He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, rubbing away the painful little notches caused by her teeth. “You will have your son again.”
She twisted the ends of his cravat between her fingers, her downcast eyelashes painting crescents on her pale cheeks. She spoke no words of agreement, but she didn’t refute his statement either. That must mean she still had hope.
Of course she still hoped. Nothing would ever extinguish Clara’s essential belief that she would one day be reunited with her son. That spark would burn in her until she held Andrew in her arms once again. No matter how long it took. No matter what she was forced to do.
Clara lifted her lashes to look at him, then leaned forward to press her mouth against his. A soft heat spilled through him at the touch of her full lips, the breathy sigh easing from her throat. He tightened his hands on her waist, his left hand curling against the stiffness of her corset. His right fingers seized and refused to move. He tensed and started to pull away from her, hating his inability to control the way he touched his own wife.
Clara covered his disabled hand, tucking her fingers between his. She parted her lips to deepen their kiss and moved his hand up to her bare throat.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
His fingers remained rigid, locked into place, but he felt the softness of her skin, the pulse tapping at the hollow of her throat. Warmth skimmed from his fingertips up the length of his arm.
She speared her hands in his hair and tilted his head back, her mouth urgent, her hips pushing against him. She shifted closer. Her bottom slid against his lap until his groin nestled within the enclosing arch of her legs.
He grasped the pleats of her skirt with his other hand and drew them up. The heat of her skin burned his palm. She wiggled closer, pulling at the knot of his cravat until his throat was bared to the caress of her warm lips. He breathed her in, stroking his fingers over the supple length of her thigh. Clara dropped her hands to his trousers and unfastened the buttons.
Lust sparked and flared in him. Clara cast him a quick glance, a smile curving her lips as she felt the bulge pressing against her fingers. He shifted to allow her easier access, wincing with pleasure at the touch of her hand against his hot flesh. Clara flicked her tongue against the side of his neck as she moved her hand over him, her body softening with readiness.
Sebastian’s blood pulsed. He gripped her thigh with his left hand to encourage her positioning, already aching to sheathe himself within the tight clasp of her body.
“Sebastian…” Uncertainty rippled through her.
“Slow.” His voice rasped from his chest. He slid his hand up to the juncture of her thighs and stroked. Clara gasped, trembling as she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. Her violet eyes searched his as she poised herself above him and then eased down, enclosing him by scant degrees. When he was fully embedded in her, throbbing, he tightened his hand again.
“Oh.” Clara shifted experimentally, her hips writhing. “Should I…”
“You should move.” Sebastian struggled to maintain what little control was left to him. “Right now.”
Clara did, her hands fisting on his shoulders as she lifted her body and brought it down again, driving their pleasure higher. She convulsed around him with a cry the instant before his tension broke. He thrust upward with a groan, spilling inside her as her inner muscles rippled around his shaft.
Clara’s mouth descended on his as the final shudders undulated through them. She pressed her hands to the sides of his face and leaned her forehead against his.
“I count that evening in the Hanover Street rooms,” she whispered, “as one of the luckiest days of my life.”
Sebastian rubbed his finger across her lower lip. “Yet still you have not gotten what you want.”
“With you, I have.” The words seemed to slip from her involuntarily. A sheen of dismay colored her eyes as she straightened to separate herself from him. She stroked a lingering hand across his neck. “But I meant it when I said I would not allow you to ruin yourself over this.”
“No, I won’t. But I will find a way to defeat him.”
Clara studied him, her expression veiled with a sudden guardedness. “Will you not approach your father?”
A humorless laugh stuck in Sebastian’s throat. “No.”
“Surely Lord Rushton could—”
“My father threatened my inheritance unless I wed, Clara.” Anger built in Sebastian’s chest as he recalled the threats of both his father and hers. “Rushton could not have cared less that my career failed so badly. He never even asked what happened. He has spent the past six months reestablishing himself in society and attempting to convince me to take a position with the Patent Office, of all bloody places. No. I will not involve him in a matter such as this.”
“But even your mother knew about Fairfax’s reputation,” Clara persisted. “If your father were to approach him, Fairfax might at least listen, if not relent to some degree.”
“No.” Unease twined with his anger as he refastened his shirt, cursing inwardly at the awkwardness of attempting the buttons with his left hand. “My father stays out of this, Clara.”
“All right, then.” She drew away from him and allowed her skirts to pool around her legs, regaining her modesty. Notes of both frustration and finality, bloodred, colored her voice. “We’d best find another solution, then.”
