When he ended the kiss, his eyes gleamed. “Let me look at you.”
“Please don’t.”
“How can you say that is not beautiful?” He cupped one of her breasts gently, then bent his head and sampled it. Clara nearly came off the bed with pleasure.
“Oh, hell,” she said.
“Oh, hell?” His head came up. Blue eyes dancing with wicked laughter met hers. “Why do you say that?”
“Because here it is broad daylight, and we’re going to do it all over again.”
****
“Now remember,” Clara whispered to her husband, “don’t say anything about having been in jail. Or having been dead.”
“What do you take me for?” Liam shifted uncomfortably inside his suit and adjusted his tie one more time. They stood on the doorstep of a splendid house—a mansion, really—on Delaware at Edward Street, waiting for the door to open. And all he could think about was tearing the dress off his wife’s body and having his way with her yet again. As if twice this morning had not been enough. Quite possibly, he could not get enough.
The taste of her still lingered on his lips, the sweetest thing ever to grace them. He remembered the places he had put his tongue and felt half mad to put it there once more. By God, she—
The door swung open, and he found himself faced with a mechanical man. He’d heard of them, of course, but could not remember—for he could remember so little—if he had ever seen one up close.
“I should have warned you,” Clara murmured. “My grandfather keeps a number of mechanical servants—the ordinary sort will not stay with him long.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Clara. Please come in.”
The butler’s voice box clicked when it spoke. Its body, made of silver alloy, stood as tall as Liam but was much thinner, and its surface had been sculpted to resemble a suit of clothes. It turned to lead them, with a distinctive puff of steam. Clara knew it had an internal combustion chamber where a human’s guts might be.
“Thank you, Max,” she said and tightened her grip on Liam’s arm. They stepped in.
And oh, the house was like a picture drawn to intimidate, everything perfect and in place, not like walking into a real dwelling at all. A large entry hall opened from the door, with a black-and-white marble floor and flowers on tables so highly polished they gleamed. A double staircase curved in two branching arcs just ahead, but the steam butler led them to a door on the right.
“Miss Clara, your grandfather had us bring him down to receive you in the parlor.”
“How is he, Max?”
Liam admired the calm in Clara’s voice, but he could feel her tension flowing into him through the contact point of her arm on his.
“Much the same, Miss Clara.” The butler hauled the door of the chamber open; they went in.
A vast room, well-proportioned, languished in gloom. Even though the sun shone brightly outside, the draperies on all the windows had been drawn. Liam found it difficult to locate his host at first. But a lamp burned on a table, and beside it sat a wizened figure in a push chair. Clara’s fingers dug into his arm again.
Aye, and he would be careful. He understood what was at stake—his right to her bed, for one thing.
“Clara.” The voice sounded like air being forced through a broken bellows. It beckoned them closer, and Liam felt Clara’s reluctance rise. Curious, he inspected the figure in the chair.
White hair, a face like a hatchet, and a pair of eyes so sharp they might carve Liam to pieces. Thin, pale hands clutched the arms of the push chair like weapons. But Liam suspected this one’s weapon would lie in his tongue.
“Grandfather,” Clara said, stopping as far away as seemed polite.
“About time you came to see me. A dutiful granddaughter would be here every day inquiring after my health and seeing to my comfort.”
“You know I am not a dutiful granddaughter.” Clara lifted her chin, and Liam felt the steel in her. A flash of emotion for her erupted in his chest. Was it pride? Or something warmer?
The old man’s gaze turned to him. “Well, girl, make your introductions.”
“Grandfather, this is William, my new husband. William, this is my grandfather, Randolph Van Hamelin.”
Ah, and there was a moniker meant to impress. Liam put his heels together and bent his back in a bow worthy of a minor lord. “Sir.”
“So—you wed at last,” Van Hamelin said, “and so conspicuously previous to your birthday. Well, sit down, girl, sit down. And turn up the lamp. Let me have a look at him.”
