by Nina Rowan
Yet even cautious Uncle Granville could not deny the plan might very well work.
She guided Sebastian to a stack of boxes in the corner and explained the organizational procedure they had devised—machinery parts went into the adjoining room, diagrams for toys, clocks, musical items, and larger automata were divided into stacks on the table, and undecipherable plans and notebooks were placed on a sideboard for Granville’s perusal.
Sebastian began unpacking one of the boxes. Several hours passed, with only the sounds of shuffling paper, creaking wood and metal, and occasional questions breaking the silence. Mrs. Marshall appeared with a tea tray and plate of muffins, which she left on a side table.
Clara went to the table where Mrs. Fox sat examining notebooks. She took a scroll from a pile and removed the string. A sheaf of papers unfurled onto the table, a stack of notes embedded in the center. Clara smoothed her hand over the curling edges of the diagram and weighted them with books so the scroll would lie flat.
The intricate diagram resembled a music box, with gears attached to a central wheel. Notes decorated the paper like the margins on an illuminated manuscript—elegant boxes of Monsieur Dupree’s penmanship.
“What about this one?” Clara asked Uncle Granville.
After a brief inspection, he shook his head and started to turn away, then paused. He put his hands flat on the table and bent to look more closely at the drawing. His forehead wrinkled.
“What is it?” Clara asked.
“I don’t know. But I’ve never seen its like before.” Granville reached for the pages that contained Dupree’s writings. “Get me a pencil, please, Clara.”
Clara hurried to find a pencil and paper, which she placed on the table beside her uncle. She glanced at Mrs. Fox, who was watching Granville with her unwavering gaze. Sebastian came to stand next to her.
Granville muttered something to himself as he examined the diagram and read the papers, then began scribbling incomprehensible notes. Clara’s fingers curled into her palms as she waited, sensing her uncle’s flare of curiosity. He rubbed a hand through his hair and wrote a series of letters in the form of a square.
“Uncle Granville, what is it?” Clara finally asked after a good half hour of his muttering and scribbling. Impatience tightened in her chest. “Is it the telegraph machine?”
“No. It’s a machine meant for transmitting messages, but via some sort of cipher.”
“That’s it.”
Clara and Granville turned to stare at Sebastian. “What?”
“That’s the machine.” Sebastian’s spine straightened. “It transmits telegraphic messages through some form of secret writing. I believe some call it cryptology.”
Granville frowned. “I can only conclude that Monsieur Dupree would have sent such specifications to me in the hopes I’d know what to do with them.” He looked at Sebastian, the reflection of sunlight on his glasses enhancing the suspicion in his eyes. “Clara tells me you are seeking the plans for your brother?”
“Yes.” Sebastian rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, discomfort flashing across his expression. “He wrote to me from St. Petersburg asking for my help. He has since come to London. He wants to present the constructed machine to the Home Office, with full credit to Monsieur Dupree as the inventor. I would venture to say that should a patron wish to fund the project, Darius will ensure the profits go to Monsieur Dupree’s family.”
Granville looked steadily at Sebastian. For a moment, a wealth of questions and answers seemed to pass between the two men, heightening Clara’s impatience.
The devil himself could have the plans, for all she cared. Anyone could have them if it meant a chance she would be reunited with her son.
“So that’s it, then,” she said. “Give them to your brother and have the whole thing done with.”
Granville placed his hand on the diagrams, the stack of notes. “Clara, please understand Monsieur Dupree must have sent them to me for safe-keeping. I cannot allow the originals to leave my possession.”
“Make copies, then,” Clara said. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Granville didn’t respond, his forehead creasing. Clara clenched her fists.
“Please,” she said.
Her uncle looked at her. His eyes flashed with a wavering combination of reluctance and concern.
“Only for you, Clara,” Granville said, “will I agree to this.” He turned to look at the notes and diagrams, then nodded. “I’ll start right now. Should take me a day or two.”
