by C. J. Archer
"Women approve of being manhandled where you come from?"
"Not many, no. They usually stomp on toes, and more, if they find themselves in such a situation." He picked up the fork again and toyed with it. He seemed to have a problem sitting still. He must be a man of action. That sort rarely sat in tearooms with ladies. "I like your directness, Miss Steele. It's refreshing. I was beginning to think all Englishmen and women spoke in roundabout ways without saying what they truly felt."
"I'm not usually so forward, but this morning I'd reached the end of my tether." The dam had finally burst after seeing Eddie's smug smiles and listening to his inane laughter. My anger had nowhere to go but out. It wasn't until later, when I sat quietly in my attic room, that I realized my anger was largely directed at myself now—anger that I'd ever accepted a proposal from a man I didn't love and never could. "Where are you from, Mr. Glass? Your accent is unusual."
"My accent is a mix, so I've been told, thanks to the different heritages of my parents and our travels. I'm recently from America."
"America? How thrilling."
He chuckled. "Not particularly."
"It is when the furthest you've traveled is Cheshunt."
He gave me a blank look.
"It's a little north of London."
The waiter arrived with a silver tea-stand laden with slices of cake, sandwiches and pastries. I'd never seen so many all at once before, or presented so prettily. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since that morning, and then only a slice of moldy bread that Mrs. Bray had been about to throw out.
Mr. Glass eyed me from beneath long lashes but didn't comment. He waited until the waiter poured our tea and left us with the pot before urging me to fill my plate.
I took a delicate pastry and ate it in two bites before he'd even begun. He nudged the cake-stand a little closer to me and I took a slice of cake and ate that. At his further prompting, I shook my head.
"I'm quite full, thank you," I lied. My mother had always told me not to make a pig of myself, and I mostly followed her advice. I tried not to look at the cakes for fear of showing my regret, however.
"That may be so, but I can't possibly eat all of these on my own," he said. "Please, assist me, or they will go to waste."
If he was going to be so gentlemanly about it, then I might as well.
He sipped his tea, and I had to suppress a giggle. He looked out of place in a room full of mostly women, a pretty floral teacup in one hand and a pastry in the other. I wondered if he did this sort of thing in America. If I had to guess, I'd say he was a gentleman farmer with those brown hands of his.
"Do you mind if I start asking you questions now?" he said.
"Go ahead. It's why I'm here."
He set the cup down carefully, as if he were afraid he'd break it. He stared at the contents for a moment, and when he looked up, that intense stare he'd given me earlier in the day returned. A shiver trickled down my spine and chilled my skin. I couldn't make up my mind if I liked being looked at in such a way. "How old was your father?" he asked.
That was an odd question to begin with. "Forty-nine. Why?"
He sat back in the chair with a softly muttered, "Damn it."
"Why?" I repeated. "And why do you want to know about my father anyway? What has it got to do with buying yourself a new watch?"
His lips twitched at the corners, but he didn't break into a full smile. "A full stomach makes you curious."
I arched my brow and waited for an answer.
He leaned forward again and picked up his teacup. "I'm trying to find a man I met five years ago. He was a watchmaker and made a watch for me that now requires fixing."
"Has it stopped working?"
"It's slowing down."
"You've tried winding it?"
"Do I look like a fool?"
"My apologies." I sipped my tea and kept my eyes averted. I heard him sigh again and he shifted in the chair, as if he were regretting asking me to tea. "Why didn't you show your watch to Eddie?" I asked. "He might have been able to fix it."
"Not this watch."
"Why not? Is it American? Some American watches are different to ours, but a good watchmaker can work out what needs correcting without damaging the mechanisms. Eddie isn't a bad watchmaker, he's just limited in the types he can repair. He wasn't apprenticed to my father. Would you like me to look at it? I can assure you, I may be a mere woman, but I was apprenticed to the best watchmaker in the city, perhaps the country. The only reason I wasn't allowed into the guild and am not able to call myself a master watchmaker is because of their archaic rules that don't allow female members. It was why—"
"Miss Steele." He held up his hand for me to stop. I bit my tongue. "Thank you for your offer, but this watch is a special one. The original maker is the only one in the world who can repair it."
