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

by C. J. Archer

  "Mr. Glass," I said. "Who are you?"

  "I don't understand the question."

  "Let me rephrase that." I picked up my spoon and dipped it into my egg, but did not eat. "What do you do in America? What is your business?"

  He sipped his tea slowly. Duke and Cyclops stopped eating to watch their friend. They seemed as curious as to how he'd answer as I was. "Let's not discuss such vulgar things, as Aunt would put it," he finally said. "I don't want to bore you, Miss Steele."

  "I wouldn't find the opportunity to get to know you better boring," I said, hoping to bait him into telling me something.

  His lips parted. Then they kicked up on one side.

  "If you insist on finding the intruder first and not the watchmaker, then so be it," Duke said quickly before Mr. Glass could speak. "But I'd like it noted that I'm unhappy with the order of your priorities."

  "Noted." Mr. Glass fetched the teapot from the sideboard. He refilled my empty cup. There was no more discussion of his business affairs or of the intruder. Of course, if he were an outlaw, he wouldn't tell me outright, yet I was surprised he didn't lie either. "Miss Steele, may I ask you some questions about last night?"

  "Of course," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask for specifics about the attack on Lord Dennison. I didn't want to relive the moments leading up to the clash. The thought of what could have happened made me feel even sicker today. I set aside my egg, no longer hungry, and placed my hand to my stomach.

  "Miss Steele, is everything—?"

  "Mr. Glass! The tea!"

  He'd been refilling his teacup, but his gaze had been on me, not on his task. Tea spilled over the rim onto the saucer. He returned the teapot to the sideboard and picked up an empty cup. He tipped the spilled tea on the saucer into it and some of the excess from his own cup.

  "Your questions, Mr. Glass?" I prompted.

  "Yes. Last night." He cleared his throat and sat. "The man who won Willie's locket, Lord Travers. What was he like?"

  "Portly, middle-aged. He liked cigars and he laughed a lot, but it had a somewhat arrogant edge to it. I also believe he cheated."

  "If we were in America, I'd call him out," Duke snarled. "If a mob didn't attack him first. We don't stand for cheats, Miss Steele."

  "We English don't, either." Except Mr. Unger, the dealers and other gamblers hadn't challenged Lord Travers. Were they afraid of him? Was he too valuable to the house? Or was it a case of Britain versus America? "Usually, anyway."

  "How was his accent?" Mr. Glass asked.

  I shrugged. "Plummy, as with all toffs. Why?"

  "Did the others seem to know him?"

  "Yes. Why, Mr. Glass?"

  "He played poker extremely well if he beat Willie. It's an American game, and he went from losing to her on previous nights to winning last night."

  "You think he's actually an experienced American poker player disguising himself as an Englishman in order to dupe people into betting against him? That's quite an accusation."

  "Aye," Cyclops muttered.

  "Perhaps he's a fast learner," Duke said.

  "Perhaps," Mr. Glass said, thoughtful. "But I think it's something to consider."

  I shook my head. "I disagree."

  "Do you now?" he drawled.

  "Yes," I said primly. "If he is an American pretending to be an Englishman for the sakes of fleecing unsuspecting gamblers, why would he choose to be a lord? It only draws more attention to himself, when he'd want to avoid notice. Besides, it's likely he'd run into other lords at gambling houses, and surely they must all know each other, if only by name."

  "A good point," Cyclops said with a challenging lift of his one good eyebrow.

  "It would seem my theory doesn't hold water," Mr. Glass said on a sigh.

  "What theory is that?" I asked. "Why did you think Lord Travers might be American?"

  "That is my affair."

  "Oh? Do you think the explanation would bore me?" I asked, throwing his words back in his face. "Or are you hiding something?"

  "We all have our secrets," he said quietly. "Even you."

  I met his dark gaze with what I hoped was a fierce one of my own.

  "Tell her," Cyclops said suddenly. "Tell her what you do, what you've done. I don't see no reason not to."

  Mr. Glass's gaze slid to his friend and darkened. His nostrils flared. "My business is mine alone. If I wish to keep it to myself, that is my affair."

  "But—"

  "Don't, Cyclops." Mr. Glass's hand curled into a fist on the table. He held himself rigid as he continued to glare at his friend.

