Clara’s shoulders tightened with irritation. In the thirteen months since she had come to live with Uncle Granville, Clara had found that though Mrs. Fox was sometimes circumspect with her opinions, every flicker of her gaze, every nuance of her expression, carried a weight of meaning.
Self-righteous meaning, Clara thought. Mrs. Fox possessed the air of a woman who had never done anything wrong in her life, who shaped herself to the world rather than expecting the world to accommodate her.
Safe though it might be, how one actually accomplished anything with such a manner, Clara had not the faintest idea. Then again, Mrs. Fox likely had little reason to harbor fear so caustic it would forever scrape her throat like salt water.
Feeling as if the scales of balance had tipped decisively in Rosemary Fox’s direction during this conversation, Clara nodded toward the array of ledgers and papers on the desk.
“I’ve ordered new curtains for the front room. Please ensure the bill is listed in the museum accounts and not those of the household.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Fox nudged a stack of letters toward her. “The morning’s post, I believe.”
Clara leafed through the stack. Her heart stuttered when she saw one stamped with the seal of her uncle’s solicitor. Clutching the letter in her fist, she hurried toward the music room.
With shaking fingers, she tore open the letter.
Dear Mr. Blake and Mrs. Winter,
We regret to inform you of the final ruling handed down 4 October 1854 by the Court of Chancery at Lincoln’s Inn Hall, Chancery Lane, regarding the ownership of Wakefield House, a property located at…
Several neat rows of writing swept across the page, but individual phrases jumped out and stabbed one by one into Clara’s heart.
Upheld conditions of the trust…possession of the house remains in the hands of Mrs. Clara Winter…prohibited from selling or bequeathing the house…
Regret.
Our deepest apologies.
Final ruling.
No further recourse.
The letter fluttered from Clara’s limp fingers. She stared at a table piled high with layers of silk and tangled ribbons. For a moment, she was numb, trying to deflect the emotions converging upon her with the force of a battering ram.
Wakefield House was the only point of advantage she had against her father, the only thing she possessed that Lord Fairfax wanted. The financial obligations of Manley Park, including a new studhorse and the cost of a new wing he’d added onto the house, as well as the mortgages of his other properties, had left him facing bankruptcy.
If Wakefield House were transferred to his name, Fairfax could then sell it and use the funds to settle some of his debts. But the terms of the trust forbade Clara from either selling or signing over the property to anyone, which meant she could not offer it to her father with the proposal that he relinquish custody of Andrew in exchange.
Now the courts had made the terms of the trust inviolable.
Regret…apologies….regret…no further recourse…
Clara’s heart was crushed like a piece of paper. Anguish roiled through her. The clock chimed. She clenched her hands as a gleaming image of her son rose through her despair.
She had to think of another strategy to get him back. She had no other choice. There would never be another choice except to fight and fight and fight again.
Her father’s soul had twisted long ago like tangled ivy choking the breath from a tree. And if Clara didn’t do something now, Fairfax’s grip would suffocate both her and her son.
Sebastian stepped from the carriage in front of Blake’s Museum of Automata. He hadn’t expected that helping Darius locate the plans for some incomprehensible machine—plans purported to be at this museum—would mean an excuse to see Clara Whitmore again. That alone lent his task a new and welcome sense of purpose.
Anticipation flickered to life in him as he thought of his encounter with her two nights prior. He couldn’t ask her outright about the machine plans that Darius sought, but perhaps he could convince her to reveal what she knew.
If anything.
Even if his efforts came to naught, the moment to approach her could not have been better—she knew him from her past, and he might see her again at Lady Rossmore’s ball. Like a cat seeking entry into a garden mouse hole, all he needed to do was paw at the opening until it widened just enough.
A fence wrapped around the front garden of what appeared to be a former town house. Wrought-iron balconies and pedimented windows perforated the façade of the building, and