her husband, he hadn’t discounted the potential of her accidental involvement. Fairfax would hold to his accusation that Clara was responsible for Richard’s death.
But how did Andrew know she was not?
The familiar smells of paint and grease permeated the museum. In the front exhibition room, Clara pivoted on her heel and paced to the window. Her mind ferreted through all the tangles of the newest plan they had concocted since arriving back in London yesterday.
She could no longer afford to carry the weight of hopelessness and anguish. For the past year, such emotions had pulsed alongside her blood, fueling her desperation, but ultimately they were useless. She would never see Andrew again if she allowed despair to rule her heart.
And now, she was no longer alone. Even when faced anew with the loss of her son, even though darkness still fought to pull her downward, she reached for the light shining like gold coins on the surface. She and Sebastian had reclaimed Andrew once, and they would do so again.
She glanced to where Sebastian sat by the hearth, his brow creased as he studied the latest missives from his brother’s solicitor.
“He didn’t sign the deed of conveyance.” Sebastian pushed to his feet and began to pace, latching a hand behind his neck. “That’s to our benefit, at the least.”
Darius unfolded himself from a chair and approached to examine the papers. “Though there appears to be no possibility of Fairfax’s willingness to settle.”
“No.” Sebastian shook his head. “We will not approach him again. I will write to Alexander explaining the situation and send the letter in Monday’s post.”
“I’ve the information about the institution here.” Granville riffled through a stack of papers. “As well as all the papers pertaining to Wakefield House.”
Relief eased some of the tension from Clara’s shoulders. Wakefield House remained in Sebastian’s hands, still useful as a point of negotiation should the situation arise, doubtful though that might be.
She met her husband’s warm gaze, her heart fluttering again at the reminder that not once had he wavered in his determination to remain by her side.
The sound of the doorbell rang faintly in her ear. She went to the foyer to answer it, as both Mrs. Fox and Mrs. Marshall had left for the day. Clara pulled open the door, her breath stopping in her throat as she stared at the Earl of Rushton.
“Mrs. Hall.” He gave her a stiff nod, his features set like stone. “Sebastian’s footman said he was here.”
“Yes.” Confused and wary, Clara stepped back to allow him entrance. After he’d divested himself of his greatcoat and hat, she gestured to the drawing room. “Everyone is inside.”
Rushton’s shoulders tightened, but he nodded. Praying he would not throw yet another obstacle into their path, Clara preceded him and closed the door after he’d entered.
Silence crashed over the room. Darius and Sebastian exchanged glances, their stances guarded. Apprehension flickered across Granville’s face.
“Sebastian.” Rushton nodded at his sons. “Darius.”
“My lord.” Sebastian extended his hand to a chair. “Would you care to sit?”
“No.” Rushton’s gaze flickered to Sebastian’s hand, the finger bent at a right angle. A shadow veiled his eyes for an instant. “I’ve come to ask about your intentions regarding Andrew.”
Sebastian eyed his father warily. “We have no intentions. As you’ve proven, we have no further recourse.”
“And yet I do not for an instant believe you will not attempt to find one,” Rushton replied, folding his hands behind his back. “You’ve already gone to enormous lengths to reclaim Andrew, and I know there is nothing on earth that would stop either of you from continuing your efforts.”
“Why do you want to know what they are, then?” Hostility threaded Sebastian’s voice. “So you can relay the information to Fairfax?”
“No.” Rushton cleared his throat, looking from Sebastian to Darius and back again. “So that I might assist you.”
Silence fell again. Clara’s heart pounded inside her head as she struggled against the hope desperate to break forth. She met Sebastian’s gaze and saw the same struggle in the depths of his eyes before he turned back to his father.
“Why would you assist us?” he asked. “All you’ve wanted is to avoid scandal.”
“And up until now, I have had good reason to do so.” Rushton turned to Clara. His brows pulled together with a faint sense of confusion. “Your son spoke to me.”
Clara gasped, her hand going to her throat. “Andrew spoke to you?”
“He said, verbatim, she didn’t do it,” Rushton explained. “I assumed he was speaking of your hand in Mr. Winter’s