A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Four


Uncle Granville, they must be here.” Clara peeled back the flaps of the box and looked inside. She had spent most of the afternoon since Sebastian’s departure rummaging through the boxes and crates stacked in her uncle’s workshop.

“My dear, if Monsieur Dupree intended to send me something important, he certainly would have given me some forewarning,” Granville said.

“There was no letter?” Clara lifted a stack of papers from the box.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Granville cracked open a crate to reveal several coils of copper wire and drawplates. “Could be any number of things, really. Bit of a collector, Dupree. He always said he never knew when he might need something, so he wasn’t apt to throw things away.”

“He gave things away, though.” Clara removed another sheaf of papers from the box and leafed through them. “To you, at least. Do you think he sent anything to his other apprentices?”

“Couldn’t say.” Granville shrugged. “He had a number of them, though, so it’s certainly likely. But plans for a telegraph machine…” He shook his head. “Can’t think of a reason he’d send them to me, in all honesty. I’m sure several of his other apprentices were more well-versed in telegraph machines and the like.”

“Do you correspond with the others?” Clara asked, even though her heart began a steady drop to her stomach. “Can we write and ask them if they’ve received any such specifications?”

“We can try, yes.” Granville frowned.

They both knew that such a course would take an indeterminate amount of time, and the result might well prove fruitless. And the more time they wasted, the longer Andrew would remain under Fairfax’s hand.

Clara gripped the side of a crate so hard that a splinter pierced her palm. She gripped harder, welcoming the pain to try to distract the wave of rage. She did not know how much longer she could bear it—not knowing how her father was treating Andrew or even how her son fared.

“Uncle Granville.”

“Yes?”

Clara detached her hand from the crate and rubbed the bleeding wound in her palm. “I must find the plans.” She waved a hand to encompass the numerous crates and boxes cluttering the room. “I don’t know that I’ll even recognize them if I find them, but I have to look.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll help.” Granville straightened and removed his glasses, polishing the lenses on his shirt. “But, Clara, if Monsieur Dupree did send me the plans, he had a reason for doing so. I’m not certain handing them over to Sebastian Hall is a wise idea.”

“What if it helps me get Andrew back?”

“How can Mr. Hall help you get Andrew back?”

“I don’t know that he can.” Clara bit her bottom lip, unsettled by the confession. As simple as the arrangement sounded, there was no guarantee her father would actually accept Wakefield House in exchange for Andrew.

On the other hand, Fairfax had been fighting hard to get his hands on the property. And Clara had nothing left to lose.

“Go to your father first,” Granville urged, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Ask him to agree to the bargain. You needn’t take such drastic measures yet.”

“He won’t see me,” Clara said. “Even if he did, what if he took exception to Sebastian’s involvement? What if he tried to stop it?” She shook her head. “No. When I approach my father again, I must be able to offer him Wakefield House. If I have no leverage, he’ll think nothing of shutting me out again.”

She opened another box, a fresh resolve spurring her forward. She tried not to think that if she found the plans, she would have what Sebastian wanted and could then make her proposal.

For marriage.

Her heart stumbled as a wave of heat and trepidation swept through her. Even if it was for practical ends as her union with Richard had been, Clara could not imagine herself wedded to a man like Sebastian Hall with his rough, restless energy and coiled secrets. With his charm, which warmed her blood, and his devilish smile, which made her melt.

But it didn’t matter what she could imagine, did it? The swirls of heat and color evoked by Sebastian’s presence alone didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.

“I must find the plans,” she repeated, half to herself and half to Granville. “And when I do, I’ll marry Sebastian Hall and get my son back.”

But first she had to convince Sebastian. Now that she knew what he wanted, she could approach him with a proposal from which they each benefited. She just had to pray he wanted the plans badly enough not to reject her outlandish request.

Several hours later, after Granville had gone to bed, Clara conceded defeat for the day. Weariness clenched her muscles tight as she dampened all the hearths and ensured the candles were extinguished, except for the one she used to light the path to her bedchamber. She placed the flickering candle on her bedside table, then washed in cold water and changed into a shift.

