The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele Book 1) Page 5

  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.

  "It is you!" He peered over the top of his pince-nez at me. If the rabid look in his eye didn't make me shrink away, his stinking breath certainly did. "What are you doing here, Miss Steele?"

  I swallowed and tried to pull away from him, but he held me too tightly. "I'm just shopping, Mr. Abercrombie. Let me go, please, or I'll scream."

  "Go ahead and scream. I'll tell everyone you stole from me."

  I gasped. "Why would you do that? Why do you hate me so?"

  His only response was to dig his fingers in more. I winced as the nails bit through my sleeve to my skin.

  "Unhand Miss Steele," came the low growl from behind Mr. Abercrombie. I hadn't seen Mr. Glass emerge from the shop, but he now appeared over the watchmaker's shoulder, a dark scowl scoring his forehead, his eyes as black as thunderclouds.

  "You know her?" Mr. Abercrombie said, not letting me go. "What is this? What's going on?"

  "I said, unhand her. Now."

  If I were Mr. Abercrombie, and Mr. Glass had spoken to me in such a fiersome way, I would have done what he'd demanded—and quickly. But Mr. Abercrombie didn't. "Tell me what it is you really want or I'll accuse her of theft," he said.

  "You can't accuse me of stealing when I've nothing of yours," I snapped. "Let me go, Mr. Abercrombie. You're hurting me." The blood had indeed stopped flowing to my lower arm and hand. My fingers throbbed.

  Mr. Abercrombie pulled me against him, grinned in my face, and slipped something inside my pocket. I didn't need to look to know that it would be a watch.

  "Thief!" Mr. Abercrombie cried. "Someone fetch a constable! I've caught a thief."

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Abercrombie's cry stoked the shoppers and shopkeepers into action. One woman screamed, another pulled her small child to her hip, and doors shut firmly. Three men, however, charged toward us. One, a butcher going by his bloodied apron, held a knife.

  "I'm not a thief!" I shouted, desperately trying to pull myself free of Mr. Abercrombie's grip.

  His lip curled into a sneer, and Mr. Glass punched that sneer off his face.

  The watchmaker's fingers sprang apart, letting me go. He stumbled to the side with a groan of agony, clutching his jaw. Before I could gather my wits and my skirts, Mr. Glass snatched my hand and hauled me away in a sprint. His other hand pressed against his coat, over his inside pocket.

  "Stop! Thief!" someone behind us bellowed.

  I didn't dare glance over my shoulder. It was difficult enough keeping up with Mr. Glass's pace, as he dodged around those attempting to stop us and other obstacles in our path. The voices behind didn't grow further away, however, no matter how fast we ran.

  And I couldn't run any faster. My blasted corset made it impossible to take a deep breath. My chest ached with the need for air. My face felt like it would explode from heat and my throat constricted. I didn't dare ask him to slow down, however. If I were caught, I would go to prison for God knew how long. London's prisons were little better than lice infested, disease soaked hells.

  The pedestrians and obstacles thinned as we left the shopping precinct. We found ourselves in a narrow street filled with stables behind Mayfair's grand houses. Coachmen driving empty coaches glanced down at the men still chasing us but didn't stop to help.

  A stable boy stepped onto the street ahead and raised his fists. Mr. Glass could have easily pushed the scrappy lad aside, but he darted left under an archway—straight into a yard with no other exits.

  He swore in a strong American accent and called London more confusing than a "honeycomb designed by drunken bees". I would have admonished him for his foul language if I had the breath. As it was, I had to fight for every one. My vision turned black at the edges too, and I had to grip his hand tightly to remain steady. Part of me was relieved to stop, yet I knew it meant the end. We were trapped.

  The butcher and two others stood beneath the arch, grinning like foxes. "Got you now," the butcher snarled. With his bloodied apron and monstrous knife in hand, he looked as if he were preparing to carve us into bite-sized pieces.

  "Turn around now and no one need get hurt," Mr. Glass said in that low, commanding voice he'd used on Abercrombie. It hadn't worked then and it didn't work now. The butcher and his colleagues approached at a steady pace.

  I backed up against a brick wall, Mr
. Glass at my side. "Can you run?" he murmured.

  My breath had not yet returned and little stars danced before my eyes, but I nodded. I had to run. There were no other choices.

  "I'll distract them while you slip away," he said. "Skirt around the edge to the archway. Turn left and then right. Wait for me there."

  I squeezed his hand, hoping he would understand that I wanted to ask him how he planned on meeting me with three men in the way. But he didn't understand the squeeze, and only pushed me aside to safety.

  The butcher and one of his friends closed the distance on Mr. Glass. The third man prowled toward me. Sweat dampened his face and hair, and he breathed heavily. The look in his eyes wasn't one I'd ever seen before. They were glassy, glazed, the pupils taking over most of the whites. He seemed unaware of the fight breaking out near him, and completely focused on me. There was no point trying to tell him there'd been a mistake. I couldn't reason with someone in the grip of feverish madness.

  I stumbled backward, but somehow maintained my balance. With arms out at his sides, he licked his lips and advanced on me. I could try to go around, as Mr. Glass had suggested, but I wouldn't be fast enough. I had to engage him and somehow get the upper hand physically.