C
lara descended the cab in front of Fairfax’s town house. The tall buildings concealed the descending sun, and a red-orange light glowed like fire on the horizon. Gas lamps burned, smears of yellow flickering through the smoky glass.
No fear compressed Clara’s body. Not anymore. For two days following her conflict with her father, Clara had battled overwhelming fear as she tried to formulate a plan. Now, weary of being afraid, she had woken that morning with the sharp, new intention to confront her father alone. Sebastian had been gone most of the day, apparently in a lengthy meeting with Mr. Findlay, his brother Alexander’s solicitor. Clara knew she had to resolve matters before her husband set plans into motion that would result in his inevitable ruin.
“Welcome again, Mrs. Hall.” The butler Davies reached to take her cloak.
“Hardly welcome, I’m certain, Davies,” Clara murmured.
His mouth turned down at the corners and a faint sorrow flashed in his eyes before he schooled his expression back to impassivity. After hanging her cloak on a rack, Davies ushered her into the study.
Fairfax sat behind his desk, his fingers pressed to his temple and his features lined with pain.
Clara waited for him to acknowledge her. She held her shoulders stiff and straight, forced emotion from her face, restrained the urge to tremble. Once again, she would prove herself dutiful and obedient, even if the effort killed her. Which seemed likely, given the speed at which her heart was racing.
Fairfax lifted his head. The sly malice that had colored his eyes during their previous meeting had faded, leaving a bleak, hollow look Clara had never seen before.
Momentarily startled, she couldn’t find her voice. Then, as if by the force of the man’s will alone, his look dissolved into hard irritation.
“If you are not here to accede to my wishes and agree to stay away from Andrew for good, then get out,” he said.
Clara could do neither, but she couldn’t very well tell him that. Her spine lengthened as she approached his desk, her skirts rustling softly, her slippers soundless against the carpet.
“I beg you to tell me why Andrew needs a physician. Why you want to send him away.”
Fairfax’s mouth thinned. “I told you. He has suffered prolonged shock over the death of his father. I am doing what is best for him.”
“Will you allow me to accompany him to Switzerland?” Not until the question left her mouth did Clara realize she had even thought of it.
“No.”
“I will go under whatever conditions you impose.” Clara placed her hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, a tremor of urgency threading her bones. She pushed aside thoughts of Sebastian, ignored the ache building around her heart.
“Andrew needs a mother,” she said. “I regret that my behavior forced you to cast me out when you did. I will no longer disrespect your upbringing of my son. I will obey your rules. No one will say an unkind word against me, for they will never again see such a dutiful and loyal daughter. All I ask is to be near my son again.”
“Why should I allow you to be anywhere near him after what you have done?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t.” Clara struggled against a wave of cold. “But I beg you to give me another chance. Imagine what people will say. How kind Lord Fairfax is to shelter his aggrieved daughter and reunite her with her son. Look at what care he bestows upon her and her son following Mr. Winter’s tragic death.”
Fairfax studied her for a moment from beneath hooded lids. “The death for which you were responsible.”
She shook her head, unable to voice the denials that had boiled inside her for so long. She jerked back when her father slammed a big hand onto the desk, the resounding crash vibrating up her arms.
“Foolish girl,” Fairfax snapped, pressing his fingers against his temple again. “You think you are worth what your useless husband can beg from his father? You think I would take
you
over an earl’s fortune?”
No. She hadn’t thought that for one second. But she was desperate enough to attempt anything. The black pit of hopelessness inside her widened, threatening to pull her into its endless depths.
No. No. No.
“Sebastian won’t just give you a fortune, you bastard,” Clara hissed, anger exploding like a cannon inside her head. “Not without Andrew in return.”
“You will never have Andrew again.”
“And you will rot in hell.”
“Get out, Clara,” Fairfax said, his expression hardening to stone. “And mark my words. Should you interfere again, I will not hesitate to tell people exactly what kind of woman the Earl of Rushton’s son married.”
Shock filled Clara’s throat. In her desperation, she had not foreseen the danger of such a threat. Unable to counter it, she turned and fled, the door banging shut behind her.
Run.
The command pulsed like a heartbeat through her brain as she hurried into the safety of the carriage. She stared at her father’s town house as the carriage rolled away from the building’s thin, narrow reach.
Although no shadows blurred the windows, Clara sensed Fairfax watching her retreat with the grim satisfaction of a general driving back enemy forces. There would be no compromise.
Run.
