A Passion For Pleasure (13 page)

“You have the plans?” Darius asked.

Sebastian tossed the scroll onto the table. The pages scattered like leaves, absorbing puddles of spilled ale before Darius rescued them from damage with a sweep of his hand.

“We’ll pay a visit to the bank tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll transfer funds into your account.”

Sebastian no longer cared about the funds. He restrained the urge to grasp Darius’s arm again. “Tell me what’s going on or I’ll tell Rushton you’re here.”

Darius sat back. Behind his glasses, his gaze was unflinching. “Catherine Leskovna.”

“Catherine…”

“Our mother. She wants to see you again.”

Sebastian couldn’t have been more surprised if the roof had fallen in. Past the sudden shock, he heard Clara’s intake of breath.

Christ. He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her to know anything about his godforsaken mother.

He swallowed another gulp of ale and then, as if an epiphany burst within him, he had the answer. So obvious. If he’d taken a half-second to actually think, it might have occurred to him much sooner.

“Where is she?” he asked Darius in Russian. The language crunched between his teeth, unfamiliar and stale with neglect.

Darius’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but he responded in kind. “Dare I suspect Mrs. Winter does not speak Russian?”

Sebastian leaned forward, tension knotting his shoulders. Beside him, Clara shifted. He felt the exasperation building in her. Her own damned fault for insisting on this foolishness.

“Where is our mother?” he asked. “What do you know of her?”

“She found me in St. Petersburg earlier this year.” Darius heaved out a sigh and sat back. “She remarried and is now known as Catherine Leskovna. She contacted me because she suspected I would be the only one to agree to a meeting.”

“She was right,” Sebastian muttered. Alexander and Talia would have refused to see her, and Sebastian had no reason to react any differently. Certainly their mother had no way of contacting Nicholas or even knowing where he was. Darius, on the other hand, would allow his intellectual curiosity about their mother to conquer any remnants of anger and hurt.

“She has been following your career,” Darius continued, “and wanted to seek you out after your resignation from Weimar, but feared causing further disruption.”

Sebastian laughed without humor. “Did she consider that when she had a blasted affair?”

“She then approached me asking if I knew what had happened, as she suspected more than a conflict with the Weimar committee.”

Anger twisted hard in Sebastian’s chest.
Bloody, bloody hell.

He’d not been any closer to their remote mother than his brothers or sister, but he and Catherine had shared an unspoken love for music—a love Catherine had kept private. Even now, Sebastian remembered hovering in the shadows of the doorway as a child while his mother played the piano to an empty drawing room. Unaware that her son was her only audience.

Sebastian jerked his head toward the scroll Darius had set on an empty chair. “That’s what this was about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I knew your loyalty to Alexander would preclude you from even hearing me out,” Darius said. “And while it’s true that I believe the cipher machine has numerous uses, I also wanted to know if you would agree to my proposition.”

“Why?”

“If you did, it meant that you had nothing else to do. No plans for another tour, no income from concerts or teaching, no work with the Society of Musicians. It verified that you withdrew not only from your public career but from any association whatsoever with music. And your acceptance of financial compensation indicated you were in need of funds, which I’d suspected after I saw Grand Duchess Irina last summer. She informed me you’d refused her further patronage and returned to London without explanation.”

Darius sat back, his gaze flickering to Clara before settling again on Sebastian. No satisfaction over the proof of his deductions appeared in his expression. Rather he appeared dispirited, a shade of sorrow veiling his eyes.

“And that,” he said, reaching for the tankard, “also led me to believe our mother’s suspicions were correct.”

Anger over his brother’s duplicity churned in Sebastian’s gut. He hated the idea that Darius had approached the harshest crisis of Sebastian’s life with logical calculation, as if he were a puzzle that required solving.

Yet still Sebastian was unable to prevent himself from voicing the question that had burned in all their minds for nearly three years.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“After her affair came to light,” Darius said, “she fled first to France with her…paramour…then returned to Russia.”

“So she did go back.” How often had Sebastian wondered that?

“Yes. She lived on her father’s estate in Vyborg when her lover was deployed to the Urals.”

“Who was he?”

“A common soldier,” Darius said. “Alexei Leskov. They met during one of her visits to St. Petersburg. They married shortly before he left for the Urals. Her family opposed, of course, and insisted she remain at their country estate so as not to cause talk in the city. Leskov returned for a time, but last spring was sent to the Baltic Sea. This time, rather than remain confined to the Vyborg estate, Catherine accompanied him.”

