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 beg 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.
“Mrs. Fox, please do inform me should you step out,” Clara said.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winter.” The other woman’s tone was the dry, brownish yellow color of a dead leaf. She tossed a newspaper onto the front desk. “I went to fetch a paper since it appears Tom forgot to this morning.”
She swept to the desk, adjusting her skirts as she settled behind it like a queen taking to her throne. She lifted a ledger from a stack with long, gloved hands and proceeded to open the thick tome and peruse the pages.
Sebastian saw irritation lace across Clara’s straight shoulders. He stared at the nape of her neck, the slender white column softened by wisps of hair, cupped by the collar of her gown. Her supple muscles tightened as she strode forward into the space between her and Mrs. Fox.
“This is Mr. Sebastian Hall.” Clara spoke with precise formality. “I shall be providing him with a tour of the museum. If you would please inform Mrs. Marshall, we’ll take tea after the tour is concluded.”
Mrs. Fox gave a short nod. “Of course.” She ran her finger over a column in the ledger. “You’ve not recorded the admission.”
“Mr. Hall is here as my guest.”
“Nonetheless.” Mrs. Fox gave Sebastian a look sharp enough to slice through leather. “The admission fee, sir, is one shilling.”
“I’ve no coin at present, but my footman—”
“You needn’t pay, Mr. Hall,” Clara hastened to assure him. “Please, do come into the drawing room. We’ll begin there.”
“Mrs. Winter, I must protest your decision to allow a visitor to enter without paying the admission fee,” Mrs. Fox said.
“And I, Mrs. Fox, must protest your concern.” Clara opened the door and bade Sebastian precede her. “In my uncle’s absence, my decisions are not to be countermanded and my guests are certainly not to be insulted. Please inform Mrs. Marshall about the tea tray.”
Sebastian ducked past the older woman’s aura of disapproval and into the safety of the drawing room. Clara half-closed the door behind her.
“I apologize,” she said. “Mrs. Fox possesses an unfortunate tendency to believe she knows best. Her departed husband used to be Uncle Granville’s assistant.”
“I don’t wish to cause ill feelings between you,” Sebastian said, though it was clear such acrimony already lived between the two women. “I’ll tell my footman to—”
“No, Mr. Hall. I’ve said you are my guest, and my guest you shall remain. Mrs. Fox handles the museum’s accounts, but she has no authority in the running of the place.”
She spread her hands over the front of her dress. Uncertainty flashed in her violet-blue eyes for an instant, belying the confidence of her tone. “Well. Let us begin with the mechanical toys. My uncle sells them at the bazaar and gives them to children’s homes.”
She stepped forward to a shelf lined with toys and proceeded to show him how the turn of a key prompted a monkey to beat a tiny drum, a clown to whirl around a trapeze, a pair of geese to glide over a pond crafted of glass.
Rather in spite of himself, Sebastian was charmed by the movements of the little creatures, the delicacy of their painted faces, and costumes of bright ribbons and gauze.
“My uncle devotes most of his time to the larger automata, like Millicent,” Clara explained. “But he still derives great enjoyment from toys such as these. This one is my favorite. A colleague of Uncle Granville’s made it, which is why the musical element works well. Uncle Granville hasn’t yet perfected that in his own creations.”
She reached behind a flower-laced birdcage to twist a key, then stepped back. Two lemon-yellow canaries inside leapt from bar to bar as their beaks opened and closed in accompaniment to a melodious, chirping tune.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Clara asked. She smiled with evident pleasure as she watched the birds perform another dance.
“Indeed.”
Clara glanced up to find him watching her. Her smile faded into an expression of disconcertion, warmth again coloring her pale skin. She turned away from him, her hands twisting the folds of her skirt.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you my uncle’s workshop and the room where we display the larger automata,” she said.
They went into the foyer and past the redoubtable Mrs. Fox, who gave Sebastian another of her keen glances. He responded with an engaging smile that had the impact of a feather against stone, for all of Mrs. Fox’s reaction to it.
Pity,
Sebastian thought. The older woman had thick-lashed eyes and fine, elegant features that might be quite pleasing if softened with even a scrap of affability.
As he followed Clara down another corridor, a pulse swept through his chest, diluting the anxiety that had plagued him since he’d discovered the unnerving disability of his right hand. Now pleasure subsumed that dismay, sparked by the anticipation of something new.
His instincts told him that Clara Winter was intrigued by him. That meant a few well-placed, sweet words and persuasive smiles would have her revealing what he wanted to know before the week’s end.
Five months ago, he’d have ensured she revealed it before the day’s end.
They entered a former library, larger than the music room and cluttered with gears, wires, and the entrails of various machines. Clara paused beside a metal-framed figure seated on a bench.
“My uncle is currently working on this,” she said, placing her hand on the curved bow of the top. “It’s to be a scribe writing at a desk. Uncle Granville is planning to have him write three different poems in both English and French.”
Sebastian lifted a brow. That sounded impressive, even to him. “He’s ambitious, your uncle.”