  Cyclops was the first to look away. "You're making a mistake."

  Mr. Glass got up and walked out. I waited, hoping Cyclops would go against his friend's wishes and tell me anyway, but he didn't. He and Duke finished their breakfast in silence. I gathered up a plate of eggs and bacon and took it up to Miss Glass's rooms.

  I read the morning newspaper to her as she ate, then carried the tray and dishes downstairs afterward. I took the service stairs and met Miss Glass's maid, Polly Picket, on her way up, a shawl over her arm. She stepped aside to allow me to pass and bobbed a curtsy.

  "May I take the tray for you, miss?" she asked.

  "No, thank you. And please, Polly, there's no need to curtsy every time you see me." Although I'd been introduced to her as Mr. Glass's employee, she'd treated me as a member of the family ever since. I suppose the rules in this household were unclear, to her and to me, and she thought it safer to be submissive to all of us.

  She continued on her way up and I continued on my way down. Mr. Glass's deep voice rumbled from the direction of the kitchen, but I couldn't quite make out the words. As I drew closer, I heard Cyclops's even deeper voice respond quite clearly.

  "Better for her that she doesn't know what you are? Or better for you?" he asked.

  I stilled, hardly daring to breathe. It sounded like Cyclops was rebuking Mr. Glass for not answering my question about his business affairs over breakfast. I shouldn't eavesdrop—

  Bollocks. Yes, I should. If I wanted to learn more about the people I was living with, I had to resort to underhanded methods. I inched closer.

  "It's not what I am," Mr. Glass said, "but what I've done. I don't want her to know." This last was added quietly. I had to strain to hear him. "Answering her question would have inevitably led to…that."

  "Why don't you want her to know?"

  "Why do you think?" he snarled. "Aunt Letitia too. Don't tell either of them."

  "It happened years ago. It's in the past, buried and forgotten."

  "Then why does it follow me everywhere, even here and now?"

  Their silence was punctured only by the sound of liquid being poured. I was about to walk into the kitchen, when Mr. Glass spoke again.

  "She's keeping a secret too. The watchmakers are wary of her. She must know why."

  Now that I resented. I didn't have a clue why they shunned me.

  But it was time I found out.

  Chapter 12

  I headed out at the same time as Mr. Glass, accepting a ride in his carriage to the Masons' St. Martin's Lane shop and house. Mr. Glass paid me little attention. His nose was glued to the windows, watching for signs of someone following us, I suspected. If he spotted anyone, he didn't say so to me or Duke who rode with us. Willie hadn't risen by the time we departed, so he'd left her home.

  "Enjoy your day, Miss Steele," Cyclops called down as I alighted from the carriage.

  I clamped a hand to my hat to stop it falling off as I peered up at him. "You too, Cyclops."

  Mr. Glass tugged on his hat brim. "I'll see you for dinner."

  The coach rumbled away. It hadn't even reached the corner when Catherine burst out of the house like an excited puppy. She threw her arms around me, almost knocking me over.

  "India! It's so good to see you." She clasped my hand and dragged me toward the door. "I've been dying to tell you something."

  "What?"

  She pushed the door
closed and took both my hands in hers. Her grin split her flushed face. "You'll never believe it, but John Wilcox has come calling."

  "Who?"

  "John Wilcox! The manager from the steelworks factory."

  "I remember him now." I'd run occasional errands to the steelworks factory when I'd needed supplies over and above our regular delivery. "Do you mean to say he's calling here with a view to courting you?"

  "Yes! Isn't it thrilling?"

  Clearly she thought it thrilling, since she couldn't stand still. Her fingers kneaded mine and she bounced on her toes. I wasn't as thrilled as her. John Wilcox was in his thirties and rather dour in nature. I couldn't imagine him keeping up with such an energetic person as Catherine. I hoped he didn't stifle her. Of course, it may not get to that stage. Surely she'd tire of him first.

  "India?" Mrs. Mason emerged from the kitchen, wringing her hands in her apron. "I didn't know you were stopping by today."

  "My visit wasn't planned," I said, smiling.