"That's rather arrogant of him, to make such a claim."
"Nevertheless, I'd like to find him."
I was about to press him to show it to me, but decided against it. It made no difference to me if he thought only one person could repair it. "Tell me about this arrogant watchmaker. So far, he fits the description of several men in the guild."
He seemed to find that amusing. He smiled, and his shoulders relaxed. "I admit that I've been running all over London without really knowing what I'm doing and where I'm going." He sat forward. "Would you mind helping me narrow my search?"
"I would be delighted. I take it you don't know his name."
"He called himself Chronos."
"The Greek God of Time? We can add ridiculous to arrogant. Go on."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I met him in a saloon in New Mexico, five years ago. He was English and told me he came from London." His eyes suddenly shadowed, and he turned serious as he studied the teacup. "He was an old man then, so it couldn't have been your father."
"Father has never left England anyway. He's lived above that shop all his life, as his father did, and his father too. Now Eddie has it," I spat.
His gaze sharpened. "Your grandfather is a watchmaker?"
"He was. He's dead."
He stared at me, unblinking. I shrank back from the force of it. "When did he die?"
"Before I was born, so he couldn't have been your mysterious Chronos either."
He passed a hand over his eyes and down his face then blew out a breath. It must be a very special watch indeed to elicit such a reaction. I could feel his anxiety from across the table.
"Let me see if I have this correct," I said. "Five years ago, you were given a watch by an Englishman in America who claims that no one else can fix it. You refuse to let anyone else attempt to fix it, so you traveled all this way to find him. You don't know his name, or where he lived in London specifically, and you only know that he must be old."
"You have it," he said, absently patting his coat pocket.
I did not mention the fact that he could be dead. No doubt he'd thought of that, and I didn't want to see disappointment shadow that handsome face. "Then you have come to the right person. I know every important watchmaker in London, and most unimportant ones too."
"I had a feeling you would be able to help me," he said. "I'll pay you for your time, of course. It may take several days to locate the right man."
Pay me! Ah, now I understood why he'd chosen me instead of Eddie, or anyone else. He must have sensed my desperation this morning and guessed I had the time to devote to such a scheme. "If you insist," I said as graciously as I could manage while trying to hold back my smile.
"What is the current wage for a shop assistant in London?" he asked.
"One with experience could hope for a pound. I don't know about any other sort of assistant."
"A pound then." He held out his hand. "Deal?"
I shook his hand firmly, as my father had always taught me when shaking a man's hand after a particularly lucrative transaction. "Deal," I repeated, mimicking his accent.
He laughed softly. "Have another cake, Miss Ste
ele. Then let’s begin."
I ate a slice, touched my napkin to the corners of my mouth, and washed it down with a gulp of tea. I wasn't being very ladylike, but I was no lady and he didn't seem to notice.
"Most watchmakers are traditionally located in Clerkenwell and St. Luke's," I said, "but you'll find some scattered elsewhere. My ancestor set up his premises on St. Martin's Lane and we've been there ever since."
"Until your former fiancé took it from you."
I couldn't meet his gaze. It had been one thing to air my dirty linen when I'd been mad at Eddie, but it was quite another to be reminded of my shocking behavior, and by a gentleman too. "My father thought that only a man could manage the business." I don't know why I wanted to explain the situation to him. It seemed important that he know that Father loved me, but he'd been duped. "He liked precision, organization, and neatness, so he changed his will when I became engaged, thinking that Eddie could be relied upon to keep his word. No one expected him to die suddenly before the wedding. And to be fair to Father, Eddie was very sweet up until then. It wasn't until the funeral when he showed what a nasty little worm he was."