No other solution took shape beneath the windstorms whipping against the walls of her heart and soul. She had to seize her son and flee as if the hounds of hell would tear after them. She had to rescue them all from the quicksand of Fairfax’s power or the man would choke the very breath from their throats.
A strange, brittle calm settled into her bones as she entered the Mount Street town house and allowed a maid to take her cloak. The door to Sebastian’s study sat half-open, his deep voice, laced with urgency, rolling into the foyer. Clara paused just outside the door.
Another male voice joined Sebastian’s. Clara recognized it as belonging to Mr. Findlay, who had been drawing up the ineffectual contracts.
Tension gripped her shoulders when she realized the two men were discussing Sebastian’s finances and the possibility of liquidating several assets, selling stocks, and draining a fund he had established to provide music scholarships to worthy students.
Clara closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold wall.
What had she done?
In her desperation to have Andrew back, she had dragged Sebastian into a situation so tangled and fraught with peril that even the hope of escape was frail at best.
Clara pushed away from the wall and tried to draw air into her constricted chest.
She had to leave her husband. If she managed to seize Andrew and run away, Fairfax might turn his attention toward pursuing them and leave Sebastian alone.
Dear God, let him leave Sebastian alone.
She could break the tenuous prayer with a breath, so thin and slight were its chances of being answered, but Clara had nothing else. She
would
succeed in this rash, dangerous escape for no other reason than to save her son and protect the man she loved beyond measure.
She pressed her hands to her eyes and allowed the strong, lovely pleasure of that admission to ease her simmering agony. Leaving the flow of conversation behind her, she went to her bedchamber and sat at the secretary.
A plan. She needed to sever her emotions and employ every particle of intellect and cunning she possessed in order to implement a plan. She dipped a pen into the inkwell and began to write.
She would defeat Fairfax. She had to defeat Fairfax, even if no one had ever done so before.
T
here was a regimen to Fairfax’s household. Clara had lived within its boundaries for most of her life, so she knew her father adhered to strict routines and behaviors. Both times she had gone to the Belgravia town house, in the late afternoon, Andrew and his tutor had ostensibly been on an outing to the public garden.
Clara would give herself three days to determine the schedule. She could afford to wait no longer than that. Fairfax might leave London at the end of next week, and if Andrew were once again confined to Manley Park or, God forbid, an institution in Switzerland, Clara knew she could never breach such impenetrable walls.
This was her only chance. The day following Fairfax’s threat, she hired a cab just before tea, making excuses to Sebastian that she needed to run some errands and would prefer to leave him the carriage since she didn’t know when she expected to return.
Not quite a lie, any part of it.
She didn’t dare venture close to Fairfax’s town house and instead instructed the cabdriver to stop at the edge of Belgrave Square Garden. If Andrew and his tutor walked to the park from the town house, they would likely take Chapel Street. Hands knotted together, sweat trickling down her back, Clara waited.
She watched birds pecking at bits of grass. Pedestrians strolled along the pathways. Smoke wafted from a coal fire at the meat-pie stand situated on the corner of the street. The vendor, a man with whom Clara had conversed that morning, caught her eye and gave a short nod.
A humorless laugh lodged in Clara’s throat. The man’s pockets bulged with the small fortune she’d given him in advance for his assistance. Never had she imagined she would be in league with a meat-pie vendor.
A wan-faced girl trudged past the cab, her thin fingers clenched around an open box of ribbons, scraps of fabric, and spools of snarled thread.
A thin stream of sunlight fell onto the box, sparking against the shiny waves of ribbons. On impulse, Clara pushed the door open. “Miss? Miss!”
The girl turned, regarding Clara through weary eyes. “Thread, ma’am?”
“The ribbons.” Clara dug into her pocket for the remainder of the coins. “How much are they?”
“A penny apiece, ma’am.”
“Give me all of them, please.”
The girl’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she quickly gathered the trailing ribbons. Clara gave the girl several shillings, then closed her hand around the ribbons and shut the cab door. The ribbons slithered between her fingers, bright and shiny. She tucked the spilling mass into her pocket and returned her attention to the window.
Her heart stumbled over itself as a familiar figure rounded the corner.
Not Andrew. Not Fairfax.
Sebastian strode to the cab as if it were his intended destination, his steps long and determined, the breeze ruffling his dark hair beneath his hat. Clara shrank back and tried to dissolve into the shadows, but a spear of sunlight flared against her as Sebastian wrenched open the door.
Their gazes clashed for an instant before the driver shouted down at him.
“I’m her husband,” Sebastian replied curtly, tossing his hat onto the seat. “Leave off and there’s a crown in it for you.”