They sat on a small settee opposite the push chair. Clara leaned forward and turned the screw on the lamp. The light filled her eyes and turned them a deeper shade of green.
The old man’s eyes were hard and blue, like specks of ice set in the wrinkled desert of his face. Liam saw cruelty there, and no affection. All his protective instincts arose. This old stick would cause Clara grief over his dead body.
Ironic, that.
Van Hamelin inspected Liam slowly, beginning at his feet and working upward. He sneered. “Looks like you found him in the gutter, girl. He reeks of ‘common.’ ”
The sheer rudeness of the comment knocked Liam back in his seat, and him a bog-jumper.
Clara drew a breath. “We were common once,” she said coolly. “You were a poor Dutch boy when you came here, so you never tire of telling us. Off the boat in New York and fleeing a cruel master, without two cents to your name.”
“That was a long time ago, and we are not common now.”
“Neither is William. He is the son of one of Father’s colleagues.” Clara’s voice remained devoid of emotion, but Liam could feel the trepidation streaming off her. “You must remember him speaking of—”
“I recall none of the drivel your father spouted,” Van Hamelin interrupted. “My daughter chose badly. It seems you have gone the same road.”
Clara had instructed Liam repeatedly on his course of behavior here; speak only when spoken to and as little as possible even then. But now he leaned forward. “You’ve not shared two words with me, Mr. Van Hamelin, yet you decide to condemn me out of hand?”
The old man reared back in the wicker chair. His nostrils pinched as if he smelled something distasteful. “Irish!” he pronounced. “And straight off the boat, by the sound of you.”
Liam lifted his head. “Dutch!” he returned. “And tight as a turned screw.”
Clara gasped. The old man looked so offended, it was almost comical. He switched his gaze to Clara.
“Granddaughter, how could you bring a gutter Irishman to my door?”
Clara’s voice now trembled. “Grandfather, William McMahon is a businessman like yourself.”
“I’ve not heard of him.” Van Hamelin’s gaze switched back to Liam. “And I know of every businessman in this city. In what endeavor are you engaged?”
“I owned a livery in Montreal before I came here—sir.” The last word sounded like an epithet even to Liam’s ears.
“Owned?”
“The business has been dissolved.”
“Failed? That is what you mean.” The old man crowed. “Couldn’t even run a horse barn! Ah, Granddaughter, you have done well for yourself. And I suppose, McMahon, you will expect her to support you now, on my money.”
Liam answered truthfully, “I’d sooner starve.”
“Well, on one thing we agree.”
An interruption came then in the form of a second mechanical servant that opened the door and entered the parlor, a tray loaded with a tea service in its hands. This unit looked rather battered, its suit less lustrous than the butler’s and with dents marking the surface, especially near the head. It groaned and emitted a steady stream of steam as it approached.
Van Hamelin said, “I did not know, when I ordered tea, that you had brought me an Irishman.”
Clara replied, “I thought you knew everything that happens in this city. I should think you’d be perfectly aware whom I married yesterday.”
Van
Hamelin opened his lips to reply, but the servant, rolling forward, caught one of its wheels on the edge of the area rug. It wobbled in its version of a stumble and dropped the tray at the old man’s feet.
Chapter Thirteen
The crash reverberated around the room. Shards of pottery and hot tea splashed everywhere; frosted biscuits flew like pink-and-white missiles.
Clara’s grandfather howled in rage. He picked up a book from a side table and hurled it at the steam unit’s head, and followed it with a small porcelain figurine.
“Stupid wretch! How many times have I told you to watch where you’re going? You’re fit only for the scrap heap, do you hear me? The scrap heap!”
The unit trembled. It bent down with a gust of steam and began gathering broken china, shoveling the pieces back onto the metal tray.
“Out! Get out of here.”
Randolph Van Hamelin’s face now shone crimson. Clara wondered if a stroke might not carry him off on the spot, but her hopes were dashed when he continued to roar. “You will go to the scrap yard the moment I am finished here. Go and shut yourself down.”
