She alit in front of the Wescotts’ house at precisely seven minutes and twelve seconds after four o’clock and knocked on the door as sedately as any upstanding lady with legitimate business might. It opened only a few seconds later, and Hammond the butler bowed her inside. “Lady Ashford,” he said. “Welcome. Mr. and Miss Wescott are expecting you.”
Clemency had not anticipated Miss Wescott’s presence, and the news dampened her spirits. If Mr. Wescott intended to protect her reputation by providing them both with a duenna, he was more careful of social mores than she had believed. She was not sure how she felt about that. She put on a cheerful smile and followed Hammond up the stairs to the sitting room.
Miss Wescott sat near the fire and did not turn at Clemency’s entrance. Mr. Wescott was seated at a table upon which were spread the components of some mechanical device. He rose when Clemency entered, smiling his familiar smile that warmed Clemency’s heart. She chastised herself for being so smitten, but her father’s voice again echoed in her head: Never let fear stand in the way of getting what you want, and fear of what others will say is the worst fear of all.
“Lady Ashford,” Mr. Wescott said. “It is your turn to rouse my curiosity. You have information about last night’s failed bombing? Forgive me, but after reading what the newspapers reported, I suspect I know how you came about this information. But I will pretend to ignorance if it means listening to you speak.”
Clemency blushed and cast a glance at Miss Wescott, who continued to watch the fire as if she had no interest in their conversation. Well, it was not as if she did not already know of Clemency’s secret adventures. “If your guess is that I was the Extraordinary Mover reported seen at the site of the explosion, you are correct. I happened upon the would-be bombers when they attempted to destroy St. Paul’s Cathedral. They had adapted your stolen music box to make their bomb, and I discovered it in time to remove it to where it could harm no one.”
Mr. Wescott’s eyes widened. “I cannot decide which of those statements to respond to first. You are unhurt?”
Clemency’s shoulder still troubled her, but she said, “I took no injury to speak of.”
Miss Wescott finally turned away from the fire. Her eyes were as unfocused as they had been the day of the music box theft. “That is fortunate,” she said. “For you, if not for them.”
Clemency did not know what to make of this statement, so she ignored it. “The bomb would not have destroyed the cathedral entirely, or at least I do not believe so, but it would have caused great damage. So it was quite fortunate that I was in the area.”
“Given the size of London, it is also surprising that you Flew there last night and not elsewhere,” Mr. Wescott said. He shook his head slightly as if breaking free of a trance. “I beg your pardon, Lady Ashford. Will you sit?”
Clemency took a seat near Miss Wescott and waited for Mr. Wescott to sit opposite her. “Mr. Wescott,” she said, “I have a dilemma. My actions may have saved lives, but based on what I read in the newspapers, they have confused the issue of who the bombers are and what they intend. No one but I—and now you and Miss Wescott—know they intended harm to St. Paul’s. But if there is an investigation underway, whoever your Mr. Rutledge is needs as much correct information as possible. And I seem to have robbed him of some of it.”
“Yet telling anyone the truth means revealing your involvement,” Mr. Wescott said, “and likely your habit of nocturnal activities as well.”
“You have it exactly, Mr. Wescott.” Clemency ran a hand over the smooth satiny fabric covering the sofa arm. “I would like your advice, if I may. My instinct is that my privacy is less important than the lives of those who might be hurt or killed if the bombings continue. But if those investigating are not competent, I would be sacrificing that privacy for nothing. What should I do?”
Mr. Wescott ran his hand over his chin in thought. “That is quite the dilemma,” he said. “I cannot tell you what to do—that is not a responsibility either of us wants me to have. But I can tell you that Mr. Rutledge struck me as an intelligent, astute man who is strongly committed to stopping the bombings. That means, however, that he is also ruthless. My assessment is that if you were to tell him of your involvement, he would not assume you were at fault the way the Morning Herald did, but he also would not care about protecting your reputation.”
“But is my reputation more important than saving lives?”
“You have already made a decision,” Miss Wescott said. “You came here looking for reassurance. Colin and I will stand by you, you know.”