Relief flooded Clara alongside a strange apprehension—the portent of what finding the machine plans actually meant to her future. The uncertainty of it all undulated before her like heat rising from cobblestones, hazy and indistinct.
She stared at Sebastian. A thin stream of light glinted off his dark hair and illuminated the golden flecks in his brown eyes.
He began questioning Granville about the cipher alphabet and transmission methods, his voice a deep cascade over the dusty sunlight.
Clara took the opportunity to escape the room, her heart pounding like a wind-whipped leaf. Her breath came rapidly as she stopped in the foyer and struggled to calm her turmoil of emotions.
“Counterpoint.”
His voice echoed against the walls. Settled into her blood, her bones. She turned to watch him approach, his footfalls oddly silent on the marble floor. He stopped before her, his dark gaze intent.
“I beg your pardon?” Clara said.
“In music, counterpoint involves independent melodic lines that harmonize when played together,” Sebastian explained. “As in our situation, we can now give each other what we desire.”
Clara’s shoulders tensed, even as the word desire rippled through her.
“Have…” She swallowed to moisten her dry lips. “Have you considered all the implications of marriage to me?”
“I have, indeed. And you know my expectations?”
Clara’s breath burned her throat. She knew the expectations. She’d known of them since the idea of marriage had first occurred to her. She knew, because Sebastian Hall was not the type of man who would accept a platonic marriage, even one based on calculated ends.
She knew because thoughts of these expectations had seared her mind as she lay in bed at night, the thin sheets twisting around her legs, her body pulsing with restless palpitations she could not comprehend.
She told herself again she could do it. She could agree because Sebastian was a good man who would fulfill his part of the agreement. All she needed to do was give him copies of the plans. All she needed to do was take her vows and prove a loyal, good wife.
All she needed to do was share his bed.
A hot flush flooded her cheeks. She turned away to collect her composure.
Really, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known a man before. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what to expect. If Sebastian Hall was anything like Richard, he would climb beneath the coverlet, push her nightdress up to her hips, then have the whole business over and done with in a scant few minutes.
All she needed to do was lie there and wait for him to finish.
So why was apprehension swirling through her belly at the mere idea? Why could she not erase the image of Sebastian from her mind—him looming above her in the dark, the weight of his body heavy atop hers, his long-fingered hands brushing her bare skin as he slid her gown over her thighs…
Oh, God. Clara closed her eyes. She could not fathom the source of such imaginings. What on earth would the man think if he knew about them? If he knew how her body reacted to such thoughts of him?
“It distresses you so much, does it?” He was directly behind her, his voice a deep rumble spilling like warm water over her skin. “The idea of being my wife in all capacities?”
“No.” The word had a bit of force behind it, to Clara’s relief. She did not want Sebastian to think she wavered in her determination. She turned to face him, her pulse hammering. Unable to bring herself to look into his eyes,
she stared at his mouth.
A mistake. His beautiful mouth—the shape of his upper lip marked by a slight indent, the smooth curve of his lower lip with the shadowy notch hiding beneath it like a secret—made untold longings spiral through her blood.
God in heaven. Did she want to marry him for more than the need to sell Wakefield House?
She lifted her head and found him watching her, intent but wary, as if he knew a false move would send her scurrying off. She looked away and gathered her resolve.
“I will be your wife in all capacities, Sebastian,” she said.
“You don’t even sound appalled at the prospect.”
“Should I be?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He stepped into the space between them and slid his hand beneath her chin, turning her face to him. “You needn’t be frightened of me, Clara. I will uphold my part of the agreement, but I will not marry for practical reasons alone. I will not tolerate a marriage in name only. We will be husband and wife both in public and in private.”
A tremble rippled through her. “I understand.”
His hand dropped away from her, and he stepped back. A faint consternation flickered across his features, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her response. “I shall make the arrangements. We will be married next week.”
