A Riveting Affair,
by Candace Havens, Lily Lang, and Patricia Eimer
Copyright © 2013 by Candace Havens, Lily Lang, and Patricia Eimer. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One of Book One, Beauty and the Clockwork Beast by Lily Lang
November 1872
Rose Verney stood on the doorstep of the massive Cavendish mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue and thought, I should never have come here.
She turned, but the brown coupe she had hired at Grand Central Depot had already clattered off in a great puff of smoke.
She was stuck.
Her grip tightened on her borrowed valise, which contained the two dresses her best friend had lent her and her father's blueprints for his teleportation machine. Though her cloak provided precious little defense against the chill in the night air, she made no move to reach for the brass lion-head knocker that seemed to gaze down at her with contempt.
Her plan had seemed so reasonable when she had formulated it in her sister’s New Haven home.
Now she wondered if she had lost her mind.
Cavendish House resembled a fifteenth century Florentine palazzo, built of some expensive-looking white stone in a graceful Renaissance style that her mother would have appreciated. The size and elegance of it both awed and appalled her.
In some dim, distant corner of her mind, she had always known that Sebastian Cavendish was the scion of an astonishingly wealthy railroad family, but she had always thought of him simply as yet another passionate and disheveled student, immured with her father in the laboratory for days on end.
Did he even still live here? If he did, was anyone home? The curtains of the house were all drawn, the windows dark and lifeless. Perhaps Sebastian was at one of the many Cavendish estates in Newport or upstate New York. Or he might have gone abroad to Europe.
She had no way of knowing. And even if he was at home and agreed to receive her, would he remember her? Would he help her?
It didn’t matter. She couldn't back down now, not after she had run away from her own sister and the man who wanted to marry her. Not after she had forced her best friend to hide her and lie for her. Not after she had sold her mother's pearl brooch for the rail ticket from New Haven to New York. Not when she had gotten this far.
Taking a deep breath and refusing to think about what she was doing, Rose lifted the brass handle and knocked three times.
To her surprise, the door swung open immediately. The most ancient butler she had ever seen stared down at her. He was short and cadaverously thin, with liver spots darkening his wrinkled skin and the bald crown of his head.
He inclined his head towards her, but before he could speak something small and gray and furry streaked past Rose and into the house.
She gave a small shriek of surprise.
Had it been a small cat, or a very, very large rat? It had moved so rapidly that she hadn't been able to tell. She gazed up at the butler in consternation, but he merely gazed vaguely in the direction in which it had disappeared, then turned back to Rose.
“Mr. Cavendish is expecting you,” he said, his voice so creaky it sounded as though it needed oiling.
“He… he is?” asked Rose. She certainly hadn't written to inform Sebastian that she was coming, though perhaps he had inferred, from the escalating urgency of her tone in the last few letters she had sent him, that she would soon be making an appearance in person.
The butler bowed. “He is waiting for you upstairs. May I take your cloak?”
The foyer was only marginally warmer than the night air outside. Rose shook her head. “No, thank you. I'll keep it for now.”
“Very good, miss. If you'll follow me.”
The butler hobbled through the foyer, carrying no lamp or candle of any kind. Rose, her eyes unaccustomed to the pitch darkness after the brightness of the gas-list streets outside, could barely make out his thin, creaky figure. Trepidation made her heart beat faster as she followed him into the thick shadows.
After a few moments, however, her eyes adjusted, and she perceived that she was following the butler down a long, airy hall. Various rooms opened up on either side of her, the furniture within draped in dark cloth, as though for a funeral.
One of her father's colleagues had once stated that Cavendish House was one of the greatest showplaces in New York, with its twenty-foot mahogany doors, marble and gilt, rich wall-hangings, and carved ceilings, but the mansion’s former grandeur had given way to dust, disorder, and other signs of neglect.
Though the air of such a place ought to be stale, the rich, sweet scent of roses filled her senses. A nearby garden or conservatory? Absurd. A man who neglected his house so badly would hardly devote time to cultivating flowers.
They reached a sweeping grand staircase of shallow steps. The butler made a slow and painful ascent, Rose following close behind. This portion of the house was at least somewhat illuminated by a brilliant stream of moonlight pouring in through a large two-story window.
Where was the butler taking her? Did Sebastian perhaps keep a private parlor upstairs? The rooms on the first floor certainly seemed uninhabited, and as a bachelor, Sebastian might prefer to keep only a small suite available for his use.
On the fourth floor, the butler started down a long, spacious hall. The dust was so thick that it gathered at the hem of Rose's dress. She was actually leaving footprints.
She shuddered and lifted her skirts.
At the end of the hall, they came at last to a pair of carved mahogany doors. The butler gestured toward it. “Mr. Cavendish is just inside.”
Then, before she could react, he bowed and departed.
Nonplussed, Rose placed her palms flat against the heavy door and pushed. It groaned and creaked on its hinges. When the gap was sufficiently wide for her to pass through, she hesitated. Was she supposed to announce herself?
Well, there was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath and clutching Jenny's valise even tighter, she stepped inside.
Here, at least, the air was warm from a large fire, which cast a faint scarlet glow across the massive four-poster bed that filled the high-ceilinged room.
Rose blinked. Not a parlor, then.
A bedchamber.
She whirled around, seeking guidance or help, but there were only shadows and dust. Then movement on the other side of the room caught her eye.
In a wingback chair close to the fire, a man was sitting, holding a glass of some pale amber liquid in one large hand. His face was cast in deep shadows, but she could sense the intensity of his gaze. She took a hesitant step towards him.
“Mr. Cavendish?” she inquired, and her voice was far more timid than she had intended.
For a long moment the man made no response. He simply continued to study her without moving. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, deep rasp.
“Come closer.”
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