The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele Book 1) (4 page)

Mr. Glass shook the hand of each member of the Mason family as the head of the household introduced them. "You're still looking for your watch's maker?" Mr. Mason asked.

"I am," Mr. Glass said.

"My offer from yesterday still stands. I'll see if I can repair it for you."

"Thank you, but I prefer the original watchmaker himself to do it."

"Most watches don't differ greatly from one another, you know. I'm sure I can manage to work it out if it's one I haven't seen before." He laughed a little nervously, making his jowls shake.

"Not this watch." Mr. Glass folded the carriage step down for me then held out his hand. "Where to first, Miss Steele?"

"Oxford Street, at the Marble Arch end," I said. "Do you know where that is, Mr. Cyclops? It's not far from Mayfair."

Cyclops studied a dirty and much crumpled map spread out on his lap. "I know it. And it's just Cyclops, miss, no mister."

Mr. Mason clasped the button edge of his waistcoat over his stomach. Mrs. Mason was an excellent seamstress and could modify a great many items of clothing, but she couldn't make her husband's waistcoat larger to fit over his increasing girth.

"What makes this watch particularly special?" Mr. Mason pressed. The nervous laughter had died, and he now seemed anxious to catch every word that fell from Mr. Glass's lips.

Mr. Glass bestowed a smile on him, but his shoulders had gone quite rigid. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need to find the original watchmaker."

He climbed in and Gareth folded up the step and closed the door. Cyclops had the horse pulling away from the curb before Mr. Mason could speak another word. The poor man stood there, his mouth open, his eyes darting between Mr. Glass and me. He'd gone a little pale, which hadn't escaped his wife's notice. She clutched his arm but he seemed not to register her presence.

I waved to Catherine through the window and tried not to show her how anxious I felt. By the look on her face, she was anxious enough for us both.

Mr. Glass angled his legs so that they did not touch my skirts. "I hope you're refreshed, Miss Steele. We've a lot to do this morning."

"There are several watchmakers in and around Oxford Street," I said. "Cyclops can remain near Marble Arch and we can walk from there. It will take longer than the morning, however. As you said, there's a lot to do."

He leaned his elbow on the window ledge and rubbed the back of his finger over his lips in thought. Shadows flickered through his tired eyes. "We can return this afternoon after luncheon."

"There are some excellent chop houses in the area. We can dine at one of those and resume our investigation immediately."

"I prefer to return home for an hour or two."

I was about to protest that no one needed that long to eat luncheon, but held it in check. Perhaps long lunches were an American custom. It wasn't my place to disagree with him when he was paying me. Nor was it my place to ask him why he was so tired this morning, although the curiosity would probably force me to at some point during the day.

"As you wish, Mr. Glass," I said. "But we do have quite a lot of watchmakers to visit, and I require some time to myself."

"For shopping?"

"For making inquiries at employment agencies, as well as lodging houses."

He arched his brows. "You're not staying with the Masons?"

I had to tell him at some point that he wouldn't be collecting me from there tomorrow morning, but I hesitated nevertheless. In the end, I could only do it while not looking directly at him. "I don't want to inconvenience the Masons any more than I have."

He was silent a long time in which I could feel his gaze on me as I pretended to take interest in the passing scenery through the window. "You can stay in my house for the duration of your employment," he finally said.

I gasped and snapped my gaze to his. I was lost for words, something that happened rarely.

He smiled, sending my already rapidly beating heart plunging. "Well?" he prompted.

"I… I…" I sounded witless, but I couldn't think of an excuse to refuse him. Live under the same roof as a foreigner who was quite possibly a gunslinger? I'd be mad to consider it. "I shouldn't. It wouldn't be proper."

"You don't seem like you're in a position to worry about what's proper." At my second gasp, he merely shrugged. "Are you?"

"No-o," I hedged, "but it's not polite to point that out to a woman in reduced circumstances."

"My apologies. The rules surrounding politeness here are numerous. I'm not familiar with them all yet."

"You're forgiven."

"So is that a definite refusal of my offer?"

I should say that it was without hesitation. I ought to insist on finding my own accommodation.

