A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Three




All has gone well thus far with Lady Rossmore?” Granville Blake asked. He opened the cherrywood case of a clock whose face was decorated with a landscape scene and a moving windmill.

“Indeed.” Perched on a nearby stool, Clara watched her uncle fiddle with the springs and chronometer contained inside the clock. Having Uncle Granville back at home restored Clara’s sense of balance and purpose, which had been so askew since Sebastian Hall had reentered her life.

“Tom and I brought Millicent and the bench to the Hanover Square rooms,” she continued, “so it’s just the harpsichord now. Lady Rossmore said you could assemble the rest on Friday afternoon.”

“Good, good.” Granville pulled at a pinion wire and picked up a small lathe. Tufts of blond hair fell over his forehead as he frowned at an uncooperative mechanism.

Warmth spun through Clara’s heart as she watched him. Her love for her uncle was stronger than ever, unstained by anger and bitterness. For many years he had tried so hard to protect her and her mother from Fairfax. Granville had kept Wakefield House out of Fairfax’s hands. He had hired solicitors to wrestle Fairfax in the courts and written countless letters to her father pleading her case.

All to no avail, but Clara knew her uncle would pound a stone wall until his hands were broken and bleeding if it meant she would have her son back.

A delicate cough came from the doorway. Mrs. Fox stood there with her ramrod shoulders and cold, elegant face.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fox.”

“Mrs. Winter.” She nodded at Granville. “Welcome home, Mr. Blake.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Fox.” Granville wrenched at a part inside the clock, tossing her a quick glance over the tops of his glasses.

“How is Monsieur Dupree’s family?” Mrs. Fox inquired.

“Grieving, but well,” Granville replied. “Monsieur Dupree’s son is shipping several more crates of machinery and supplies to me. Should arrive within a week or so. He thought I could make good use of them.”

“Kind of him, especially considering the circumstances,” Mrs. Fox murmured. She glanced at Clara again. “You’ve had no visitors yet?”

“We’ve been open only fifteen minutes,” Clara replied.

“Yes, but the front desk should be staffed at all times during open hours.”

“Uncle Granville would hear the front bell if anyone comes in.”

“Anyone who enters should not be obliged to wait for someone to welcome them.” Mrs. Fox turned to Granville. “And Mr. Blake, I’m certain you wish to rest after your long journey.”

Granville muttered something under his breath, his attention on the entrails of the clock.

“Your bags have been brought upstairs, Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Fox continued. “And Tom is filling a bath. I suggest you make haste before the water cools. Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake!”

At the heightened pitch to her voice, Granville glanced up. “Oh, er, much obliged, Mrs. Fox.”

He picked up a scape wheel and examined the pointed teeth at the edges as he walked to the door. After he’d left the room, Mrs. Fox turned to Clara.

“I’ve rescheduled an appointment this morning so that Mr. Blake might have a bit of time to rest,” she said.

“Not Mr. Hall?”

Mrs. Fox frowned. “Mr. Hall is not listed in the appointment book.”

“He told me he would come sometime this morning.” Clara couldn’t prevent the surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again, even with the memory of their kiss burning like a dark star in the back of her mind.

“Well, really, Mrs. Winter, this is not terribly convenient,” Mrs. Fox said. “Shall I send word to Mr. Hall to postpone the appointment?”

“No. He has been wanting to speak with Uncle Granville for several days.”

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Fox narrowed her eyes with disapproval and swept from the room with her skirts trailing like coal dust behind her.

Annoyance prickled at Clara’s spine as she returned to the studio. She picked up her sewing again and was soon immersed in the rhythmic motion of pushing and pulling the needle through the heavy silk, a cadence that allowed her to focus on the task and empty her mind of thought.

“Meant to give this to you.”

Granville came into the room and extended a mechanical toy to Clara. “From Monsieur Dupree’s wife. She said he’d been intending to send it to you as soon as he finished it.”

Curious, Clara took the toy. A slender male figure wearing a harlequin’s costume and ruffled collar balanced on his hands atop a narrow table.

Clara found the key at the base of the platform and twisted it. The acrobat braced his hands on the table and lifted his body into the air, then executed a graceful somersault that curled his entire form before vaulting back to his original position.

She laughed, delighted by the intricate, whimsical action.

“For your collection,” Granville said, his smile edged with sadness.