After combing the tangles from her hair, she climbed into bed. Her arms ached from prying open crates and boxes, and her hands were sore and dry. Even as exhaustion claimed her body, her mind twisted around and around the idea of marriage to Sebastian Hall and all the implications buried within.

At the heart of it lay the bright, polished jewel of her son, a treasure long concealed by a veil of darkness. And after struggling for so many months to futile ends, Clara feared to hope that this time might be different. Perhaps not even Sebastian could rip away the obstacles keeping her from Andrew, but she held fast to her instinctive trust in him.

She pressed a hand to her chest and felt the rhythm of her heartbeat. Even as her mind sought to convince her that marriage to Sebastian Hall would be no different from her union with Richard in its practicality, Clara’s heart vehemently protested such a comparison.

On the surface, perhaps, it would be a pragmatic arrangement, one that might lead to the fulfillment of her deepest, most powerful wish, but beneath the veneer of convenience, such a marriage would be laced with the restless, unnerving sensations Sebastian aroused in her with every look, every touch.

Marriage to him would be complex, dangerous. She would be required to make choices—present herself as an exemplary but complacent wife or attempt to peel back all his layers to reveal the center of his soul?

For with Sebastian, there could be no middle ground. He would have all of her or nothing. Even now, Clara knew the truth of it.



Dawn broke, red as old roses fading into the grayish blue sky. The sounds of the world filtered into the drawing room—the rattle of a carriage on the street, a boy hawking newspapers, the faint whistle of a bird. Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his roughened face, pulling himself from a brief, restless slumber. His eyes burned.

“Mr. Hall?” A footman paused in the doorway, bearing a silver tray. “A note arrived for you.”

Sebastian pushed himself upright as Giles crossed the room. He took the folded letter. His name spread across the front in a ribbonlike, feminine hand. Clara.

The footman straightened, slanting his gaze over Sebastian’s rumpled clothes and unshaven features. “Shall I draw you a bath, sir, or would you prefer to break your fast first?”

“Just bring me coffee, Giles.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sebastian put Clara’s letter on his lap and stared at it with the sense that it contained a message of great import.

Giles arrived with a tray and poured coffee. Although the footman didn’t speak, Sebastian was aware of his exasperation. In fact, he was growing accustomed to the faintly critical demeanor surrounding his brother’s staff.

He couldn’t blame them. Alexander had been so proper, even rigid, in the way he ran his household, his life. He always appeared for breakfast precisely at seven, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed. The staff’s schedule accorded with his predictable, daily habits.

Since Alexander and his wife left for St. Petersburg, Sebastian had come to live in his brother’s Mount Street town house. The staff was still adjusting to the rather radical change in routine.

So was Sebastian. He thought he’d want Alexander’s vast house to himself, but the bloody place was so magnificent, replete with plush furniture, velvet curtains, priceless paintings, that Sebastian felt like a blemish marring an expanse of flawless skin. And nothing here was his; these quarters were fit for royalty.

He grabbed the letter and broke open the seal. Bits of wax fell to his lap as he opened the page and read the short message:

Dear Mr. Hall,

I would like to request your presence at Blake’s Museum of Automata at three o’clock Thursday afternoon. There is a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss.



Yours truly,

Mrs. Clara Winter

A matter of some urgency…?

Could she have found the plans already? Was today Thursday?

He shook his head to clear his mind. Yes. He’d told Clara yesterday about the plans, so there was certainly time for her to have found them. But if she had, he knew a woman as clever as Clara would not relinquish them without expecting something in return. He suspected he would find out at three o’clock exactly what that something was.

Sebastian shoved away from the chair and went upstairs. He rang for a bath, then washed and dressed in a fawn-colored morning coat and silk cravat. As he headed back down for breakfast, the doorbell rang.

