A Passion for Pleasure(32)

“More to do with Rushton’s insistence that I marry soon.”

Yet Clara’s proposal was so tangled up with other reasons that Sebastian could no longer find the thread of his father’s ultimatum. He needed the cipher machine plans, he needed money to pay off his debts, he needed to find his way out of the bleakness following the end of his career, he needed to help Clara….

Sebastian took another drink. A waltz played at the back of his mind, but the chords and notes blurred into the sound of Clara’s blue-gold voice, the steady cadence of which could not conceal the turbulence of her suppressed emotions.

“And Mrs. Winter knows about Pater’s decree?” Darius asked.

Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to divulge Clara’s secrets. “She asked me to marry her for reasons of her own. I told her I would consider it.”

Darius stared at him for an instant, then threw back his head and laughed. “You’re considering marriage because a woman proposed to you? That was all it took? How many women have set their caps at you over the years, but stood waiting for you to be the one to ask?”

Amusement flickered to life in Sebastian. “There is a great deal more to Clara than her forthrightness, though you are welcome to spread the word that all she did was propose. I’d find the resulting gossip very diverting.”

He would, too. There would be no disgrace attached to lighthearted speculation about his potential engagement, and it might even obscure the lingering questions about his abandonment of his music career. Not to mention giving Rushton a bone to chew on.

Still grinning, Darius tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Be assured I will do my utmost to ensure people know that Sebastian Hall has been caught in parson’s mousetrap. My only hope is that Mrs. Winter proves worth your capitulation.”

She already has.

The thought startled Sebastian. He shook his head.

“I haven’t yet capitulated,” he said.

“Yet?” Darius’s keen perception shone through his amusement. “This is the first time you have ever considered marriage, Sebastian. Is she the reason you refuse to embark on a new tour?”

“No.” Sebastian frowned, suddenly wishing he’d kept quiet. “If I do marry Clara Winter, it would be for practical reasons.”

“You never do anything for practical reasons.” Darius reached for his tankard. “You only ever do things because you want to.”

That had once been the truth. Sebastian wrapped his left hand around his right, squeezing it into a fist. In the adjoining room, a man began playing a lively tune on the piano. The sound drifted into Sebastian’s ears in ribbons of yellow and white.

Although he had no wish to respond to his brother’s probing, Sebastian realized he was somewhat grateful for it. Darius knew him. Sebastian disliked the secrets that snaked through his family now, but his brothers and sister remained his only solid ground in the turmoil of the past five months.

And as his brothers knew him, he knew his brothers. Darius’s motivations for doing anything were rarely as simple as they first appeared.

“You’re here for more than the cipher machine plans, aren’t you?” Sebastian asked. “Why?”

“Bring me the plans.” Darius skimmed his sharp gaze over Sebastian again. “Eight o’clock next Tuesday. I’ll explain then.”

Sebastian pushed his chair away from the table and left without looking back. He walked down the street, skirting around pedestrians. Carts and horses rattled on the cobblestones, and lights began to glow in the windows of the braziers’ workshops lining Houndsditch. He hired a cab and instructed the driver to leave him at Blake’s Museum of Automata on Old Bond Street.

Mrs. Fox was pulling on her cloak when he entered the foyer, and she gave him a somewhat severe frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, but the museum is closing. I intend to lock the door behind me.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Fox, as I’m not here for a tour. Are Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter available?”

She sighed. “You’ll have to go look for yourself. Mrs. Marshall is fixing dinner, so you’d best not disturb her.”

Sebastian nodded, flinging his hat and greatcoat onto the rack before heading into the depths of the museum. He found both the music room and parlor empty, then paced to Granville’s workshop, which was cluttered with boxes and machine parts.

Clara knelt beside an opened crate, leaves of creased paper and disordered notebooks scattered around her. Dust covered her apron. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and long tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to wind around her throat.