But it would be wonderful not to have to worry about it for the week. And living in the same house as Mr. Glass would make it easier to spy on him and learn the truth. If I locked my door at night and slept with a knife under my pillow then I ought to be safe. Besides, the newspaper article didn't say the outlaw attacked women, only stole horses and robbed stagecoaches—aside from the murder, that is. I had nothing of value for him to steal, and I wasn't a lawman. If I learned something that connected him to the man in the newspaper, I would tell only the police and not give him so much as a hint of my suspicions.

"I'll stay with you only if I live in the servants' quarters and you tell everyone that I am your housekeeper or maid," I said.

"I employ charwomen, not maids. My female cousin came over with me and is staying in the house. Does having another woman present make you feel more at ease?"

"Yes, it does."

"Then consider yourself a temporary guest of number sixteen Park Street, Mayfair."

The speed at which the decision had been made was dizzying. It took a moment to sink in that I was about to live like a duchess in one of London's best addresses for a week. When it did finally sink in, I had to bite the inside of my lip to hide my smile.

Mr. Glass didn't hide his. "It's a nice house," he said, his tone teasing. "It's a little larger than what I'm used to, but I like it."

"Thank you," I said. "It's very kind of you. Oh, that reminds me." I opened my reticule and removed his handkerchief. "Thank you for this. I don't know where I'd be without it."

"Glad I could be of assistance."

The way he said it didn't make me feel at all wretched for my situation. On the contrary, I felt like I'd done him a favor by accepting his offer of work. I supposed I had. The only other people who could point out all the watchmakers in the city were already in gainful employment and wouldn't be available for the time-consuming task.

He pocketed the handkerchief and, as his hand moved away, he went to touch the coat pocket that he'd touched several times the day before, only to check himself. He glanced at me and smiled again, but I wasn't fooled. He was looking to see if I'd noticed. I smiled back, pretending that I hadn't.

Cyclops pulled to the side of the road near Marble Arch and Mr. Glass assisted me from the coach. "No more than three hours," Cyclops called down. "Sir."

Mr. Glass held up his hand in dismissal and waited at the curb for the traffic to ease. After a moment, I said, "We'll have to take our chances in that gap."

With one hand holding onto my hat and the other picking up my skirts, we dashed across to the Oxford Street side. "Is the traffic as bad as this where you're from?" I asked as we passed by a draper's shop where a lovely red silk had been displayed to best catch the morning light.

"No," Mr. Glass said.

I tore my gaze away from the silks at his curt answer. It took a moment before I realized he wouldn't want to give me too much information about himself if he were an outlaw. The notion both thrilled and worried me.

"Do you live in a city or village?" I pressed on nevertheless.

"A large town at present, but I've lived all over the world."

"Really? Where, precisely?"

"France, Italy, Prussia, and now America."

"Where in America?"

"Here and there." He sidestepped around a boy carrying an empty crate on his shoulder and waited for me to catch up. He shortened his strides to keep apace with me.

"You mentioned a place in New Mexico," I went on. "Broken Creek, was it?"

"Yes."

"How long did you live there?"

"I didn't live there."

"Then where did you live?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Miss Steele."

"I'm naturally inquisitive, but if I am to live in your house, I'd feel more comfortable if I knew you better." There. That didn't sound at all suspiciously nosy, simply cautious.

"This looks like our first stop," he said, nodding at the sign jutting out from the doorway still some shops away. He was definitely avoiding answering.

Mr. Thompson's shop was not unlike my father's or Mr. Mason's, although somewhat smaller. Rent was higher on Oxford Street and there was no space for a workshop at the back. I happened to know that Mr. Thompson no longer made watches or clocks, but sold ones manufactured in Clerkenwell factories.

Mr. Thompson looked up from the cabinet, where he was rearranging watches, and smiled at Mr. Glass. He turned to me and the smile faded. "Miss Steele! What are you doing here?" He backed away and rounded the counter bench, placing it between us.

"Good morning, Mr. Thompson," I said, stepping up to the counter.