Mr. Glass remained silent, and I wished I hadn't blurted out my problems all over again. He must think me as pathetic as I felt. "My mother used to tell me that God would punish people like that after they're dead," he said.
"I wish Eddie would get his come-uppance in this lifetime where I could see it and enjoy it."
One corner of his mouth kicked up. "You and I think alike." He lifted his teacup in salute. Finding it empty, he refilled both mine and his.
"Will you be staying in London long after you've found the old watchmaker?" I heard myself ask with a hint of breathiness in my voice.
He shook his head. "I've business to take care of back home."
Pity. "Tell me what your watchmaker looks like," I said. "Aside from being old, that is."
"He had blue eyes, white hair, and was otherwise non-descript. I got the feeling he was running away from something or someone."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because most folk who end up in Broken Creek, New Mexico, are usually running away from something or someone."
"Is that why you were there, Mr. Glass?"
His eyes twinkled but no smile touched his lips. "I visited for the scenery."
"Is it beautiful?"
"To some."
He didn't elaborate, and I got the feeling he no longer wanted to discuss his past in Broken Creek.
"So tell me which watchmakers you've visited already," I said. "That will narrow our search."
"My lawyer informed me that most live in Clerkenwell, as you yourself noted. I began there this morning." He listed a half-dozen whose names I recognized, although I knew none personally. "I decided to stop in at Masons' and Hardacre's on my way home. Indeed, I was told that it was named Steele's and was surprised to see the painter changing the sign. I'm glad you were there, Miss Steele. Our meeting has an air of fortuitousness about it."
I smiled. "I agree. I've had a good feeling about it ever since our encounter."
"Even when I manhandled you?"
"Perhaps it started after that."
We discussed returning to Clerkenwell's watchmakers, but in the end, decided to investigate the better class of horologists elsewhere in the city. Mr. Glass insisted the man he'd met five years ago had been educated with a middle class accent and not a slum one. After spending most of the morning in Clerkenwell, he'd already learned the difference.
Fortunately I knew most of those watchmakers well, since Father had been friendly with them back when he still liked and respected the guild members. A twang of guilt over my role in his falling out with the guild twisted my gut. He'd fallen out with the other members over my application.
Once the teapot was empty and most of the delicious confections gone, Mr. Glass patted his jacket pocket and stood. The waiter brought hat and gloves, and Mr. Glass paid for the both of us. He escorted me to the hotel entrance, but I hung back to retrieve my valise. I had planned on waiting until he'd gone, but he seemed to be waiting for me to exit first.
"Are you staying here at Brown's?" I asked him.
"No, I have a house not far away," he said.
I didn't ask how someone who'd never set foot on English soil until two days ago could possibly have a house, but perhaps there was a family link somewhere. It would explain part of the accent and the fact he had a lawyer.
"Thank you, Miss Steele. I enjoyed your company today," he said.
Oh dear. He wanted me to leave first. Should I go and come back for my valise after he'd gone, or let him see it and know I was now homeless?
The decision was made for me by the porter I'd met upon entering. He deposited the valise at my feet. "You almost forgot your luggage," he said with a wicked gleam in his eye.
My face flared with heat. "Thank you. So kind of you to collect it for me."
He bowed and left. With a clenching of back teeth, I turned to Mr. Glass. He was frowning at my valise. Since the cat was out of the bag, I might as well give it a further nudge. I had nothing to lose.
"Mr. Glass, may I be so bold as to ask for an advance against wages? It's just that I have expenses, you see, and no other employment at present."
He blinked slowly. "Of course. I'll give you the entire week's wage now. Will that cover expenses?"
An entire week! What a generous fellow. "Most assuredly. Thank you."
He glanced around. "Pretend to grow teary," he said quietly.
It took me a moment to realize he wanted to conduct the transaction in a way that would protect my reputation. I sniffed and touched my finger to my lowered eyes while he surreptitiously folded some coins into his handkerchief. He handed it to me, and I used it to dab away my fake tears before dropping it into my reticule. The transaction was all very clandestine, and I was quite sure no one had noticed and come to the wrong conclusion—or the right one, as the case may be.
