organize the various parts of the machine, then Clara turned back to the stage. Sebastian Hall was gone.
The evening following his encounter with Clara Whitmore, Sebastian stood in the crush of yet another ballroom. Voices rose around him like flocks of multicolored birds. Gentlemen and ladies in their finest evening clothes circled the dance floor, gaslights shining against expanses of silk and satin. A fire crackled in the massive hearth at one end of the room. Music wafted from the quartet seated near the windows.
Sebastian shifted his weight, resisting the urge to tug at the knot of his cravat. The music reached his ears in streams of pallid, muted colors. A drop of sweat trickled down his spine. Beside him, his father, the Earl of Rushton, leveled his dark gaze on the crowd like an archer seeking a bull’s-eye.
“Lord Smythe,” Rushton said, nodding to a lanky gentleman standing near the fire. “Recently appointed by Her Majesty as Ambassador to the Spanish Court. I believe his daughter has returned from a school in Paris. She might be present at Lady Rossmore’s charity ball. You are attending, yes?”
“Yes.” Sebastian thought of Clara, with her strange eyes and voice flowing with blue and gold. He would see her again at the ball six nights hence, but he hoped she would be at her uncle’s museum when he visited the following morning.
“Lord Smythe is also involved with a report on the defects of patent laws and suggestions for reform, both of which you ought to know about,” Rushton continued. He drew his eyebrows together, an expression that enhanced the severity of his features. “Since it seems you will be in London for some time now, you must focus on a worthwhile pursuit. I’m glad to see you’re finally coming to your senses about what is expected of you.”
Of course Rushton was glad. Music had never been a worthwhile pursuit, not in Rushton’s eyes. His father didn’t even know the truth of Sebastian’s resignation from the renowned Court of Weimar. No one did.
If Sebastian didn’t tell anyone, perhaps it wouldn’t be real.
Not that there was anyone to tell, even if he’d wanted to. Aside from Rushton, their entire family was away from London. Alexander and Lydia now lived in St. Petersburg not far from their younger brother Darius’s own residence on the Fontanka canal. Their sister Talia had gone to St. Petersburg to visit and assist Lydia, who was expecting a child in the spring. Nicholas was…well, no one ever knew exactly where Nicholas was.
Maybe Sebastian ought to find out. Nicholas would know of a good place to escape.
Sebastian flexed his fingers and took a step toward the refreshment table just as a gentleman and young woman approached.
“Miss Butler.” Rushton inclined his head toward the woman while his left hand fisted discreetly around the sleeve of Sebastian’s coat. “Lovely as ever.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Pretty as a tea cake in a blue lace gown, she encompassed them both with a smile.
Her father, Lord Dalling, beamed with pride. A rotund man with a mustache that curled at the ends like a swine’s tail, he favored Sebastian with an approving nod. “Pleasure to see you, Hall. Rushton here tells us you’re thinking of choosing a position with the Patent Office.”
Sebastian stifled a sigh and attempted to detach himself from his father’s subtle grip. Curious word, that. Choose. No, he wouldn’t choose any bloody such thing as a position with the Patent Office. He didn’t even know if he could carry out a clerk’s duties. Not if it meant needing to write a great deal, as he doubted his ability to hold a pen for any length of time.
“Sebastian might take a position as clerk for Lord Russell,” Rushton said. “Important to make one’s way up, isn’t that right, Dalling?”
“Indeed, Rushton, indeed.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Hall,” Miss Butler said, turning her blue gaze to him. “We missed you over the summer when you were on your grand tour.”
“Thank you, Miss Butler.” Sebastian returned her smile, feeling only a thin shadow of the pleasure he’d once experienced when a woman had looked at him with such a bright, admiring expression. “How is your mother?”
“Very well. Gone off for a stay in the country.”
“Champagne, Miss Butler?” Rushton lifted a hand toward a passing server. Actually, he lifted a finger, a quick gesture as if he were flicking aside an insect. A footman hurried toward them, balancing a tray of precariously perched flutes.