He moved to the side, away from me. I followed, but he moved a little farther again and made a great fuss over the selection of watch chains laid out on a velvet mat. His gaze slid sideways, watching me. I hadn't seen Mr. Thompson in two years, and clearly I hadn't changed or he wouldn't have recognized me. He'd been amiable to me back then, so why this odd behavior now?

"This is Mr. Glass," I said. "He's looking for a particular watchmaker who went to America some five years ago."

Mr. Thompson glanced at Mr. Glass and nodded a greeting.

"He would be older than you are, Mr. Thompson," Mr. Glass said. "Do you know of any watchmakers who were in America around that time? He would be quite old now. Your father, perhaps?"

Mr. Thompson, who was about my father's age, shook his head. "My father was a chandler not a watchmaker. And I don't know anyone who has been to America. Do you wish to purchase a new watch, sir? Or clock?"

"Not today."

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat, looked at me then pointedly at the door. He couldn't have been clearer if he'd shouted, "Get out!" at the top of his voice.

I marched out of the shop, Mr. Glass at my heels. I puzzled on Mr. Thompson's greeting until we reached the next watchmaker, a narrow shop of little more than a door's width wedged between a jeweler and tobacconist.

Mr. Baxter, the proprietor, had been a friend to my father and one of the few to come to his funeral, although he'd not stayed after the ceremony. I expected a hearty, friendly greeting at least, as he was a blustery, generous man whose character was as big as his barrel chest. Yet he too stood behind his counter to speak to me, as if it were a shield to hide behind, if necessary. Unlike Mr. Thompson, Mr. Baxter could hardly look at me, and seemed quite ill at ease, something that I would never have associated with him.

We asked our questions, he gave brief answers, and Mr. Glass and I left without being any closer to finding Chronos. We had to cross busy Oxford Street to get to the next shop on my list, one that I'd been dreading before and felt even more anxious about now, after being received so strangely by both Mr. Thompson and Mr. Baxter. I couldn't even describe their receptions as frosty. It was as if they were wary of me. Perhaps they expected me to argue with them over their refusal to allow me into the guild. They had, after all, voted against my admission, along with the other members.

But it was the next watchmaker on my list who'd been most vehement in refusing me, according to Father after he returned home the night of the vote. Mr. Abercrombie was president of the guild and had held the position for the past few years because no one dared speak against him. He had inherited a fortune as well as the shop from his father and so could afford the best tools and supplies. The queen had purchased a clock from his father some thirty years ago, and Mr. Abercrombie had made an excellent living off the claim ever since. He now boasted the custom of princes and lords and had four staff working for him in his shop alone. He wielded power within the guild, with every other member bowing to his wishes. If he didn't want a watchmaker to belong to the guild, then he wouldn't be allowed in. Every member would vote as Mr. Abercrombie advised. And if a watchmaker couldn't belong to the guild, he couldn't legally sell watches in England. It was why Father had been so upset when my application had been refused—and it explained why he'd given the shop to Eddie instead of me. Eddie, as a man, was admitted.

Abercrombie's Fine Watches And Clocks was triple the size of Mr. Thompson's shop and occupied a prominent corner. Mr. Glass held the door open for me, but I shook my head.

"You go in and ask your questions without me," I said. "My presence is not required."

He glanced back across the street to Baxter's, frowned slightly, then nodded. "Very well."

I watched through the window. The slender figure of Mr. Abercrombie stood in the center of the shop, his hands at his back. With his oiled moustache and pince-nez perched on the edge of his nose, he looked as respectable as any of his royal clients. He directed one of his staff to take Mr. Glass's hat and coat, but Mr. Glass refused. He spoke and Mr. Abercrombie responded with a quizzical expression. He spoke, presumably to offer to look at Mr. Glass's special watch instead. Although his back was to me, I could see Mr. Glass heave a sigh. He must be tired of hearing the same responses.

Mr. Abercrombie spread out his hands to indicate all his wonderful wares. My gaze followed the motion, and I couldn't stop staring at the lovely mahogany long-case clock with the brass dial displayed behind the counter. It was quite a spectacular piece.

Movement caught my eye, and suddenly Mr. Abercrombie came marching through the door. He caught my arm before I could run off.