“Please, Master.” The unit wheezed. “I do not want to die.”
“You can’t die, foolish thing. You’re not alive.”
The unit trundled from the room, head hanging.
Liam squeezed Clara’s arm. She felt his strength, a reassurance.
“That is what happens when one keeps them too long,” Van Hamelin said in an aggrieved tone. “Let that be a warning to you, girl.”
“I do not keep mechanical servants,” Clara replied. “I find them an abomination, given there are so many honest men, women, and, unfortunately, even children in this city begging for work.”
“Like this ‘honest’ Irishman you have brought me?” Cruelty shone in Van Hamelin’s eyes. “Wed how many days before your birthday?”
“Three,” Clara answered.
“I suppose now you will expect ownership of the house, and the funds to run it.”
“That was the agreement, Grandfather.”
“So it was.” The old man leaned toward them. “You needn’t think I don’t know this for a farce. I’ll be watching the both of you to ascertain if this is a real marriage. And if it proves false, I will take steps. Do you hear me?”
Clara’s heart clenched. “What sort of steps?” She and Theodore Collwys had made very sure they followed the terms of the legacy. She felt certain she had met them all.
“Never you mind.” The old man grinned, which made him look very like a skull. “Leave that to me.” He switched his gaze to Liam. “You can be investigated. And exposed. Now get out of my sight.”
Clara arose, pulling Liam with her.
“Have your lawyer contact my lawyer, Grandfather.”
“Go!”
They moved to leave, but Liam hung back for a moment, pulling at Clara’s hand.
“’Twas a pleasure to be after meeting you, sir,” he said, rolling on the accent. “And you be sure to sleep well, mind—wouldn’t want you dyin’ in the night.”
Clara made a strangled sound and towed Liam from the room. A second figurine crashed into the door as they exited.
“Wicked,” Clara breathed, not certain if she referred to her grandfather or her husband.
“I thought that went well.” At least Liam did not appear intimidated. “What is this, then?”
The battered serving unit stood before them in the entry hall, the butler at its back. The server trembled so hard it clattered, and emitted a constant trail of steam.
“Miss Clara,” it clicked. “I beseech you to save me. Do not let him send me to the scrap yard.”
“I’m sorry, Dax.” Clara looked at the poor distressed unit with pity. Who said they had no feelings? The thing was clearly terrified. “What can I do? You belong to my grandfather, and you know very well no one can prevent him doing as he wishes.”
“The bully,” Liam muttered.
The unit waved its hands. “But I have done my best to serve him for many years. I need maintenance! New wheels. A repair to my boiler. He abuses me, strikes me, beats me.”
“I do not doubt it.” Compassionately, Clara added, “Perhaps in that case the scrap yard will afford you some peace.” She glanced at the butler, who stood as emotionless as if it had been switched off. What did it think? Did it think?
“I do not want to die!” Dax protested with a belch of steam. “Please, Miss Clara, save me. Take me with you.”
“Oh, lord, Dax, I can’t.”
And Liam said, “Wait just a minute.” He looked at the butler. “You know, this might be you in a few short years.”
The butler shifted but made no other response.
“Max, is it?” Liam asked the butler unit. “Have you summoned the scrap man, Max?”
“I have, sir.”
Dax trembled harder.
“Well, then,” Liam gestured at the server unit, while still looking at the butler, “this equipment here might henceforth be considered garbage.”
“So it might, sir.”
“I don’t think you could object to us taking a pile of garbage off your master’s hands. Here, Max, help me load him into a steamcarriage. Quickly, now.”
“Liam,” Clara protested, “I don’t think that’s wise.”
Liam looked her in the eyes and lifted his brows. “Come now, Mrs. McMahon. I can’t help but feel for the fellow, under the circumstances. Death is so very unpleasant.”
