“When Darius told us the true reason for his return to London, I attempted to convince Sebastian to agree to meet you,” Clara admitted. “Although I know very little about what happened, I do believe he should not deny you the opportunity to explain.”
Clara realized that her wish extended beyond the fact that Catherine was Sebastian’s mother. Clara herself knew well what it felt like to have one’s efforts at reconciliation thwarted, and she did not want that pain for Catherine Leskovna. Questionable though Catherine’s choices might have been, her feelings for her children were genuine.
“I am extraordinarily grateful to you, then.” Catherine set down her teacup and rose. Such calm infused her gestures, even the air around her. Despite the turmoil Catherine Leskovna had both caused and sustained, she appeared unrepentant, as if something had soothed the sting of her deceit.
Clara wondered what it was. And she wondered if she would ever know that kind of peace following the storms that had battered her over the past year.
Catherine approached to take Clara’s hand. A kind smile curved her lips. “Darius believes you are a good match for Sebastian. I must say I agree with him. Your mother would be proud of you.”
“Thank you.” Clara tightened her hand on the other woman’s. Her mother would not have censured Catherine without having known the truth of the rumors, and so Clara would not either. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
Catherine smiled. “I do know.”
Sebastian pushed his right hand into his pocket and watched his father clip dead leaves from a plant. The humid, musty air of the greenhouse filled his nose with the smells of damp soil and moss. Flowers flourished throughout the glass-encased house—asters, roses, lilacs. Only here among his plants did Rushton ever seem relaxed, at his ease. Elsewhere, the earl still wore an air of caution, as if he knew the restoration of his family’s standing remained somewhat fragile.
“Bastian, stir the soil in those pots, would you?” Rushton nodded toward a row of Botany Bay plants lined up on a shelf. “Just the surface. And open the window sashes to let some air in.”
Sebastian picked up a trowel and proceeded to dig into the pots. For a few moments, they worked in silence before Rushton set down his clippers and wiped his hands on his apron.
“She’s not what I’d expected,” he finally said, “but she is suitable enough and appears to be very well mannered.”
Sebastian almost smiled.
“She is suitable indeed,” he agreed.
Rushton picked up a water syringe and began misting the plants. “I understand her father is visiting town. Thought I would invite him to dine one evening.”
Sebastian turned away so Rushton wouldn’t see the tightening of his expression. Two days hence, he and Clara would approach Fairfax with the completed proposition about Wakefield House. Then they would know if she would finally have Andrew back.
“I’ve explained that Clara and her father are estranged,” he told his father.
“Still, it would be in good form if I were to introduce myself to Fairfax. And bring Mrs. Hall for tea one day soon,” Rushton suggested. “Her uncle, too. I’d be interested to speak with him more about his rather unusual creations.”
“I’m certain he would be pleased to accept.”
“You ought to tell Darius about his inventions as well.” Rushton began putting the tools away. “Have you written to him and Alexander with the news of your marriage?”
“I intend to do so later this week.” The lie stuck in his throat, for he could not tell Alexander anything until he had settled the matter of Clara’s son.
And he knew Darius had not told their father he was back in London. The secrecy of his brother’s presence, not to mention that of the former countess, continued to poke at Sebastian like a thorn. Hadn’t their family harbored enough secrets in recent years?
Sebastian completed the task Rushton had given him, then left to return to the Mount Street town house. He removed his greatcoat and hat before entering the drawing room, where Clara and Darius sat conversing.
Sebastian let his gaze wander over his wife, appreciating the curves beneath her dark green dress, the coils of hair spilling around her neck, the warmth in her eyes as she rose to greet him. A mixture of tenderness and unease churned through him.
“I was just telling Mrs. Hall I regret not having attended your wedding,” Darius said. “But owing to the circumstances…”
“What are you doing here?”
The abruptness of the question didn’t appear to offend his brother. Darius settled back into his chair, a grave expression steadying across his face.
“Catherine Leskovna leaves at the end of the month.” Darius folded one leg over the other and studied the brandy in his glass as if it were a specimen under a microscope. “I’d suggest you pay her a visit before she pays you one.”