Clara dragged a large wooden chest out from beneath a table and unlatched the lock. Several dozen toys lay inside the chest, some mechanical inventions that sprang into action at the turn of a key and others well-crafted stationary figures.

All were decorated with great care, bearing costumes of silk and satin, tiny jewels and buttons, intricately painted faces. There were ducks that waddled and quacked, dancing animals, wooden trains, singing birds, spinning tops, a shepherd who piped a tune on a flute, and a Turkish conjurer who concealed three silver balls beneath golden goblets.

“I’ll write Madame Dupree a letter of thanks this afternoon,” Clara said.

“She’ll appreciate that.” Granville gazed at her. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’ve instructed my solicitor to look into the matter of selling or transferring Wakefield House to your father again, but there’s not much one can do against a final ruling.”

Clara gripped the acrobat. “Perhaps we could appeal to the justices themselves?”

Granville just looked at her, his blue eyes swimming with sympathy. Clara’s heart closed in on itself as she sank down onto a chair and rested her face in her hands. A second later, her uncle’s arm circled her shoulders.

“Never give up hope, my dear,” he murmured.

“Such a fool I am,” Clara whispered, swallowing hard against a rush of tears.

“No mother is a fool who wants her child back,” Granville said.

No, but she was a fool to think she could ever appease her father into giving up custody of Andrew.

No further recourse, the solicitor claimed.

Clara could not believe it. She could not fathom a world in which a defenseless boy, her son, would be condemned to a life of isolation. And that she, as his mother, would have no further recourse.

Not wanting her uncle to bear witness to her dismay yet again, Clara pushed herself upright. She swiped at a stray tear and straightened her skirts. “Well, we’d best get back to work. There’s a great deal to do before Lady Rossmore’s event.”

Granville looked as if he wanted to say more, but of course they both knew there was nothing left to say.

After Granville returned to his workshop, Clara picked up the acrobat and turned the key again to watch the dexterous flip and spin. How Andrew would love such a creation. For once, a flutter of happiness rather than pain followed the thought.

She put the acrobat on a nearby table so she could see it from her sewing chair. She sat down and picked up the green silk again.

Push, pull. Push, pull. Don’t think. Don’t remember.

“I believe she might have granted me a smile.”

The deep, clear voice came from the doorway. Clara looked up with a start. Sebastian Hall stood with one hand on the jamb.

“What…oh.” She embedded the needle into the silk. “Do you refer to the formidable Mrs. Fox?”

“I do indeed. At least, I think it was a smile. Might have been more of a grimace, now that I think on it.”

Clara smiled. She felt his appreciative gaze from across the room, heating her like sunshine.

“Now that,” he said, “is most assuredly a smile, which I could never mistake for something else.”

A surge of pleasure reddened Clara’s cheeks. Oh, but he was still charming, wasn’t he? Even with that combination of fatigue and restlessness clinging to him, his eyes warmed as he looked at her.

And Clara was glad of it. Glad of the evidence that Sebastian Hall’s allure still appeared intact, though buried beneath his soul-weary exterior.

“You’re here to see my uncle,” she said, putting the sewing aside.

Disconcertion flashed across his features. “Your uncle has returned already?”

“Yes, just several hours ago.” Clara suppressed the sudden thought…no, the hope…that perhaps Sebastian had come to see her and not Uncle Granville. Again, that hope was followed by the instinctive sense that he could prove her ally, even if as yet she had no idea how.

Sebastian continued to watch her as she rose and smoothed her apron. He paused beside a table covered with folds of silk and satin and sank his gloved hand into a swath of orange silk.

Clara watched his long fingers caress the material, then slid her gaze over the length of his arm, across his shoulder to his face. He looked much as he had yesterday—clad in a forest-green, superfine coat and snow-white linen shirt, but still with shadows smudging his dark eyes, and furrows bracketing his mouth.

What does he want?

The question sprang into her mind again, a riddle she couldn’t solve. Sebastian Hall might well enjoy the spectacle of the automata, but Clara could not believe he held the mechanisms in abiding interest. He’d hardly cast Millicent a glance when they’d first met in the Hanover Square building.

Perhaps that had been because he’d been too occupied looking at Clara.

Warmth suffused her entire body as she recalled his tangible scrutiny. She couldn’t recall another man, not even Richard, appraising her with such blatant thoroughness.

And appearing to like what he saw.