"Miss Steele, am I correct in assuming that you're on your way to a new abode today?" He nodded at the valise.
"I'm going to my friend, Catherine Mason's, house." It wasn't quite a lie, and it would be too embarrassing to tell him that I'd been thrown out of the lodging house I'd been staying in for the last two weeks.
"Is that Catherine Mason of Masons And Sons?" he asked. "Does she live above the family shop?"
"Next door. Her eldest brother now lives above the shop with his wife and child. It won't take me long by omnibus."
"If you'd like to wait here, I can have Cyclops drive you."
"Thank you, that is very generous, but I can't possibly impose on you any further. The advancement of wages is more than enough. Besides, the omnibus route isn't far and it's a pleasant day for a walk."
He glanced through the front window at the sky. "You call this a pleasant day? The sky is gray and I feel it's so close that I'll be smothered by it."
"It wouldn't be a London sky if it was blue and high." I picked up my valise and the porter held open the door for me.
Mr. Glass followed me outside and down the steps. "I'll collect you in the morning from the Masons' house," he said, brushing his thumb over his jacket pocket in what struck me as an absent-minded motion. It was at least the third time he'd done it this afternoon. Whatever was in there must be important—perhaps that strange glowing object.
"Be careful of pick pockets," I said.
At his frown, I nodded at his jacket pocket. He placed his hands behind his back. "There's nothing in there," he said stiffly. "Just a handkerchief."
"You carry two?"
"Teary eyed women are common in America."
A bubble of laughter almost escaped, but I swallowed it down. He looked quite serious and more than a little annoyed. I couldn't think how my warning would annoy anyone, but I shrugged it off.
"What time tomorrow?" I asked.
"Is nine too early?"
"Not for me." Clearly he wasn't like other men of his ilk who s
lept in until noon.
He gave me a curt nod and I went on my way. I couldn't help stealing a glance from the street corner, but Mr. Glass had already left. The omnibus route was indeed close, and I didn't have long to wait before one rattled by. Fortune was smiling on me that afternoon because I managed to get a seat inside, facing a gentleman reading a newspaper. When Father's eyesight deteriorated, I read him the newspaper every evening, but I hadn't bought one since his death. I'd needed to save every penny.
I quickly scanned the front page for something interesting. There were several articles, but one headline stood out above all others: AMERICAN OUTLAW SIGHTED IN ENGLAND.
My chest tightened. My blood ran cold. No, surely not. Surely the handsome and gentlemanly Mr. Glass wasn't an outlaw. Surely his recent arrival here and that of the man depicted in the newspaper's sketch with WANTED printed above it was just a coincidence. It was difficult to tell if they were one and the same from the black and white drawing. The outlaw had a scruffy beard and moustache, and wore a large hat pulled down over his face. That's what an outlaw looked like. He wasn't well dressed and cleanly shaved. Wild West outlaws were filthy and crude. They behaved like…cavemen.
Oh God.
What had I got myself into?
CHAPTER 3
I read as much of the article as I could before the man and his newspaper alighted from the omnibus. It claimed that very little was known about the outlaw, not even his name. He'd been dubbed Dark Rider by the Las Vegas Gazette because no one had seen his face and his crimes were committed during the night. Dark Rider had held up stagecoaches, stolen horses, and murdered a lawman who'd tracked him down. A colorful account of the aborted arrest took up most of the article, but what caught my eye was the final paragraph. A reward of two thousand dollars was being offered for his capture. I didn't know how much that was in English money but it was an impressive number. It had to be more than the pound's worth of coins now sitting in my reticule. I couldn't stop thinking about it and the outlaw the rest of the way to the Masons' house.
"Of course you can stay," Catherine said, when she led me to the kitchen. "Can't she, Mama?"