“She wouldn’t dare.”
“She might. She just wants to speak with you, Bastian. What harm is there in that?”
Sebastian felt Clara’s gaze as if she were touching him, felt her silent urging. Although he knew it would be his doom, he turned his head to meet her violet eyes.
Dammit.
He shot his brother a pointed look. Darius pushed himself to standing and murmured a farewell to Clara before seeing himself out.
“Please don’t deny her this,” Clara said the moment the door closed.
“You know nothing about her.”
“She came to see me this afternoon.”
Sebastian’s spine stiffened with wariness. “What?”
“She wanted to learn the details of our marriage. She also knows of my father’s reputation for cruelty. While I revealed nothing about your resignation from Weimar, I did tell her the circumstances that led to my estrangement from Fairfax.”
“She doesn’t deserve to know anything.”
“She is still your mother,” Clara said. “Whatever she’s done, you cannot deny her the opportunity to see her son again.”
“After what she did, I can deny her anything,” Sebastian snapped.
Clara studied him a moment, then approached and curled her hand around the lapel of his coat. “You’re not the slightest bit curious to hear what she would say to you? Are there no questions you wish to ask her? Nothing you want to tell her?”
Sebastian’s heart pulsed against his rib cage. For almost three years, questions had amassed in his mind until his head ached with them. And beneath it all lay the pervasive memory of listening to his mother play the piano and knowing he was the only one of his family who understood how music could soothe all the rough edges of one’s life. The only one who understood, somehow, that his mother’s seemingly flawless life might actually
have
rough edges.
He had tried to rid himself of that memory, not wanting to remember anything that would soften his anger toward her, but still it remained, like fresh grass buried beneath layers of hard winter ice.
“You know I would give anything to see my son again,” Clara said. “I cannot believe your mother doesn’t feel the same way. And trust me when I tell you that you will regret it if you do not grant her a meeting before she leaves London. What if you’re never given an opportunity again?”
Sebastian tried to smother the anger roiling in his chest. He wrapped a lock of her long hair around his finger. “If I agree to meet her, what will you give me?”
Startled, Clara drew back to look up at him. “What will I give you?”
“Mmm.” He rubbed his thumb along the soft strands of hair. “You devised all the arrangements for our marriage. I’d help you transfer Wakefield House if you helped me find the cipher machine plans. So if I agree to see my mother, what boon will you grant me in return?”
“You…” Her breath shortened, her violet eyes darkening. “You insisted upon your own conditions to our agreement. Do you not recall?”
“Oh, I recall.” He wished now he’d insisted on a few more conditions. Creative ones. “This, however, is a new request that requires new conditions.”
Clara frowned. “You are trying to divert my attention from the subject at hand.”
“Is it working?”
“Sebastian.” Clara lifted a hand to cover his. Though her voice was stern, a smile twitched her lips. “You know I will give you anything you wish in return. But please don’t make a decision based on that. Make a decision based on what your heart tells you to do.”
“That was not how you made your decision to propose,” Sebastian reminded her.
Clara looked at him, her gaze skimming across his face, her fingers tightening on his.
“Oh yes,” she whispered. “It was.”
His heart thumped.
“It seems to me that you have experienced enough regrets in recent months,” she said. “I do not wish for you to endure more of them.”
Neither did he. He’d had so few regrets in his life prior to the difficulty with his hand, simply because he’d always done as he pleased. He’d made a career of doing the very thing he loved to do.
He sighed and looked at Clara, her eyes filled with wary hope. He hated the idea of being the source of yet another disappointment for her. He flexed his right hand and tried to imagine seeing his mother again. A mixture of doubt and, surprisingly, anticipation rose in him.
“All right,” he finally said. “I will pay my mother a visit.”
A
ndrew is out with his tutor today.” Clara gripped the curtain in her fist as she stared out the window at Fairfax’s town house. The day following her wedding, she had sent her father a note requesting an interview. He had agreed to see her at precisely three o’clock on Tuesday, and now all the events of the past three days—the wedding, Sebastian’s admission of love, Catherine Leskovna’s visit, and now this meeting—collided in Clara’s mind like crashing stones.