Clemency blinked in surprise. “I did not,” she began, cleared her throat, and said, “Is it so obvious?”
“To me,” Miss Wescott said. “But I should not tell you what you feel. Mama always called me haughty and presumptuous and a naughty girl.” The vacant look disappeared, and for a moment Miss Wescott looked much younger than the twenty years Clemency guessed her age to be. “That is what they all said.”
Mr. Wescott rose from his seat to kneel at his sister’s side. “Lydia, that is in the past. The past, remember? Mama was wrong.”
Miss Wescott turned her stricken look on him. “It hurts us both,” she said. “Me, and then you, and then me again. You are not a Discerner, I know, but there is so little difference.”
“I know.” Mr. Wescott took her hand and squeezed it. “You should lie down. You are close to being overwhelmed by your talent. Please, Lydia, go and rest.”
Miss Wescott nodded. When she again looked at Clemency, her eyes were focused and not at all distant. “Forgive me,” she said. “Sometimes I forget. But I know you understand how memory can hurt. Forgetting would be the wrong kind of release.” She stood and walked to the door. “And remembering means nothing ever dies.”
When the door shut behind her, Mr. Wescott continued to stare at it as if he could see through its wood and the walls to the Cabinet beyond. “Forgive my sister,” he said. “She endured much before she learned to control her talent, and the memory is sometimes painful and takes her by surprise.”
“I understand completely,” Clemency said. Immediately she regretted the force with which she spoke. Who knew what Mr. Wescott might make of it? But he seemed not to notice anything was amiss. “I honor her struggle. It must be so difficult to distinguish between one’s own emotions and those of everyone else.”
Mr. Wescott sat beside Clemency with his hands clenched on his knees. “Our mother feared her, and treated her badly,” he said, his voice harsh. “When she could no longer bear Lydia’s presence, she confined her to an asylum in the country—nothing terrible, at least not physically, she was not abused or mistreated, but she was surrounded by others whose emotions were fractured and violent. You can imagine the results.”
Horrified, Clemency could only nod.
“It took me three years to gain the money and influence to have her released,” Mr. Wescott continued. “Mother fought the decision, but after Father’s death I was the head of the family, and I swore she would never see Lydia again.” He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “She probably believed I meant it to benefit her.”
“Of course not,” Clemency said. “It was all for Miss Wescott’s sake.”
Mr. Wescott nodded. He smiled, a self-deprecating expression. “Forgive me for burdening you with our family woes. I do not like anyone imagining Lydia is weak or unstable, simply because she has some painful memories.”
His words stabbed at Clemency’s heart. “Of course not,” she repeated. “She is to be honored for enduring, and for remaining sane.” She did not know if she could say the same for herself.
Mr. Wescott cleared his throat. “Mr. Rutledge left me a means to contact him,” he said. “I can send a message that I have new information, and arrange for him to meet you here, if you would like. That will protect your anonymity to a degree, though of course Mr. Rutledge will wish to know your identity.”
“That will be superior to him knocking on my front door,” Clemency said. Mr. Wescott’s nearness made her heart race; though he was not touching her, he was close enough she imagined she could feel the warmth of his body scorching her skin. His hands now curled loosely on his knees, those large, powerful hands that had gripped hers so firmly and yet so gently. She tore her gaze from his hands to discover his attention fully on her face, his gaze a steady regard that sent a shiver through her.
His smile deepened into amusement. “Surely you are not cold,” he said.
Clemency had not realized her shiver was so noticeable, and she blushed—she must look awful, face bright red in contrast with her white cap, tendrils of hair flying in every direction as they did when she Flew any moderate distance. At least her Flying garb was dark enough not to show the inevitable smudges that developed when one Flew across London repeatedly. She only looked overwrought and not slovenly.
“No,” she said. “I am not cold.”
Mr. Wescott’s smile faded, and his brow furrowed slightly, as if Clemency were a puzzle he could not solve. “And yet you shiver,” he said. “Perhaps that means someone is thinking of you.”
