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.
Chapter Nine
Sebastian paced to the hearth. He’d spent a sleepless night wrestling with everything