Fear shuddered through her. “I suspect my father wouldn’t have agreed to see us if Andrew were at home. Especially not after—”
Sebastian settled his large hand on the back of her neck, stopping her words. “It’s done,” he said. “We have what he wants. All he needs to do is agree and sign the papers.”
Not wanting to risk granting the baron any time to rethink his decision, Sebastian had had his brother’s solicitor draw up the papers for the transfer of Wakefield House to Fairfax’s name. Even if Fairfax agreed to the terms, Clara knew her father wouldn’t sign the contract without his own solicitor’s review, but at least they could shorten the duration of the transaction.
Sebastian tucked the file of papers beneath his arm and stepped from the carriage. He helped Clara descend, holding her trembling hand in his as they approached the town house and rang the bell.
The gray-haired butler Davies admitted them, rigid as a stone column, his gaze cold as it skirted over Clara. No light of recognition flashed over his impassive features, even though he had known Clara since she was a child and had always treated her with kind respect.
Sorrow congealed in Clara’s throat. “Hello, Davies.”
“Mrs.…Hall. Your father awaits.”
Apprehension shuddered through her as she saw the half-open door of Fairfax’s study, a triangle of light edging from the room. Davies divested Sebastian of his greatcoat and Clara of her cloak before preceding them down the corridor.
Her father stood beside the hearth, his lean frame sheathed in a black morning coat and gray waistcoat, his white hair furrowed with comb marks. Like a tree in winter, stark and unyielding.
Clara smothered the urge to remain within the comfort of Sebastian’s presence. She made a quick gesture indicating he should remain by the door. Though protest vibrated from him, he came to a stop.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs as she forced herself to take measured steps across the carpet. Never had a room felt so vast, so cavernous, as she made her way to where her father stood. Sweat collected on her nape when she finally halted and lifted her head to meet his cool, gray eyes.
“My lord.” Her voice shook. She swallowed and tried to conceal the shades of panic coloring her words. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I beg your forgiveness for my rash and imprudent behavior earlier this month.”
Fairfax didn’t reply. He slanted his gaze to Sebastian. “You, there. What did you hope to gain by marrying her?”
“A good wife.” Sebastian’s deep voice rang close behind Clara. Relief rippled through her at his nearness, despite her mandate that he remain by the door.
“Mr. Hall did us both a great service with this union,” Clara said. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine as she continued to hold her father’s flinty gaze. “The day we wed, Wakefield House transferred into his name.”
Satisfaction clenched in her as a flash of surprise glinted in Fairfax’s expression. Papers rustled. Sebastian placed the contract on the low table between them.
“What is that?” Fairfax jerked his chin to the papers.
“A contract granting you ownership of Wakefield House and the surrounding property,” Clara said, “if you will release custody of Andrew to me.”
She took an involuntary step back, as if the proposal would ignite a bolt of fury in her father, but Fairfax didn’t move. An eerie calm collected around him, like a coat perfectly tailored to his form.
“That is the reason you married him,” he said.
Clara nodded, finding no purpose in lying. “You’ve been attempting to gain ownership of Wakefield House for months,” she reminded her father. “I would have given it to you the day I left Manley Park, had the courts allowed it. But now I can give it to you through Mr. Hall. I’m certain your solicitor will find the papers entirely in order.”
When her father didn’t respond, Clara pressed on with a growing sense of desperation. “My lord, it’s worth a substantial sum, even with the house in disrepair. I’m certain the proceeds from a sale would go a long way toward assuaging any financial difficulties you may—”
“Do shut up, Clara.” Fairfax flicked open a silver box seated on the mantel. He pressed tobacco into a curved, fluted pipe of polished teak, then used the tongs to extract a burning twig from the fire. Smoke billowed from the cup of the pipe as he puffed.
He squinted at Sebastian through the haze. “Your father is Lord Rushton.”