Pushing aside the unexpected pleasure of the thought, Clara ducked her head and hurried past Sebastian. “If you’ll wait here, please, I’ll fetch my uncle. I told him to expect you.”

She went to seek out Granville and found him opening several boxes of machine parts Tom had delivered yesterday. Upon hearing of their visitor, he washed the dust from his hands and accompanied Clara back to the studio.

“Mr. Hall, welcome to our museum.” Granville extended his hand.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blake.” Sebastian greeted Granville with a nod, ignoring the other man’s outstretched hand.

A frown tugged at Clara’s mouth as an awkward pause filled the air before Granville lowered his arm back to his side.

Sebastian spoke in a pleasant tone, as if nothing untoward had just occurred. “Your niece has been most accommodating in your absence.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Granville said. “How else might I assist you?”

“I’m interested in learning more about how the automata are actually put together. And how you intend to use music in an auxiliary fashion to correspond with the actions of the figures.”

Clara blinked. Perhaps she was wrong about Sebastian’s interest in mechanics.

Out of curiosity, she followed him and Granville back to his workshop, where Granville proceeded to drone on about clockwork mechanisms, bellows, pin joints, and cylinders. He took Sebastian to the former dining room of the town house, where he drafted his diagrams, and unfurled scrolls etched with detailed plans for toys and automata.

Sebastian nodded as Granville waved his hand over the drawings and explained how he intended to bring them to fruition.

“Your niece mentioned you also make clocks?” Sebastian asked.

“On occasion, yes. Usually when commissioned. Not quite as interesting as automata, I’ve found, though often the mechanisms are similar.”

“And do you construct anything else?” Sebastian asked.

Granville shrugged. “I could make anything, I suppose, with the right plans. Why? Have you got something in mind?”

“I’ve a sister-in-law who is a mathematician,” Sebastian said. “She and my brother live abroad now, but she once told me there are machines that can calculate sums. Have you heard of such a thing?”

“Certainly,” Granville said. “Quite interesting. My mentor, Monsieur Dupree, has done a bit of work with arithmometers, but there’s some difficulty with the multiplying element. Did you wish to commission such a machine?”

“Possibly, though I’m also inquiring for my younger brother Darius. He lives in St. Petersburg as well and is far more mechanically minded than I am.”

Ah. That explained it a bit, then, Clara thought.

“Darius heard there are also machines that can transmit messages in cipher,” Sebastian continued. “Do you know about those?”

“Not in any detail, no,” Granville said. “Though if you’d like, I can give you the address of a gentleman who lives in Southwark. He knows more than I do about machines such as those. Perhaps your brother might like to correspond directly with him.”

“I’d be much obliged.”

As Sebastian turned away from the table, Clara swore she saw frustration flash in his dark eyes.

“If you’ll both go into the drawing room, I’ll bring tea in,” she suggested. “You can discuss this further.”

Thoughts tumbled through her mind as she went to find Mrs. Marshall. Again she was seized by the sense that Sebastian Hall could prove useful. She didn’t know how, but surely the son of an earl would have access to resources she lacked. And she was not too proud to plead for anything, not where Andrew was concerned.

She brought the tray into the drawing room and began to pour the tea. Sebastian twisted the key on a mechanical birdcage that Uncle Granville had been working on. The birds whistled a reedy melody that seemed at odds with the delicacy of the feathered larks.

“You ought to use Haydn,” Sebastian remarked.

“Haydn?” Granville repeated.

“‘The Lark’ Quartet, opus sixty-four, number five,” Sebastian said. “The first violin imitates the call of larks, which would be more suitable than…what is that supposed to be? A cello?”

Granville straightened and scratched his head. “I don’t know. Found it at a music shop and tried to translate it into the engineering mechanism. Doesn’t quite work, does it?”

“Not quite, no.”

Sebastian glanced at Clara, his brown eyes crinkling with warm amusement. The sight arced pleasure through Clara, evoking memories of the dashing, vital pianist who had made her heart sing.

The glimpses of that young man made her wonder if her former self, the girl who’d once plucked wildflowers from the grassy hills of Dorset and felt the sea foam around her bare feet, hadn’t been entirely extinguished.

No. She pushed the thought aside as she returned to the studio. There was no sense in such useless imaginings. Whether or not that girl still existed made no difference in her current life, which was wholly focused on reclaiming Andrew.

And in order to achieve that goal, she needed to formulate a new plan. One that might somehow include Sebastian Hall.