  "Well. You're welcome, of course. I've just baked fresh butter biscuits." She returned to the kitchen, leaving me staring at her back. She'd never been an enthusiastic person, like Catherine, but she'd always been welcoming. While she wasn't rude this time, she wasn't keen to see me either. Something had changed. Perhaps her husband had finally confided in her about whatever it was that troubled him—whatever was troubling all the watchmakers.

  "He's quite distinguished, don't you think?" Catherine said, once again taking my hand and pulling me after her. We didn't head to the kitchen, however, but to the sitting room.

  "Ye-es," I said. "I suppose he does look distinguished." If a little thick in the middle and around the jaw. And in the head.

  "And he says I'm the most agreeable young woman he's ever met. He smiled as he said it. Most flirtatious."

  "Agreeable? That's what he gave as his main reason for courting you?"

  "I know! It's quite a compliment, isn't it? And we're not courting yet, India. Steady on. He has only said that he'll call on me."

  "Catherine, do promise you'll be careful. Don't jump at the first proposal you get." Unlike me. "I'm sure there'll be others."

  "Don't be silly. Why do I need to be careful? India, he's a manager. They earn much more than ordinary shopkeepers, so Gareth said."

  "I do hope that's not your primary consideration for encouraging him," I said. "Your brother doesn't know the particulars of Mr. Wilcox's situation. Besides, some shopkeepers do very well."

  Catherine flounced into a chair by the unlit fireplace. "Why won't you be pleased for me?"

  I crouched in front of her and took her hand in mine. "Catherine, you are a lively, friendly, beautiful girl, and I'm sure Mr. Wilcox is the first beau of many for you. I just don't want you to rush into anything, like I did."

  "Mr. Wilcox isn't like Eddie, India. He's honest and solid. He's a good man."

  "And Eddie is the dried turd on a sheep's behind."

  She snickered. "Yes, but don't let Mama hear you say it."

  I grinned and stood. "Speaking of your mother," I whispered, "she seems upset with me. Both your parents do. Have I done something wrong?"

  "I'm not sure," she whispered back, glancing at the door. "She did mention that she's disappointed in your choice to live with Mr. Glass."

  "I'm his lodger."

  "She thinks you've lost your moral compass since your father died." She frowned. "Or that it's no longer pointing north. Something like that." She waved her hand. "I overheard Papa tell her that he's worried about your influence on me."

  As had I. The Masons had never been worried before Father died. Why had everything suddenly changed? It was disconcerting, to say the least. The Masons were good people and my friends. Without them… I didn't want to think about the loneliness the loss of their friendship would bring. "Do your parents think I'm going to corrupt you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Would you like to come and live in Mr. Glass's harem with me?" I teased, trying to make light when all I felt was heavy.

  She giggled again. "You're so wicked, India. If only everyone knew you like I did, you'd have a dozen beaus knocking on your door. You ought to allow men to see you as you are and not be so stern with them."

  I blinked down at her, the wind well and truly knocked out of my sails. "Stern? Is that how others see me?"

  She bit her lip and lifted one shoulder. "If my brothers can be taken as a good representation of the masculine gender, yes. Sorry," she squeaked. "I've upset you."

  "No." I laughed as I sat on the chair. "Not at all. Don't take offence on your brothers' accounts, but they don't appeal to me either. Perhaps my sternness is a way of keeping men like them at a distance." I laughed again, but her words struck a chord. It wasn't the first time she'd called me prickly, nor was she the only person to have done so. Perhaps there was some truth to it. Perhaps I only had myself to blame for being a spinster.

  If they thought me prickly, what would they think of Willie? I was a sweet angel compared to her. That thought lifted my mood somewhat.

  Mrs. Mason entered carrying a tray with teapot, cups and warm butter biscuits. "I thought you would have been too busy to make calls," she said, setting the tray down.

  "Not too busy to see old friends," I said. "Good friends."

  She smoothed down her apron, her lips flattening. "Yes. Well."

  "I'll pour," I said. "Please sit down, Mrs. Mason. Have tea with us."

  "Very well. Has Catherine told you about Mr. Wilcox?"

  I nodded. "I'm pleased for her."

  "India has cautioned me from rushing into anything," Catherine said. "As you have, Mama."

  "You always were a cautious, considerate girl, India. A steadying influence on our Catherine, that's what you were."