“Benjamin Hall, the Earl of Rushton. Yes.”
An arrow of tension lanced through Sebastian’s tall frame, tightening his shoulders and stirring Clara’s unease. She moved closer to him, appearances be damned, and watched her father warily.
Fairfax drew on his pipe again and released the smoke on a long exhale. “And you both think
this
”—he flicked the contract with blunt fingers—“is enough for me to surrender custody of my grandson?”
Clara’s heart plummeted. “But you…you’ve been wanting Wakefield House for months and now…”
“Oh, I’ll accept Wakefield House. Sell it to the first hapless buyer who offers enough. But Andrew is worth so much more than a decrepit old house, isn’t he, Clara?”
Sebastian’s tension crystallized into anger, lacing him with fury. He closed the distance between himself and Fairfax, and for a heart-stopping instant Clara thought surely he would strike her father.
No. Anger vivid but leashed, Sebastian glared down at Fairfax. “How much more do you want?”
“More than you have, my boy.”
Clara gasped. Still Sebastian did not lash out, though a visible current of rage vibrated through him. Fairfax puffed on the pipe and met Clara’s gaze over her husband’s shoulder.
“I commend your efforts, my dear. But Andrew will remain within my custody, as I refuse to jeopardize his safety in your presence. You will not see your son again.”
Clara started to shake. Her father’s final remark opened a wide, black pit inside her that she dared not face for fear she would fall into the endless darkness.
“There…there is nothing that will change your mind?” she asked, her voice weakening under the onslaught of suppressed emotions.
“I am not doing this to be cruel, Clara,” Fairfax said. “Andrew has been in a prolonged state of shock since his father’s death. I am sending him to an institution where he can receive proper treatment.”
“A…an institution? Why—” Clara’s voice broke as she recalled Lord Margrave telling her that Andrew hadn’t been “well” during his visit to Manley Park.
“The institution is in Switzerland, near Interlaken,” Fairfax continued. “I have corresponded with a Swiss physician who has studied afflictions of children, and agreed to work with Andrew. The institution has wards dedicated to children’s care. I’m certain Andrew will receive the help he needs there.”
“What kind of help does he need?” Clara cried, her spine so tight it felt like it would break in two. “Why do you want to send him to a physician? What is wrong with him?”
Fairfax slanted Sebastian a glance. “Please take Mrs. Hall out before she becomes hysterical. Or before I have her removed.”
“You will not get away with this,” Sebastian snapped.
Before Clara could shove words past her constricted throat, Sebastian grabbed the papers from the table, then took her arm and led her into the foyer. Davies stood near the door, his expression impassive even as tension poured from the room.
“Davies, what do you know of this?” Clara grasped the man’s sleeve in desperation. “Why is my father sending Andrew away? What’s happened to him?”
Something wavered in the butler’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I do not know, Mrs. Hall.”
“Please tell me! You’ve known me since I was a child, Davies, you know I only want the best for my son. What is
wrong
?”
“Lord Fairfax has requested that you depart, Mrs. Hall,” he replied.
Sebastian cursed. He tossed Clara’s cloak around her shoulders and grabbed his greatcoat, stalking to the carriage with a hard, determined stride.
Clara hurried beside him, fighting for breath and calm. Sebastian handed her into the carriage and ordered the driver to return to Mount Street. Shaking with cold, she lunged across the space to collapse onto the seat beside him. Her chest rattled with dry, wrenching sobs.
He locked an arm around her, pulling her body hard against his. Clara pressed her face into his shoulder and absorbed his warmth. Yet not even Sebastian could rid her of the new, icy reality shearing into her soul.
She had nothing left to offer.
Bastard.
Now more than ever bloodlust gripped Sebastian. He not only wanted to kill Fairfax—he first wanted to see the man suffer. He wanted to induce the suffering himself. The feeling clawed at him as he wrestled for a solution in the midnight hours following their confrontation with Fairfax.