Chapter Seven
Ladies and gentlemen.” Lady Rossmore climbed the steps to the stage of the Hanover Square ballroom and clapped her hands, raising her voice above the din. “May I have your attention, please? I welcome you all and would like to begin a demonstration of an automaton created by the esteemed inventor Mr. Granville Blake.”
Sebastian pushed his right hand into his pocket and maneuvered through the crowd closer to the stage. He stopped beside his father, who stood with his fellow secretary Lord Margrave. Onstage, Lady Rossmore continued her lengthy discourse on Granville Blake’s genius. She then stepped aside when the curtains parted to reveal Granville and the automaton.
Sebastian’s breath stuck in the middle of his chest as his gaze skirted to Clara. She stood beside the harpsichord in a dark blue gown that was at least a year out of fashion but whose color reflected the light and cast a sheen of pink on her pale skin.
“Thank you for the lovely introduction, Lady Rossmore,” Granville said, smoothing wrinkles from his coat with a sweep of his hand as he stepped forward to address the audience. “My niece, Mrs. Clara Winter, and I are honored to be here to demonstrate our newest creation, Millicent, the Musical Lady.”
The crowd laughed at the name. Clara placed her hand on the shoulder of the mannequin, who sat at a small harpsichord, her porcelain fingers unmoving over the keys, her head bent. The mannequin wore a crimson silk gown edged in lace and accented by gold earrings and an ivory cameo. Her face was a model of feminine perfection, her cheeks and lips tinged with pink, her long eyelashes lowered in perfect feathery crescents.
“Millicent is an automaton who plays four tunes on the harpsichord,” Granville continued. “We will demonstrate with three tunes and ask that you watch her carefully, as she moves her fingers, feet, and even her eyes with the utmost accuracy. After the demonstration, I invite you to examine the very intricate mechanisms more closely.”
The audience rustled with interest, several women straining on tiptoe for a better view of the stage. Granville moved to the side of the harpsichord and took hold of the crank handle to wind the machine. He turned it halfway. The crank stuck.
Murmurs buzzed like insects from the audience. Clara moved to her uncle’s side as he pulled the crank back into position and started to wind it again. It jerked at the same sticking point, then rotated. The bellows inside the instrument released an audible expulsion of compressed air, and the wheels began to turn.
Relief flashed across Clara’s face. Granville wound the machine twice more and stepped back to watch Millicent perform. The mannequin’s chest expanded as if she were inhaling air into her lungs, and then her fingers began to move across the keys. A tinny but pleasing melody drifted from the harpsichord.
Gasps and applause rose from the guests as they shifted to obtain a better view. Clara smiled.
Millicent seemed to preen at the attention, her elegant head sweeping back and forth as she watched the keys, her foot tapping in time to the music. After the first tune concluded, she gave a slight bow before starting to play again.
“I heard tell that Lady Rossmore intends to offer her patronage to Blake’s Museum.” Lord Margrave scratched his bristling side whiskers as he peered at Millicent. “Apparently Fairfax’s daughter is Blake’s new assistant, so her ladyship believes he ought to have the means to exhibit more of his work.”
Sebastian slanted his gaze to Margrave. “You know Mrs. Winter?”
“Indeed. Her husband was quite a promising young fellow. Tragic death in a hunting accident. Fairfax has been good enough to take the son under his wing.”
He returned his attention to the stage as Granville concluded the demonstration and the audience began buzzing with excitement and questions. Several people crowded up to the stage to look at Millicent more closely, while others drifted toward the refreshment table.
Sebastian’s heart thumped against his rib cage as he saw Clara weaving through the crowd. As if sensing his presence, she turned her head and smiled, then diverted her path to approach him.
“It went well, don’t you think?” she asked. “Lady Rossmore was quite pleased.”
Sebastian nodded, acutely aware of his father’s presence. “Mrs. Winter, this is my father, the Earl of Rushton.”
“Oh.” A flush painted her cheeks as she realized the familiarity of her remark. “Lord Rushton, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Yours as well, Mrs. Winter.” Rushton studied her with his apple-peeling gaze. “Quite a unique demonstration, I must say.”