Waving the footman away, Sebastian went to answer it. A dark-haired man stood outside, his eyes keenly intelligent behind wire-rimmed glasses, his woolen greatcoat buttoned up to his neck.

Sebastian stared in astonishment at his brother Darius.

“Hello, Bastian.” Faint amusement crackled across Darius’s expression. “Are you going to invite me in or leave me standing here?”

Any other time, Sebastian would have greeted his brother with an embrace. Now, as he remembered the pain of recent months, followed by Darius’s implacable certainty that Sebastian would do as he requested—which proved to be the truth, owing to his new infirmity—anger bubbled into his throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“I arrived two days ago,” Darius said, his voice the cool blue of a lake undisturbed by waves. “I think it’s best if Rushton doesn’t yet know I’m here, so I’m staying at the Albion for the time being.”

Darius shed his greatcoat, then moved past Sebastian into the drawing room. With no other choice, Sebastian stalked after his brother.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, closing the door behind them.

“I thought you’d have found the cipher machine plans by now.”

Sebastian twisted his neck to the side, tempted to tell Darius exactly what he could do with his blasted plans. “No.”

Darius’s penetrating gaze raked over him. Sebastian fought the urge to shift with discomfort, knowing well the assessments and conclusions locking together in his brother’s analytical mind.

To deflect that assessment, he asked, “Have you heard from Nicholas of late?”

Darius’s mouth compressed as he gave a quick shake of his head. “Alexander is well, though. Besotted with his wife and greatly anticipating the birth of his child. Talia laughs every time she imagines what he’ll be like when the babe is born.”

Sebastian almost smiled at the thought, which eased some of his anger. No father would be as fiercely protective and devoted as Alexander. Again Sebastian was glad he hadn’t surrendered to his desperation and asked his elder brother for financial assistance.

Alexander would have helped him in any way he could, but not without demanding a full explanation of Sebastian’s troubles. And the last thing Sebastian wanted was to cast a shadow over his brother’s newfound happiness by revealing his medical obligations and the reasons behind the end of his career.

Alexander was happy. For that, at least, Sebastian was deeply grateful.

“How is Jane?” he asked.

“Delightful girl,” Darius said. “Excited beyond measure at the idea of being an older sister. You’ll be glad to know she’s taken up piano lessons again, though she still prefers to spend her time with insects.”

“I’d expect no less of her.” Sebastian was pleased at the news of his family. While at Weimar, he had planned a trip to St. Petersburg to visit them himself, but had canceled shortly after discovering the problem with his hand. He’d never be able to hide such a disability from Alexander.

He studied his younger brother. “Why don’t you want Rushton to know you’re here?”

“He won’t like the reason for it,” Darius said.

“The cipher machine plans?”

“Among other things,” Darius replied. He went to the tray and poured a cup of now-cold coffee. “Have you found them?”

“Not yet.” Unease tightened Sebastian’s chest over the vagueness of his brother’s response. “Why couldn’t you look for them yourself?”

“Because I haven’t been in London for almost four years,” Darius replied, his voice touched with impatience. “And I was certain you would know how best to approach Granville Blake or Clara Winter.”

Sebastian curled his left hand into a fist. “How do you know about Mrs. Winter?”

“From Jacques Dupree’s wife, actually,” Darius said. “She is quite fond of Mrs. Winter.”

“When did you meet Madame Dupree?”

“Last spring the Duprees came to St. Petersburg at the behest of the governor, who wanted to commission a clock as a present for his daughter,” Darius explained. “I met them at a dinner party and told Dupree I was interested in learning more about his inventions. He was agreeable, and we began a lengthy correspondence.

“Once I’d apparently gained his trust, he revealed his plans for the cipher machine, but warned me that he did not want it to end up in Russian hands. After he fell ill, his wife wrote to me and explained that he had sent many of his belongings, including the plans, to Granville Blake. She told me about Mrs. Winter as well, and that she’d recently come to live at the museum and assist her uncle.”

Darius sipped his cold coffee, grimaced, and set the cup aside.