“She went with him to war?” Good Lord. Had Sebastian known nothing at all about his own mother?

“She volunteered to assist the nurses. She had no training, but wished to learn because she wanted to help the Russian troops in whatever way she could. At the Battle of Bomarsund against the English and French forces, her husband was killed.”

Darius paused, as if waiting for that revelation to sink into the quicksand of Sebastian’s soul. Sebastian downed another swallow of ale to conceal his reaction of surprise and, to his confusion, sorrow.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Then what?”

“She returned to Russia to live with her sister in Kuskovo,” Darius said.

“And where is she now?”

Darius looked at him for a moment, appearing poised to respond, and then his gaze landed on Clara like a hornet seeking a vulnerable place to sting. He finally spoke in English. “She is in London.”

Clara’s courage had faltered as currents of Russian arced between the two men. She sensed Sebastian’s growing agitation, a simmering pot close to boiling over the course of a half hour, but she began to question her own heedlessness in forcing her presence on him.

Her justifications to herself had seemed so rational and significant not two hours ago—Monsieur Dupree had sent the plans to her uncle, so they were entitled to know the details of the exchange. She wanted to know as much as possible about her soon-to-be husband. She
needed
to know more about him, because God knew she had laid bare every raw fold of her soul to him…and still she remained bewildered by his incongruities, his restlessness and unease.

But this she had not anticipated.

In the strained hush following Darius’s revelation about their mother’s whereabouts, Clara sought Sebastian’s hand beneath the table. His fingers gripped his thigh, and she splayed her hand across his and pressed. Tension vibrated through his long frame, a violin strung too tight, and before Clara could speak a word Sebastian lunged to his feet and clenched his left fist around his brother’s collar.

“You lied to me.”

“I did not lie.” Darius met his gaze unflinchingly. “What would you have done had I contacted you just to tell you our mother wants to see you?”

Sebastian loosened his grip slightly, pulling back. Even Clara knew he would have ripped the letter up and tossed it to the flames.

Darius unclenched Sebastian’s fingers from his collar and pushed his hand aside. “If anyone is lying, Bastian, that person appears to be you.”

Clara’s throat closed. Sebastian hadn’t told his brother about his disability. Had he told anyone besides her?

Darius caught her gaze. “My apologies for bringing you into this, Mrs. Winter. Bastian, Catherine Leskovna is staying at the Albion. I ask only that you consider a meeting.”

Sebastian shoved away from the table and strode to the door, pushing aside obstacles in his path and leaving behind a chaotic maze of overturned chairs and displaced tables.

Clara hurried after him, nearly colliding into his solid back when she stepped outside. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his fists curled at his sides. She searched the shadows, relief welcome when she saw the cab rolling along the other side of the street. The driver had kept his word to wait.

When the cab was rattling through the streets, Clara gazed at Sebastian across from her, shards of light and shadow slanting across the hard planes of his face, his eyes burning, the black of his hair indistinct against the night.

“Don’t allow her to leave without seeing you again.” Her words came out as a whisper, floating on the dark air.

He didn’t respond, his jaw tight.

“Sebastian. She is your mother.”

“She betrayed us all. She can rot in hell, for all I care.”

“If you…” Her throat constricted. “If you do not give her the chance to make amends, you will regret it forever.”

“I have no reason for regret. She does.”

Pleas twisted through Clara’s mind. She knew nothing about the former Countess of Rushton—only that the other woman was a mother anxious to see her son again. Although Clara could not fathom the reasons behind Catherine Leskovna’s decision to leave her family, she knew all too well how it felt to long for one’s child. And to have that wish thwarted.

Clara started to speak again, but Sebastian held up a hand to forestall her. Words, pleas, faded in her throat.

When they reached the museum, Sebastian pushed open the door and strode to the front steps. Clara fitted the key into the lock and went inside, then turned and watched as he strode away, his back straight and stiff as metal.

S
ebastian paced to the hearth. He’d spent a sleepless night wrestling with everything Darius had told him the previous evening. By morning he had still come to no satisfying conclusion. So rather than dissect the problem of his mother until his brain ached more than it already did, or surrender to his festering anger toward Darius, Sebastian would concentrate on the fact that he was to marry Clara Winter two days hence.

Ought to be interesting explaining that to the rest of his family.

He gave a hoarse chuckle and scrubbed his sore eyes. It might have been better if all his relations had remained in London. Then none of this would have happened.