“Thank you, my lord. My uncle has a number of—” Her eyes skidded to Margrave. “Er, good evening, Lord Margrave.”
Though he didn’t know the reason for her sudden unease, Sebastian moved closer to her, resisting the urge to pull her protectively to his side.
“Mrs. Winter.” Margrave gave her a short nod. “I saw your father not three weeks ago at a steeplechase. Visited Manley Park recently, have you?”
“No…no, not for some time, my lord.” She paused, glanced at Rushton, then back to Margrave. “Have you been to Manley Park, my lord?”
“This past summer, yes,” Margrave replied. “Your father invited Lady Margrave and myself for a Saturday to Monday visit. He’s procured a very impressive stud-horse.”
“I’ve heard, yes.” Tension threaded her voice. “Was Andrew Winter present, my lord?”
Sebastian saw a slight frown tug at Rushton’s mouth, but the implications of the question appeared lost on Margrave.
“No, no, didn’t see him, unfortunately. Fairfax said the boy wasn’t well.” Margrave shook his head. “He’s back in London now, I think, Fairfax is. Must speak to him about the railway investments he was considering. Might have brought the boy along. Beg your pardon, there’s Lord Crombie. Rushton, I’ll see you at the club, yes?”
Clara took a step back, her skin white as paper. Margrave bid them a good evening and pushed through the crowd.
“Well, Mrs. Winter, if your father is in town, I’d be pleased to make his acquaintance,” Rushton remarked.
Sebastian slipped his hand beneath Clara’s elbow.
“Clara?”
“Excuse me. I…I need some air.” She pulled from his grip and hurried toward the doors leading to the street.
Sebastian and Rushton exchanged glances before Sebastian went after her. He caught her on the steps, reaching out with his right hand to grasp her arm. Momentarily startled, he watched his hand obey his instinctive command to draw her to a halt.
She spun around. “What? What?”
Sebastian cupped her cheek with his other hand, easing her face upward to look at him. “Why are you so afraid of your fath
er?”
“He has my son, Sebastian. And if he comes to London, he won’t allow me to see Andrew.” She pressed her hands to her face and closed her eyes. “Lord Margrave said Andrew wasn’t well. What does that mean? What’s wrong with him?”
She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. Sebastian removed his coat and slipped it around her shoulders as protection against the cold night air.
Help her.
The command fell through his mind like a stone into a lake, expanding outward in foaming waves. He slipped his hand to her neck. Her pulse beat strong and rapid. He eased his thumb to touch the soft, vulnerable hollow just beneath her jaw. He wanted to remove his glove, feel the softness of her skin against his thumb.
She still hadn’t told him everything. He’d sensed it when she’d first proposed, but he had told himself it didn’t matter, since the marriage would fulfill their practical goals. Now, seeing the distress written so plainly across Clara’s face, Sebastian wanted her to trust him enough to confide in him.
“Have you tried to see Andrew in Surrey?” he asked.
Clara shook her head. “Fairfax has banned me from Manley Park.”
“Why?” He wound a lock of her hair around his forefinger. “Why is your father so vehement about keeping Andrew from you?”
Clara’s eyes skidded to meet his. A dark red bloomed in their depths, like the molten heat of an incipient volcano. When she spoke, her voice was even, cold as glass in winter and edged with black.
“Because he thinks I killed my husband.”
Sebastian recoiled in shock. A thousand years passed in the instant between her utterance of the dark confession and his absorption of her words. He stared at her, knowing the falsity of such an accusation and yet unable to fathom the reason for its very existence.
“It’s why I was forced to leave,” Clara said. “Richard and I had argued about Andrew accompanying them on a hunting excursion. I didn’t want Andrew to go because the weather looked threatening, but Richard insisted. I accompanied them because I thought I could at least return to the house with Andrew if a storm approached.