The driver fell silent. Clara’s fingernails dug into her palms as Sebastian entered the cab and slammed the door behind him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice edged with steel.
“I…I thought to catch a glimpse of Andrew again.”
Sebastian slanted his gaze to the window. “Here?”
“He seems to have a…a scheduled routine. I believe he comes here with his tutor at this time of day if the weather allows.”
Sebastian frowned at her, his wrinkled clothes and messy hair making him appear rough and dangerous in the dim confines of the cab. Clara pressed a hand to her chest to quiet the throb of her heart.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
“Followed you.” He folded his arms over his chest, grooves of displeasure bracketing his mouth. “Did you think I would believe your flimsy excuse? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She couldn’t look at him and lie, so Clara stared at the garden, the expanse of grass carpeted with fallen leaves. “I didn’t want to take your carriage in the event my father saw and recognized it.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“I didn’t want to risk you thinking me a fool for attempting this again.”
“I would never think you a fool.” No softness cushioned the remark, but the words eased some of Clara’s trepidation.
She fought the sudden urge to confide everything to him. A black-edged dream bloomed in her mind—she would tell Sebastian her plan, he would help her, together they would take Andrew and flee far, far away…to the edge of the earth.
They would find a tropical island canopied with a crystal-blue sky, enveloped by water, and abundant with trees bearing ripe fruit and coconuts. A place where sea dragons and monstrous creatures would billow from the sea to protect them forever.
Her very blood ached with the wish that such a dream could come true. And that its fulfillment would not mean the utter destruction of Sebastian’s family.
Clara clenched her teeth. If Sebastian escaped with her—and she knew with a churning mixture of longing and sorrow that, should she confess, he would accept no other course of action—then news of his departure would spread like a virulent infection.
God alone knew what havoc Fairfax would attempt to wreak upon the Earl of Rushton and his family. Powerful though Rushton was, the earl had been crushed by scandal before and might not withstand it again. And if Sebastian left London with Clara under such circumstances—by law, the kidnapping of her son—he could never return.
Just like his mother.
Clara’s resolve steeled. She would protect both her husband and her son or die trying.
There. She straightened, eagerness crackling along her spine as a slender young man approached one of the garden’s pathways. Andrew walked beside him, dressed in a dark blue jacket and short pants, his thick chestnut hair hidden beneath a cap. Both man and boy walked with sedate, measured strides, the tutor turning or gesturing with an occasional remark.
Sebastian leaned forward, as if anticipating Clara might dash heedlessly toward her son again. Though the urge to do so shook her to the bone, Clara dug her fingers into the seat cushion and watched as Andrew and his tutor paused to watch a flock of birds rustle through the hedges.
The tutor appeared to speak for a few minutes, then they continued walking along a different path. Clara didn’t take her eyes from her son until he and the gentleman rounded a corner and disappeared behind a row of trees.
She drew in a shuddering breath and unclamped her fists from the cushion. Sebastian had shifted to sit beside her. Wariness flashed in his expression as he looked from the garden to her.
Clara pulled a faint smile to her mouth. “So. I didn’t lose my reason this time.”
“No one would blame you if you had.” He rapped on the roof and the cab lurched into motion. “When do they leave London?”
“At the end of next week, I believe, though I don’t know if they are returning to Manley Park or leaving for the Continent. My father had planned to stay in London for a fortnight.”
There was still plenty of time for Fairfax to concoct and then present further demands. But not nearly enough time for Clara to construct all the details of her plan, save for the most skeletal framework. Staying with Uncle Granville during the past year had allowed her to save the jointure funds from her marriage to Richard. Clara needed the money now more than ever.
Armed with breath, desperation, and a prayer, two days hence she would intercept Andrew in the garden while the meat-pie vendor diverted the boy’s tutor by whatever means necessary. Clara would hasten Andrew to a cab and speed into the maze of streets before the tutor had a chance to follow or even bear witness to which direction they’d gone.
They would catch the Brighton line at the London Bridge station and take the train to the coast, then procure two tickets to cross the Channel to Dieppe. There, by God’s will, she would be able to purchase tickets on a passenger freighter before Fairfax discovered where they had gone.
And then she and Andrew would sail across the sea to where the vast wilderness of America would enclose them in long, sweeping arms and hide them forever.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Something even beyond the catastrophic failure of their strategy.
Sebastian watched Clara as she entered the morning room, looking lovely with her hair gleaming in a smooth coil, her dark blue gown sprigged with flowers.