Sebastian stared at the papers he’d spread out on the desk—accounts, expenses, budgets, bills. His father afforded him a generous allowance, the funds of which would continue owing to his marriage to Clara. Sebastian also had Darius’s payment for the cipher machine plans, and he’d a small fund left from the proceeds of his tours and performances. Still, even if he didn’t use the money to pay the remainder of his medical obligations, he doubted it would be enough to appease Fairfax. And money was all he could think of with which to bargain.
Sebastian groaned, clamping the bridge of his nose between his fingers. God in heaven. What chaotic hell would flare if his father and elder brother discovered the truth of all this?
He’d crush his pride to sand if he thought begging would generate their help. A portion of Rushton’s and Alexander’s combined fortunes would cover Fairfax’s debts, no matter how dire.
But that would mean confessing all. And once Rushton and Alexander learned about Catherine Leskovna…
“I won’t let you do this.”
Clara’s gentle voice swam into his thoughts. He dragged a hand through his hair and straightened, watching her approach. A deep russet merino dress trimmed in brown enclosed her slender figure, and her chestnut hair cascaded in a long ribbon over her shoulder. She looked like a wood sprite, pale and delicate, her unusual eyes veiled with caution.
An ache gripped Sebastian’s throat. More than anything, even more than wanting the use of his hand again, he wanted to help her. He wanted to give her that which she desired most. He wanted to ease her pain, to make her happy. He wanted to protect her.
He’d failed spectacularly at doing any of those things.
Her warm hand slid beneath his chin, guiding his face toward hers. “I won’t let you,” she repeated. “You will not ruin yourself because of my father’s threats.”
“Then what? You’ll let him send your son away?”
Clara drew back, her hand dropping away from him. Sebastian sighed and snared her wrist. “Sorry.”
Clara twisted her wrist from his grip and tangled her fingers with his. He pushed the chair away from the desk, putting his hand at her back to draw her closer. Clara lowered herself to his lap, her knees hugging his hips, her orange-spice scent flavoring the air. He grasped the streamer of her hair and let the loose tendrils glide through his fingers.
She placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “I never wanted this. Never meant to drag you into the vile swamp of my father’s domain. I honestly hoped he would accede to my request, that he wanted Wakefield House enough to release Andrew.”
She shook her head and bit her lower lip, creating little indentations Sebastian wanted to soothe with a sweep of his tongue.
“He thinks Andrew will never be worth anything,” Clara said. “Andrew is a quiet boy, studious. He likes to read and draw. He likes animals. He’s skilled at archery and fencing, but my father insisted that he learn shooting, hawking, riding, wrestling…he thought Andrew should be adept at all such masculine pursuits, even at seven years of age.”
She sighed. “Richard would have thought the same, had he lived.”
Sebastian understood the boy’s inclinations. He’d never been one for hunting or wrestling himself, though between his father and three brothers he’d become accomplished at all sports.
“Was that the source of your arguments?” he asked.
“Some of them. Others involved Andrew’s education, the fact that Richard wanted to send Andrew away to school…I’m sorry to say we disagreed on a great deal. Most of the time I acquiesced to Richard’s demands in order to maintain peace but…I suppose it oughtn’t have been a surprise that he believed my father a more suitable guardian. My father also had very exacting ideas about how Andrew should be raised, especially since he is the only grandchild. I suspect things might have been different had Richard and I been blessed with more children.”
“Brothers and sisters are a blessing,” Sebastian agreed, “though it is sometimes difficult to conform to the standards they might set.”
She studied him from beneath her dark eyelashes. “You’ve never conformed.”
No, and that too had set him apart from his family. The distinction brought an unwelcome thought of his mother to mind, that clandestine sense that he shared something with her that no one else in his family had. She must have known it as well, or she wouldn’t have sought him out after the Weimar disaster.
Certainly none of his brothers had comprehended his proclivity for music, though they eventually came to appreciate the flock of admiring women his success attracted.
Now Sebastian couldn’t remember any of the women who had peppered his life over the years. Like paper dolls, they were flimsy and impermanent, strung together with brittle thread.
Nothing like Clara Winter, who blazed with life and fire and determination.