“I understand Mrs. Winter is quite lovely,” he continued. “Perhaps now that I am in London, I ought to free you from your promise and pursue the plans myself.”

Possessive anger filled Sebastian’s chest at the idea of his brother approaching Clara and interacting with her. His suspicion flared anew. Darius was not the sort of man to openly reveal his interest in a woman, so for him to speak of Clara—

Sebastian’s fists clenched as his gaze clashed with his brother’s. Though Darius’s expression remained impassive, a faint smile tugged at his mouth.

The breath escaped Sebastian’s lungs in a hard rush.

“Asshead,” he muttered, forcing his fingers to relax.

Darius’s smile widened. “I’d wager ten guineas you didn’t anticipate encountering someone like her when you agreed to my offer.”

“She’s a means to an end,” Sebastian said, painfully aware of the hollow tone to his words. “Nothing more.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Sebastian glowered, disliking the reminder that his brother perceived so much more than Sebastian wanted to reveal. It made Sebastian wonder what other secrets Darius might detect. Secrets he needed to keep concealed.

He shoved his right hand into his pocket and paced to the window. Frustration tightened his chest.

He spun on his heel and gave his brother a defiant glare.

“I told Mrs. Winter what I was looking for,” he said.

Darius blinked, and for an instant Sebastian thought he’d succeeded in rousing his brother’s annoyance. But then Darius merely lifted an eyebrow.

“And what did she say?” he asked.

“You specifically instructed me not to tell anyone.”

“Yes, but I did not expect you to find the plans yourself or steal them,” Darius replied. “I assumed you would have to discuss the matter with Mr. Blake or Mrs. Winter. Must admit I’d have chosen Mrs. Winter as my confidante as well.”

Chosen. The word struck Sebastian hard, overshadowing his irritation. Had that been what he had done? Had he chosen Clara?

After so many months of feeling as if circumstances had been forced upon him—the infirmity and resignation, the failure of the surgery, the position with the Patent Office, Rushton’s ultimatum—Sebastian welcomed the idea that he had chosen to confide in Clara.

“She has no idea where the plans are,” he told Darius. “Or even if her uncle has them.”

“Yet it won’t be a hardship for you to continue searching.” Darius removed a folded note from his pocket. “Contact me here when you find them. I’ll need them by the middle of next week, and I promise to compensate you handsomely.”

“Why next week?”

“The Home Office has already appointed members for a select committee on wartime correspondence,” Darius explained. “If I can secure the funds, I want to construct the machine before their next meeting. First, however, I need to analyze the plans and determine if construction is even possible.” He extended the note to Sebastian. “It’s an important machine, Bastian, one that might prove extraordinarily effective in both war and as part of telegraph and railway systems. That is precisely why Jacques Dupree wanted to ensure its secrecy.”

Sebastian took the note. Suspicion flared beneath his heart, adding fuel to the fire that had burned since he’d received Darius’s initial letter. Never had he been given cause to suspect one of his brothers of malice, but Darius’s evasiveness left too many unanswered questions.

Then again, Sebastian hadn’t been truthful of late either.

He sighed. Since their parents’ divorce, secrets had begun to spear through his relationships with his brothers, cracking walls that had once seemed indestructible.

He turned away from Darius, trying to smother his suspicions. He’d never have even felt suspicious of his own brother had it not been for their mother’s betrayal. She’d been the one to incite doubts in all of them, for if the Countess of Rushton, the very epitome of the haut ton, could conceal such a reprehensible secret, were not the rest of the Halls capable of hiding secrets?

None of them had talked much about the former countess. Though Sebastian knew that Alexander and Talia had renounced all mention of their mother, he’d had little opportunity to learn Darius’s thoughts on the matter.

Then again, discerning Darius’s thoughts was like attempting to read and understand the Rosetta stone.

Sebastian shook his head as a humorless laugh stuck in his throat. God in heaven. The rest of the world was done with it. His brothers and sister were done with it. What would it take for Sebastian to bury the past?