Clara wouldn’t have happened.

His heart stung. He dragged a hand across his chest, his mind flaring with pictures of her blue-violet eyes shimmering with heat and determination. He didn’t want to imagine his life if she hadn’t entered it. Couldn’t.

Sebastian ordered the carriage, shoving his arms into his greatcoat as he descended the steps. A half hour later he was opening the door of Blake’s Museum of Automata and facing Mrs. Fox, who rose like a dark sun from behind her desk.

“Welcome to Blake’s…oh. Mr. Hall.” A gray thread of disapproval knotted her voice.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fox.” His attempt at a smile felt as if it might crack his face. “Lovely to see you again. Is Mrs. Winter at home?”

“She’s in the studio, as usual.”

He started down the corridor. With a swiftness that belied her redoubtable severity, Mrs. Fox stepped into his path.

“The fee, Mr. Hall,” she said, “is one shilling.”

Sebastian laughed, undiluted amusement coursing through him. It was the first genuine laugh he’d experienced in more than an age. The sound of it, booming and sudden, startled Mrs. Fox, who retreated a step and stared at him in astonishment.

Still chuckling, Sebastian went back to the carriage. He retrieved five shillings from the footman and returned to Mrs. Fox. He pressed the coins into her gloved hand and closed her fingers around them.

“Well worth the cost of admission,” he assured her with a wink.

The woman gaped at him, a pink blush bringing a welcome color to her pallid cheeks.

Sebastian’s spine straightened as he continued to the studio. He found Clara folding swaths of silk and stacking them in colorful squares onto a shelf. Granville sat at a table, adjusting an automaton of a crouching tiger. Brilliant stripes of black and orange decorated the animal, its pointed teeth gleaming white and its face twisted into a snarl.

Clara and Granville both looked up at Sebastian’s entrance. A faint tension crackled the air as they exchanged glances. In an instant, Sebastian knew Clara had confided all to her uncle.

Irritation needled him. Unwarranted, he knew. He himself had solicited their aid in not only finding the plans, but relinquishing them to him.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “I don’t intend to see my mother again,” he said. “My only hope is that her presence in London remains a secret so as not to cause my family further harm.”

Granville wiped his greasy hands on a cloth, his gaze on the machine. “We’ve no one to tell, Mr. Hall.”

“Even if we’d wanted to,” Clara added.

The snarled knot in Sebastian’s chest loosened, easing the tightness of apprehension. He couldn’t confess any of these recent events to his brothers, but here stood two people with whom he’d been acquainted for less than a fortnight…and he knew to his bones that Clara and Granville would guard his confidences with steadfast dedication.

Words of gratitude stalled in his throat. He gave a short nod and turned to leave, forgetting the reason he’d come.

“Come in,” Clara said. She smoothed wrinkles from a bolt of silk and beckoned him to sit. “Have you taken breakfast yet?”

“I…no.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Marshall to set another place.” Granville twisted a key on the automaton. The tiger pushed back on its hind legs, then lunged forward across the circular platform on which it crouched. A tiny door in the platform sprang open, and a delicate, painted gazelle leapt out in a graceful arc. A growl emerged from the mechanism as the tiger landed on the hapless creature, bringing it to the ground between two large paws.

“Well,” Clara remarked, “at least it works.”

Granville chuckled. “Commissioned for a man who enjoys hunting, I suspect. He’s sending someone to pick it up later this morning.”

He pushed away from the table and left in search of Mrs. Marshall.

“I’m sorry,” Clara murmured to Sebastian after her uncle was gone. “I shouldn’t have forced you to take me with you last night.”

No, she shouldn’t have, but she knew the truth now—and perhaps that was for the best, considering she was poised to become his wife. He’d been the one to insist the marriage would encompass more than mere legal ties.

Now revealed secrets scattered between them like packages ripped open, surrounded with torn paper and bits of string. Now there was nothing left to hide.

Sebastian went to the automaton and rewound it to watch the gruesome scene play out again.

“Why don’t you want to see her?” Clara asked.

“Because she ruined my family.”

“Your brother appears to be granting her another chance.”

“My brother is a fool if he thinks anything good will come of this.”

Clara was quiet for a moment, though he felt her perceptive gaze peeling through all the hardened layers of his soul. “Don’t make a decision now that you will later regret, Sebastian. Especially where your mother is concerned.”