  Were? I tried to catch her attention, but she wasn't looking at me. She didn't meet my gaze as we sipped our tea and ate biscuits like three ladies without a care in the world. But the tense undercurrent wasn't lost on me—or on Catherine, I suspected. She became extra bubbly, filling in the conversational gaps with gossip she'd heard from other families in the watch and clock business. I let her continue in the hope she'd mention something about why I was no longer welcomed by people I'd known for years. Finally my patience was rewarded when she mentioned Mr. Lawson, the watchmaker I'd forced to tell us about Mirth. Catherine's pretty face crumpled into a frown when she spoke about his new apprentice.

  "What is it?" I asked. "Is there something the matter with the apprentice?"

  "It's not him." She glanced at her mother. "It's nothing."

  "It can't be nothing," I said, wishing I hadn't invited Mrs. Mason to join us for tea. "Is something wrong with Mr. Lawson? Is he ill?"

  "Oh, India, he's being beastly about you." Catherine never was very good at keeping secrets from me.

  "Catherine," her mother said stiffly, "you shouldn't tattle."

  "But India ought to know what people are saying about her. You said so to Papa yourself."

  Mrs. Mason's face colored. "You shouldn't listen at doors."

  "I wasn't," Catherine muttered. "I heard you through the wall."

  "What are people saying about me? Go on," I said when she hesitated. "I can take a little criticism on the chin."

  She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Mr. Lawson is saying that you've become wicked since your father passed."

  "Wicked? Because I'm living in Mr. Glass's house?"

  Mrs. Mason sipped her tea loudly. It would seem she wasn't going to disagree with me. Perhaps because she wasn't prepared to offer me a bed here.

  Catherine winced. "I suppose so. Eddie has chosen not to defend your honor, too. Can you believe it? What a horrid man he turned out to be, and yet he was so nice in the beginning. So, your Mr. Glass, is he as lovely as he seems?"

  "He's…quite well mannered." Except when he was stroking the underside of my bare breast after opening my corset. And when he was flirting with me for reasons I couldn’t fathom. "He's be
en kind to me. His aunt too, and his cousin, Willemina." It was worth reminding them about the females living in Mr. Glass's household. I may not have been able to stop the gossip, but I could reassure my friends. "Neither Eddie's nor Mr. Lawson's opinions matter to me now. Did Mr. Lawson tell you that I called on him recently as part of our search for Mr. Glass's mysterious watchmaker?"

  "No, but perhaps he told Papa. They were alone for some time last night in the workshop." Catherine's gaze slid to her mother's. She bit her lip then sipped her tea.

  I forged on. "Apparently Mr. Lawson knew the whereabouts of a Mr. Mirth, a watchmaker who closed his shop some years ago and traveled overseas. Do you know Mirth, Mrs. Mason?"

  She frowned into her teacup. "The name does ring some bells, but I can't picture him. He couldn't have been one of our close circle or I would know."

  I believed her. She wasn't a liar. "Hopefully he'll turn up," I said. "Mr. Glass is quite keen to find him."

  "Your Mr. Glass if a very determined man," Catherine said with a sly smile. "What will he do if he can't find Mirth?"

  "Continue to question the other London watchmakers I suppose, although he has to speak to them on his own while I remain in the carriage." Although I looked at Catherine, I watched her mother out of the corner of my eye. She held herself quite still. "Many of them seem wary of me."

  "Wary?" Catherine repeated. "How so?"

  "Almost as if they're afraid of me. It's quite odd."

  "Why would they be afraid of you? Do you think it's because Mr. Abercrombie has accused you of stealing?"

  "I don't think so. Mr. Abercrombie's accusation seemed to be a product of his wariness, not the other way round. Speaking of which, have he or the police come here asking after me?"

  "No," Catherine said. "I do hope that means he retracted the accusation. Horrid man. I never liked him."

  "He has retracted it," Mrs. Mason said. "So your father told me last night."

  "He has?" I felt faint with relief. "Thank goodness." So Mr. Glass had taken care of it, like he'd promised. It only remained to be discovered how he managed to get Abercrombie to do an about-face. "Do you know why he changed his mind, Mrs. Mason?"