She didn’t respond, and for a moment he didn’t think she’d heard. He repeated the remark.
Clara glanced at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Your uncle. I said he was ambitious.”
“Yes. You spoke earlier, didn’t you?” She waved her hand beside her ear, as if batting at a pesky fly. “I don’t hear very well with my left ear, so if I’m turned away I sometimes miss things.”
Sebastian didn’t recall her having a hearing loss when she’d been his student. Then again, he reminded himself, he didn’t recall much about her at all. Shame flickered in the pit of his stomach.
“At any rate, yes,” Clara said. “Uncle Granville is constantly thinking of ways to make his inventions ever more complex and unique. His mentor was a very renowned toy and clockmaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Monsieur Jacques Dupree?”
Sebastian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Clara moved on to a different automaton.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with my uncle to learn about the actual mechanics involved,” she said. “This one will be a couple dancing.”
“Does your uncle make such things only for amusement’s sake?” Sebastian asked, selecting his words with care.
“He makes clocks on occasion, which of course are eminently practical.”
Aha.
And Darius had told Sebastian that coding machines contain similar mechanisms as clocks. So if Granville Blake did indeed possess the plans for the blasted thing, then Blake would not discuss it with just anyone.
And if Clara knew about it, she certainly would not come right out and tell him.
Yet.
“But for the most part, yes,” Clara continued. “Uncle Granville invents the automata for his own enjoyment. We are hoping that after Saturday evening’s demonstration, Lady Rossmore will offer her patronage to the museum.”
“Your uncle is seeking a patron?”
“He receives a number of commissions, but a patron is always a benefit,” Clara admitted. “In the meantime…perhaps I ought not to chide poor Mrs. Fox for insisting our guests pay the admission fee.”
“My footman will—”
She laughed—lush, dark purple—a sound so unexpected that Sebastian’s heart twisted with both bewilderment and delight, as if he beheld a rainbow in a thunderstorm. Clara’s eyes crinkled with warmth, and a quick shake of her head made curls of hair dance against her neck.
God, but she was lovely.
“I do hope your footman considers himself fortunate to be entrusted with the care of your purse,” she said. “But really, Mr. Hall, I didn’t intend to cause you any guilt. There is no need for you to pay the fee. Now please, join me for tea before you depart.”
Sebastian followed her to the parlor, his heart still strumming with the echo of her laughter.
Ah, yes. Mustering the desire to charm Clara Winter would require no effort at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so looked forward to something.
What does he want?
Clara concentrated on the task of pouring tea as the question revolved around her mind.
She couldn’t quite believe Sebastian Hall was here solely to view the automata and mechanical toys. She had thought that the case when he first arrived, but his reaction to the inventions was curious at best, as if he appreciated their novelty but had little interest in the technical details of the machinery.
But why else would he want to speak with Uncle Granville? If he were considering commissioning a piece or patronizing the museum, then he would have simply said so.
Wouldn’t he?
A scratching noise made her turn. Sebastian stood before a shelf, studying a copper cricket that rubbed its wings together and produced a sound akin to a nail scraping over glass.
“That’s what I referred to when I said my uncle hasn’t yet perfected the accompaniment of music to his inventions,” Clara explained.
“Clearly.”
“Are you…ah, may I ask the reason you need to speak with him?” Clara placed a cup on the table.
He turned, sliding his hands into his pockets with a pianist’s grace. “Lady Rossmore spoke so highly of his work that I thought to see it for myself.” He glanced back at the cricket. “Perhaps I can offer him advice on the musical component.”
“If you’ll leave your card, I would be happy to give it to my uncle upon his return. I’m certain he’ll contact you straightaway to arrange an appointment.”
She waited for him to agree and take his departure. Instead he stood looking at her, an intense gaze that appeared to contain more than mere scrutiny.
His perusal skimmed over her body, heating her from the inside out like hot cocoa on a snowy night. A tingle of warmth skimmed up her arms. Clara’s heart pulsed, a light, gentle tapping reminding her of raindrops on a windowpane.
Oh, what a pleasure. So different from the thump of dread that constantly beat through her, drowning her in fear. Now, here in this moment with Sebastian Hall watching her with those warm, appreciative brown eyes, a waterfall of light spilled across the black of her soul. His look even seemed powerful enough to soothe her still-blistering knowledge of the court’s final ruling about Wakefield House.
Sebastian stepped closer. His delicious scent filled her nose, sliding into her veins, awakening a spark that spread through her entire body.
Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth. She could not help but be fascinated by the shape of his mouth, the curve of his smile, the tilt of his lips. She wondered how it would feel, that beautiful mouth pressed against hers, his whiskers scraping her cheek.
Oh, dear Lord.
What was she thinking? What kind of woman was she to imagine such things when all she wanted, the
only
thing she wanted was to have…
He touched her. Sebastian slipped his left hand beneath her chin and raised her head so that she had to meet his eyes again. His palm was warm, cupping her chin with the same gentleness he might use to hold a jeweled music box. He studied her face as if he were assessing the value of a rare artifact, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes filled with curiosity.