A half hour passed after Clara left the drawing room. Her uncle’s exhaustive knowledge of machinery and automata appeared endless, and while Sebastian recognized the innovation in what the man was doing, he couldn’t muster the slightest interest in auxiliary levers and polar coordinates.

Whatever those were.

“It’s the bellows mechanism that produces sound,” Granville continued, “and a certain degree of pressure articulates the vowels and consonants, then if one controls the valve with a cam attached to a crank…”

Bloody hell.

Sebastian crushed a yawn between his teeth. “What are your thoughts on the current political climate, Mr. Blake?” he interrupted.

The other man looked startled, as well he probably should considering the abruptness of the question.

“Oh, er, the war, you mean? Just read the report about the Battle of the Alma, which seems to have been quite a decisive allied victory. They even took two Russian generals prisoner. No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Sebastian held no strong loyalty to Russia, though he’d spent much time there as a child and on several concert tours. Now his desire to return to the country sprang from the fact that two of his brothers and his sister-in-law lived in St. Petersburg. “I’ve just read a report that Alma is considered a precursor to the rapid fall of Sebastopol.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

Sebastian studied the other man. Clearly Granville’s unassuming demeanor concealed a sharp intelligence, but how far did he extend that intelligence? Granville hadn’t expressed much interest in…what had he called them?…arithmometers, which made Sebastian wonder if he even knew about the cipher machine plans.

Sebastian set his cup down with a force that rattled the saucer. He thanked Granville for his time and the sharing of his very comprehensive knowledge, then went in search of Clara again.

He returned to the studio and paused in the doorway. Clara knelt on the floor, her skirts pooled around her and her head bent as she rummaged through a wooden chest.

Sebastian admired her for a moment, casting his glance over the delicate curves of her profile and the arch of her pretty neck gilded with loose chestnut tendrils. He liked the way her pins and ribbons seemed unable to contain the length of her hair, making it necessary for her to brush the locks back with a sweep of her elegant hand.

And that refinement concealed a steel-like resolve evident in the determined line of her chin and unflinching gaze.

She turned to look at him. An unexpected smile widened her mouth, creating two shallow dimples in her cheeks. Warmth uncurled in Sebastian’s chest.

“Has Uncle Granville bored you to tears yet?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Sebastian lied. “We were discussing the machines that solve mathematical problems.”

“Is that so? Well, if anyone would know about such things, it would certainly be Uncle Granville.” She rose to her feet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Not exactly. But I might have found something I wasn’t looking for.

“I hope I soon shall,” he replied, advancing with certain but careful steps. He still did not know how best to approach her, a circumstance he attributed to her incongruity rather than his tarnished charm.

He paused in front of her and reached up to flick a strand of hair away from her cheek, pale as cream. Instead of surrendering to a blush this time, Clara gazed at him with somewhat startling directness.

“You have…ah, you have extraordinary eyes,” Sebastian said, studying the pearly color of her irises.

“My grandfather used to call them the eyes of a witch, though he meant it in a fond way.” Clara arched a brow in amusement. “I think.”

“I’m sure of it,” Sebastian said. “They’re quite beguiling.”

“Thank you.” She slanted those eyes to his mouth, her glance like the brush of silk. Not the first time he had caught her looking at his mouth. He wondered what she found so interesting about it.

If anything. Perhaps she just didn’t know where else to look, though he suspected that thought wouldn’t have occurred to him with any other woman. If Clara Winter didn’t know where else to look, she’d stare at the wall behind him. She wasn’t coy.

He glanced at the interior of the chest in which numerous toys were packed with care.

“Your uncle’s creations?” he asked.

“Yes.” Clara placed her hand on the lid and closed it. “I keep them for my son.”

“You have a son?”

“His name is Andrew.” She pushed the chest away with a hard shove. Wood screeched against the floor. “He is seven years old. He lives with my father on his Surrey estate.”

Though Sebastian wanted to know more, the tone of Clara’s voice repelled further inquiry. He heard the emotions beneath her surface-thin remark, like a veneer of ocean ice, and he sensed the effort it took her to keep that façade from breaking. He knew because the very same struggle now ruled his own life.

“What do you want?” Clara asked, lifting her dark lashes once again.

His heart thumped hard against his rib cage. “What do I want?”

“From my uncle. From…from me.”