****
“Ah, now, no need to fret about it,” Liam told his wife. She had discussed their actions in seizing the steam unit all the way home, and Liam had begun to learn that when she talked things up it meant she was worried. He, personally, thought it a great achievement to have stolen a patch on the old toad in the mansion. And anyway, why should the poor clattering server die?
“Your grandfather didn’t want it. And you take in every other blessed waif that comes to your door. Why not Dax?”
She stared him in the eyes as they disembarked from the steamcarriage. In the clear morning light, her eyes glowed an uncanny green.
How could she say she wasn’t beautiful? She looked like an elfin princess from some magical world. And he wanted to bury himself in her, so much it hurt.
“You’re right,” she sighed, which made a first. “There is no difference, on an ethical level.” She placed her hand lightly on the unit’s shoulder. “Come, Dax. Let’s get you inside.”
“Do not feel well, Miss Clara,” the unit complained.
“We’ll fix you up,” Liam told it heartily. “Those two lads—Fred and Woodrow—will be able to give him an overhaul, right, Mrs. McMahon?”
They clattered into their own entryway only to find Theodore Collwys in close conversation with Georgina. The two broke it off at once, however, and Collwys turned to Clara with a warm smile.
“Greetings, my dear. How went your meeting with your grandfather? I’ve come to discuss all the details.”
Liam tried to decide how he felt about Collwys. The fellow looked like a dandy, dressed in a fine, brown suit with his fine, sandy-colored hair worn in a sculpted coif, and with the kind of features Liam suspected would make women swoon. Liam thought him a little too cozy with Clara. Now he literally felt his back go up.
“No need to worry about her,” he growled. “She was with me.”
“I was not worried, Mr. McMahon, merely anxious to hear about the outcome. And what is this?” Collwys raised his eyebrows at the serving unit and did not appear to notice Liam had failed to shake his hand.
“My grandfather condemned it to the scrap heap. You know what he’s like.”
Liam narrowed his eyes. No, he definitely didn’t like the confiding, comfortable way his wife spoke to this man. He wondered why Clara hadn’t taken Collwys to play her husband. He looked exactly the sort of which the old fart back on Delaware would approve.
Collwys smiled indulgently. “Just like you, Clara, to let your heart rule your more practical s
ense.”
“’Twas I who insisted we bring the unit,” Liam put in. “It didn’t want to die. And I happen to believe in second chances.”
Collwys gave Liam a searching look. “Fascinating,” he murmured.
Liam’s back went up still further. “’Tis not a logic problem, but about a life—his.” He gestured at Dax.
“So, Mr. McMahon, you feel steam units have sentience? And rights?”
“Everything has a right to live, if it wants to.”
Clara closed her fingers on his arm. “We will have time later for esoteric discussion. Let’s go into the surgery, where we can be private. Georgina, where are the children?”
“The lads are out working, of course, and the others are in the dining room, supposed to be about their lessons. But you know what they are like.”
“Yes.” Clara stripped off her gloves. Liam immediately thought about her small, soft hands all over his body earlier this morning, and ached for it again.
She gestured to the door of the surgery and spoke kindly to Dax. “We do not wish to be overheard. Do you feel up to standing guard at this door?”
But Collwys hung back, a hesitant, apologetic look on his face. “Clara, are you quite sure we should include your husband in this discussion? These are, after all, private financial matters.”
Why, the pompous ass, Liam thought. Clara must have been able to feel him bristle, for she seized his arm again in a calming gesture. “Liam is heavily invested in this—”
She got no further. From outside, in Virginia Street, came the squeal of iron tires, screams, and the sound of a collision that rattled the front windows.
Liam had the door yanked open before he knew what he was about. The others crowded past him and then froze at the scene that met their eyes.
The accident had occurred directly in front of the house. A steamcab had swerved, likely to avoid a crowd of children playing in the street. It had then plowed into a parked lorry wagon, losing a wheel in the process. Now steam rose in a cloud from the damaged boiler, but it wasn’t that which caught Liam’s attention. For the cab driver hadn’t managed to miss all the children.
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