“Good morning.” She smiled at him and took her seat, arranging her skirts on the chair, her back stiff. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips, then set it back on the saucer with a rattle that betrayed the tremble of her hand.
Sebastian’s gaze narrowed. Hovering on the clouded edges of Fairfax’s threats, Clara had been unnaturally brittle since their confrontation with her father, as if she held herself together with only glue and string. Her observation of Andrew the previous day had further diminished her, casting a haunted shadow over her brilliant eyes.
What was she plotting?
The question slithered with unpleasant implications into his mind. He hated the idea that his own wife hadn’t told him the full truth yesterday of her attempt to see her son. Had she thought he’d try to prevent her from doing so?
“What are your plans for the day?” he asked in a conciliatory tone.
“Oh.” She swept a ribbon of hair away from her neck. “A visit to Uncle Granville, perhaps. I’ve been remiss in my duties at the museum, though I don’t imagine Mrs. Fox laments my absence.”
She picked at a muffin, leaving her plate littered with crumbs, then took a delicate swallow of coffee. “Are you going out? Do you have time to leave me at the museum?”
Sebastian nodded. “Will you try to see Andrew again today?”
Clara fumbled again in the movement of setting her cup on the saucer. The cup tipped, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the pristine tablecloth. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“Never mind.”
Clara grabbed a napkin and began pressing on the stains. “Silly of me, wasn’t it?”
“Clara, leave it.” With a mutter of irritation, Sebastian pushed his chair back and went to her side. He grasped her wrist to stop her ineffectual wiping. Her skin was cold, her pulse beating rapidly against his fingers.
“Clara.”
She turned to him, a faint wildness darkening her eyes to purple. “I’ll just finish getting ready then.”
“Will you try to see Andrew again today?” Sebastian repeated.
Her throat rippled with a swallow. She lowered her gaze from his and shook her head. “It was foolish of me to go yesterday. I’m afraid Fairfax will learn of my presence, so it’s best if I stay away.”
Sebastian tucked his forefinger beneath her chin and lifted her face. He searched her eyes for signs of deception and found none. He found nothing. A transparent shield permitted the colors of her eyes to gleam as vividly as ever, but it concealed the emotions usually storming in their depths.
He stepped away from her. Irritation flared. “All right, then. I’ll leave you at the museum before my appointment at the bank.”
“Don’t do anything foolish.” A plea threaded her words. “We’ll think of another arrangement, come to different terms.”
And yet they both knew Fairfax would accept no other terms. Clara swallowed. For an instant, fear shone in her expression.
“I don’t know how much time we have left,” she whispered.
Sebastian cupped her face with his left hand and willed her to believe his next words. “I will fix this, Clara. You must trust me.”
“But if we don’t have the resources to contest my father…”
Her words faded as the doorbell chimed to announce his brother’s arrival. Clara stepped away from him and turned to hurry upstairs.
Sebastian watched her go. The resolve that had taken root when he’d first learned of Clara’s dilemma now flourished into something permanent and unyielding.
He strode to the foyer as Giles opened the door to admit Darius.
“I’ve made the arrangements for your meeting with Catherine Leskovna,” Darius said as they entered the drawing room. “The day after tomorrow at the dining room of the Albion Hotel.”
Sebastian sighed. “I should never have agreed to help you find those bloody plans.”
“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have met Clara,” Darius replied mildly.
Sebastian lifted his head to meet his brother’s keen gaze. It was an odd sentiment coming from a man ruled by his head rather than his heart.
“Neither would I have put the earldom in jeopardy,” he said. “Again.”
Darius shrugged, as if that matter were of no more consequence than a fly in the jam jar. “The earldom is locked tight and secure.”
“For now.”
“Bear in mind that Fairfax has his own sphere, which I’m certain he wishes to keep free of rumor,” Darius said. “A peer who cast his own daughter from his estate and is effectively holding his grandson hostage while battling back creditors and potential foreclosures…imagine what polite
society
might have to say about such circumstances.”
“I’d tell a reporter to print it in the
Morning Post
if I thought Andrew would emerge unscathed,” Sebastian said. “As long as Fairfax has the boy, he has the whiphand.”
“You don’t have to print it in the papers to use the threat as leverage,” Darius pointed out. “Who else knows about this?”
“Findlay. Some of it, at any rate. I’ve an appointment at the bank later this morning.”
“I’ll come along,” Darius said. “Fairfax’s weakness is your advantage. He needs money. You have money now. And if you dangle it before him, he might very well stumble over his own feet in his haste to seize it.”
One could hope,
Sebastian thought.