“I—”

She gave a quick, dismissive shake of her head. “Do not tell me you want to understand the functioning of the automata. I saw you try to conceal a yawn at least three times during Uncle Granville’s lengthy discourse.”

“It’s true that I’d rather have been speaking with you.”

“You’d rather have been speaking with anyone, as long as the topic was of interest to you.” She swept a hand behind her head to tuck a lock of hair back into place. “And why do you seek to flatter me so often? Why did you kiss me? What do you want?”

Sebastian fought a brief battle with himself. If he told her the truth, that he was seeking plans for a secret project, she could very well banish him from the museum, and then he’d never find the plans.

On the other hand, this circumventing was getting him nowhere, and he had a better chance with Clara than he did with Granville.

Clara’s eyes steadied on his face. He detected a faint tremor in the full line of her mouth, a tremor she tried to suppress by pressing her lips together.

“I might be able to help you,” she said, “but you must tell me the truth.”

The truth. His right hand flexed, the fingers tightening. No one knew the truth.

Emotions swayed in Clara’s strange eyes. Eyes of a witch, indeed. They pulled him in like an undertow, drawing him toward their fathomless depths. His intention to charm her into revealing her knowledge of the cipher machine faded to transparency. He could no more mislead this woman than he could stay away from her. He no longer wanted to.

He did, however, want to know her secrets. He almost burned with the desire to explore all the pleats and folds of the tumultuous soul he sensed lay beneath her lovely façade.

Sebastian took a breath, felt his pulse pounding in his throat. His brother had asked him to keep a confidence, but Sebastian needed to earn Clara’s trust. And honesty was the only way he could achieve that.

“I am seeking the specifications for a certain machine,” he finally said. “I’ve word that your uncle might have them in his possession. The machine was invented by Jacques Dupree, and I have reason to believe he sent the plans to your uncle shortly before his death.”

“How do you know such a thing?”

He didn’t actually know much of anything. “My younger brother told me about them. He lives in St. Petersburg and corresponded with Monsieur Dupree about his inventions.”

“What type of machine is it?”

“One that transmits telegraphic messages,” Sebastian said. “Apparently in an…innovative fashion.”

“But why would Monsieur Dupree have sent the plans to my uncle?”

“I don’t know,” Sebastian admitted. “Darius said it was likely to ensure their safekeeping. You don’t know anything about them?”

“I do not.” Even though her words were forceful, a faint tremble shuddered beneath them. “But if I did, why would I give them to you?”

“I will pay you for them.”

“That decision would be Uncle Granville’s, not mine.” Her gaze slid past him then, and Sebastian sensed the presence of her uncle.

He turned. Granville looked from Clara to him, concern darkening his eyes behind his glasses.

“Everything all right, Clara?” Granville asked.

“Yes.”

Sebastian expected Clara to ask her uncle about the machine’s plans. She didn’t. His eyes met hers. She stared at him, as if willing him not to reveal his intentions. He gave a slight shake of his head. A smile tugged at her lips.

There it was again, that astute gleam in her eyes, as if she was twisting his revelation around in her mind and examining it from all angles. As if she was trying to determine how she might use his goal to her own advantage.

Rather than be unnerved by the thought, an odd warmth spun through Sebastian. By telling Clara about his need for the plans, he sensed he had given her something she sought. And whatever she chose to ask in return, he thought he would surely grant her wish. No matter what it was.



Clara watched Sebastian through the window as he strode down the steps to the waiting carriage. A heavy curtain seemed to part inside her, allowing streamers of light to filter through. The nascent hope she’d experienced since Sebastian Hall had kissed her now bloomed into something tangible and real.

She had so desperately wanted to believe he could help her, yet that belief had been tangled up in her memories of his goodness and generosity. And while she still believed he would assist her in any way he could, for she could not imagine anything less of him, she needed more from him than he might be prepared to give.

Unless she could offer him something in return, and now he had told her exactly what that might be. If she found the plans he sought, she had all the pieces necessary to strike a bargain with him.

Wakefield House belonged to her. Although the courts had decreed that she couldn’t sell it or bequeath it to anyone else, she could ensure that the law transfer it to someone else’s name.

Sebastian’s name. There was nothing to prohibit him from then giving the property to her father with the proposition that he release Andrew to her custody.

Clara pressed a hand to her chest. A tremble, both exhilarating and terrifying, swept through her down to her toes.

She needed to marry Sebastian Hall.