His eyes captured her attention, those sea-blue eyes with a hint of green, startling against sun-darkened skin that was the mark of a publicly employed Bounder. “That might be awful,” she found herself saying. “Suppose it is someone horrid?”
The corner of his mouth turned up, just enough to be a smile. “And suppose it is not? Suppose it is someone who wishes the best for you, and whose regard is worth having?”
Her heart beat hard and fast as if it meant to propel her out of her seat and into the sky. “How will I know?” she whispered.
Mr. Wescott shrugged, and one eyebrow arched nearly to his hairline. “It may have to remain a mystery.”
He was closer now, close enough that she could smell the clean scent of soap and the fainter tang of mineral oil on his hands. Her father’s voice echoed in her ears again: Why not do whatever it takes to grab hold of what you want? Before fear and propriety asserted themselves, she leaned forward and kissed him.
His lips were warm and soft and curved to meet hers, kissing her in return as sweetly as she could ever have hoped. She put her arm around his strong shoulders and thrilled to feel his arm around her waist, drawing her close. He rested one large hand against her cheek, cradling it gently, his fingers lightly stroking the side of her face. The warmth of his skin against hers sent a flash of desire through her. For a moment, she remembered Armand, but Colin Wescott’s body felt nothing like her seducer’s, he smelled clean and sharp and not of the cloying scent of roses, and the memory vanished, swallowed up by the passion of the moment.
How long they sat there kissing, Clemency never knew, but at some point, they drew apart, slowly, as if they both knew when the moment should end. Mr. Wescott removed his hand from Clemency’s face, resting it once more on his knee, and Clemency impulsively covered it with hers and was warmed by the delighted smile the gesture elicited.
“Well,” she said, and found herself speechless.
Mr. Wescott put his other hand atop their joined ones. “That was unexpected.”
“Unexpected? I feel as if we have been moving toward that ever since the night we met,” Clemency said.
His smile broadened. “Very well. Unanticipated, at least in the sense that I did not lure you here in the hope that you would kiss me.”
Clemency smiled impishly. “That is much more reasonable. I should apologize for being presumptuous, except you seemed to enjoy it.”
“Oh, I did, I assure you.” Mr. Wescott removed his hands from hers and ran them through his hair, disordering it. “But you—no.”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing but my own misunderstanding. You seemed interested in me, and then you would flee, and I could not tell where the truth lay.”
Clemency drew in a breath, remembering the times her memories of Armand had intruded upon her. “Someday I will explain,” she said, “but I believe I should go now.” It was her choice, but the decision still sent a pang of loss through her.
Mr. Wescott looked as if he wished to protest, but he merely smiled and stood, taking her hand and bringing her with him. “You are correct,” he said, “for the sake of propriety if nothing else. I will send word when I have heard from Mr. Rutledge.”
“If he does not respond soon, I believe I will see you next on Monday, when you deliver my sister’s chair. And—oh! Again on the following Tuesday, at Miss Pilgrim’s gala here.” Clemency squeezed his hand lightly and released him. “She is so eager, and I am pleased to see your inventions receive the recognition they deserve.” She chose not to mention how jealous she had been of Mr. Wescott’s supposed closeness to Jane. That would only make her seem unstable.
“They are not all my inventions, but I take your meaning,” Mr. Wescott said. His smile when he looked at her was so warm, so tender, it caused another shiver, which made them both laugh.
Mr. Wescott escorted her to the front door, and Clemency looked back at him as she soared into the sky. He shielded his eyes with one hand so he could watch her, and she waved and saw him wave back. Delight elicited a giddy, heartfelt laugh that spilled uncontrollably out of her. Perhaps kissing a man to whom she was not married or even engaged was not what her father had intended when he encouraged her to reach for what she desired, but she remembered the face of the man who had assured her mother that Clemency deserved her freedom and felt he would not have censured her.
Mr. Wescott was right; that had been unexpected, and yet felt the more glorious for it. And she had banished her demons. She had never felt so certain that the future held something wonderful.