleared his throat. She didn’t move.

  “Miss Whitmore?”

  She looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She put down her sewing and hurried around the table. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “I knocked.”

  “I didn’t hear. Mrs. Fox must have stepped out.” She stopped, as if suddenly aware who had entered. “Mr. Hall.”

  “Good morning, Miss Whitmore.” He glanced at her paint-covered apron. “New fashion, is it?”

  She gave him an odd look, as if he’d said something entirely stupid. Which he supposed he had.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he crushed a swell of embarrassment. He’d have to scrape the rust off his once-effortless charm, abandoned in recent months, if he intended to beguile this woman.

  “Winter,” she said.

  “I be
g your pardon?”

  “My surname is Winter.” Her jaw tensed. “I am Mrs. Clara Winter.”

  A stone sank in Sebastian’s stomach. “Ah. I apologize. I wasn’t aware.”

  “I am a widow, Mr. Hall. My husband passed away over a year ago.” Just as it had the other day when he asked about her father, a shutter closed over her features, rebuffing further query. She reached behind her to unfasten the ties of her apron. “Now how may I assist you?”

  Sebastian knew well enough not to press her. Not now, at least.

  “Have you word on your uncle’s return?” he asked.

  “I expect him back tomorrow.”

  If Sebastian had thought the lights of the Hanover Square building were responsible for the strange color of her eyes, he’d been mistaken. Sunlight exposed the truth of all appearances, and even now, Clara Winter’s eyes gleamed with violet and blue flecks.

  Then those unusual eyes flickered to look at his mouth…and lingered. Her intent perusal affected him with a tangible power, warming his skin like the caress of fingertips and making him want to feel that rich gaze sliding across the rest of his body.

  She lifted her eyes back to his. Faint color crested on her cheekbones, as if she’d done something she shouldn’t do. As if she’d thought something she shouldn’t think.

  Sebastian hoped she had. Certainly his goal would prove easier to attain if Mrs. Clara Winter were intrigued by him from the outset. Not to mention that he rather enjoyed her disconcerted reaction, the touch of heat in her eyes and the blush surging across her pale skin.

  Yet he also needed to ensure Clara was at ease in his presence. To deflect her embarrassment, he swept a hand behind him to encompass the house.

  “In your uncle’s absence, perhaps you would be good enough to provide me with a tour?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.” She placed her apron on a table and slipped past him to the corridor.

  Sebastian followed. Cold air swirled in from the foyer. Before him, Clara stopped at the sight of an older woman removing her cloak. She turned to look at Clara. As their gazes met, a tension brittle as spun sugar threaded the air.