“For God’s sake.” An old, long-buried anger surfaced. “If anyone should regret their decisions, Clara, it is Catherine Leskovna. Not me.”

“That may be so, but when someone has wronged you and then wishes to make amends…”

“What makes you think she wishes to make amends?”

“If she’d wanted to hurt you, she wouldn’t have gone to Darius first and asked him to facilitate a meeting. She’s giving you the chance to refuse, even though I’m certain she wants more than anything to speak with you again.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“I’m a mother. And I would give my blood to have my son again.”

Sebastian lifted his head to look at her. A pang cut through his chest at the sight of the fathoms-deep longing coloring her eyes.

“You…” A curious knot tightened his throat. “You are nothing like my mother, Clara. You did not make the choice to desert your family. Aside from separation, there are no similarities between my relationship with her and your relationship with Andrew.”

“Separation is a breach, no matter the cause. You have the opportunity, and choice, to cross it and see your mother again. Andrew does not.”

A choice. Sebastian’s fingers curled into his palm. He hadn’t chosen to end his career. Wouldn’t have chosen marriage had it not been for his father’s threats. Hadn’t had much of a choice to help Darius, not when he’d needed the money and, as Darius had bluntly reminded him, he’d had little else with which to occupy his time.

He had, however, chosen Clara. A brilliant, glowing fact he still feared to fully acknowledge in the event it was taken from him.

Clara was right that he now had a choice to see his mother again. The idea that he had another choice felt good, even if he had no plans to take a step in her direction.

The tiger folded back onto its haunches. Sebastian set the machine aside and moved to where Clara stood. He put his left hand on her warm nape, rubbing the tight muscles. A sigh escaped her as she tilted her head to the side to encourage the manipulation of his fingers.

He stepped closer, inhaling her scent of oranges and spice. The muscles of her neck became pliable, softening under his touch and easing a soft groan from her throat.

Sebastian pressed his mouth to her temple, right beside the birthmark at the corner of her eyebrow. The pulse there, quick as a sparrow’s heartbeat, strummed against his lips. Warmth unfurled in his blood along with something else, something more, that rich, sea-blue satisfaction of knowing, even before their vows, that Clara was his. And that, even if she didn’t yet realize it, he belonged to her.

The idea of belonging to a woman would have wrung a laugh from him a year ago. He’d never have allowed anyone to weave into his soul the way Clara had, never have gone to any lengths to help her, never have admitted she could fell him with a harsh word.

But now he had. And he would. And God knew she could.

She shifted, stretching her body upward to press her cool cheek against his. She murmured something against his stubbled jaw, then turned her face and sought his mouth with hers. He slipped his hand to her shoulders, his fingers kneading the tension still lacing her supple muscles, and yielded to the sensations washing over him.

Clara wound her arms around his waist, splaying her hands over his lower back as she angled her head to allow him to deepen the kiss. Her body softened against his. Heat arced into his groin as her breasts pressed into his chest and her tongue danced with his.

Sebastian curled his right hand into her side, crushing the fabric of her skirts and petticoats. He stepped forward and guided her back against the wall, then pushed his hips against her. The hard ridge of his cock nudged her skirts, an ache already building at the base of his spine. He wanted her naked, wanted to rub his stiff flesh against her bare thighs, wanted her cool hands sliding over his skin…

Clara gasped, her mouth breaking from his with a rush of hot breath. She tucked her face against his shoulder, her body rippling with a moan before she slid her hand down to curve with tentative curiosity around his erection.

Sebastian winced, bracing one hand on the wall behind her as the warmth of her hand burned clear through his trousers. His breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her temple. He struggled against the urgent need to thrust against her grip, to allow her to wind the tension to breaking point and then let go.

He placed his hand on the curve where her shoulder met the upward sweep of her neck. She eased her head back, her eyes dark purple with arousal.

“Two days,” he whispered.

A shudder rocked her. “Two days.”

He forced himself to step away. Just in time, as well, since Granville reentered the room and announced that Mrs. Marshall had a late breakfast prepared for them.

As Sebastian and Clara followed him from the studio, her gaze met his. Heat still glimmered in the depths of her eyes, and her flushed lips curved with the promise of a shared secret.

A foreign sensation curled into Sebastian’s heart, skeins of color woven into a smooth, endless braid. He sat with Clara and Granville at a wooden table in the morning room, the air scented with fresh-baked bread, while they ate muffins and drank coffee…and he surrendered to the feeling as it spread through his blood, into his soul, and warmed every part of his being.