  My best chance was to trip him over. With any luck, momentum would propel him into the wall behind me. To do that, I needed to encourage him to come toward me at a run.

  I picked up my skirts and darted to my left. With a twisted grin, he came after me. I ran a little, looking over my shoulder. When he was almost upon me, I dashed to the side and thrust out my foot.

  He fell over but didn't hit the wall. I didn't wait to see if he recovered. I ran out through the arch and turned left, then right, where I pressed my back to a wall and gasped as much air into my lungs as I could.

  A moment later, running footsteps approached. I got my foot ready again, but it was Mr. Glass. He held the butcher's knife. Without a word, he clasped my hand again, and we ran together down the street.

  No one followed. There were no footsteps behind us, only the sound of my breathing—not his—and the distant rumble of carriage wheels. If I'd not been holding Mr. Glass's hand, I would have run into things. The stars in my vision had turned to black spots. As it was, my shoulder bumped a wall as we rounded another corner.

  I stumbled, only to be caught by Mr. Glass. My head swam and I couldn't quite see him through the black haze. I felt myself falling and landed on the pavement. Or perhaps he had lowered me. I couldn't be sure of much anymore, except that I needed to breathe or I would pass out altogether.

  "Unbutton your waistcoat," Mr. Glass demanded.

  I tried to say, "Pardon?" but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

  "Unbutton your waistcoat. The dress too."

  When I simply stared ahead at his blurry silhouette, hoping that I was somehow conveying my shock at his suggestion, he clicked his tongue. Strong nimble fingers undid my waistcoat. I batted them away, but my swat was ineffective.

  Mr. Glass finished with my waistcoat and moved on to the line of buttons down my dress. They proved more difficult to undo quickly and he gave up being delicate with a grunt and a tug. Buttons flew off in all directions, raining on the pavement beside me.

  "My apologies, Miss Steele, but if you don't breathe, you'll faint. Or die." He must have removed his gloves at some point because his bare fingers skimmed the swell of my breasts above my corset.

  My chest tightened further. Little veins of heat spread across my skin, centering on the place where his fingers lingered. I coughed, and he set to work untying my laces. His hands spread against my ribs below my breasts, separating the stiff corset. Delicious air rushed into my body, expanding my chest like a balloon. I sucked in breath after breath until slowly the blackness retreated and the dizziness dispersed, leaving me very aware of the man crouching before me—the smooth skin of his cheeks, the warmth of his breath, the flecks of gold in eyes, which continued to watch me with earnestness and something else I couldn't quite read.

  His thumb stroked my skin, close to my breast. Part of me wanted to feel his hand explore higher, to have it touch me everywhere, to feel his arms around me. The thought of our heartbeats meshing together sent mine racing all over again, but not from lack of breath this time.

  Those thoughts were sheer madness. Clearly I was affected from all that vigorous exercise.

  "Thank you, Mr. Glass." A whisper was all I could manage.

  He blinked rapidly, then removed his hands. Cool air rushed in to replace his warmth, but I could still feel the impression his hands had made on my skin. "Are you well enough to continue?"

  "I won't faint, although I need to fix my attire." I quickly tied my laces, suddenly grateful that he'd only parted my corset enough to allow me to breathe and not to display my breasts. His hands on my body was ungentlemanly enough.

  "Of course." He collected the buttons and my reticule, which I must have dropped at some point. "I do apologize for…" He cleared his throat. "For everything."

  "It's quite all right, but if I hear you mention this to anyone, I'll not only deny it, I will castrate you in the night while you sleep."

  He laughed softly. "There's no need to go to such extremes. I would have given my word."

  I wasn't sure if the word of an outlaw was worth very much, but kept the quip to myself. He'd saved me, after all.

  He tipped my buttons into my reticule as I arranged my jacket over my undone dress as best as I could. I looked up to see him patting his pocket. When he saw me looking, he stopped and gathered up his gloves and the butcher's knife. He held out his hand to me and we stood together.

  He quickly turned his head away and touched his fingers to his temples, but not before I saw how pale he'd gone.

  "Are you all right, Mr. Glass?" I asked. "Did you overdo it too?"

  "I'm fine. Don't fuss."

  "I hardly call a little inquiry into your health fussing, particularly when you look peaky."

  He huffed loudly. "I'm fine. Let's go. We should move quickly." He handed me the reticule and tucked the knife into the waistband of his trousers. "But there's no need to run. I think we're closer to my house than we are to Cyclops and Marble Arch, so we'll head there."

  "Do you know where Park Street is from here?" I asked.

  "I do."

  "You've been down these streets before?" Since we were still among mews, stables and the businesses that serviced horses and carriages, I was doubtful. Not too many gentlemen would bother to come back here.

  "My sense of direction is excellent. We need to go this way."

  Since I didn't know Mayfair too well, I let him lead the way. He was still pale, except for the dark circles that had appeared beneath his eyes. He'd seemed well enough only a short time ago, so I didn't think our encounter with the butcher caused it. Rather, he looked as if he hadn't slept properly in days.

  "Did you scare those fellows away after you took the butcher's knife?" I asked, looking behind us. There were no sounds of anyone following.

  After a few steps, he said, "They were in no condition to follow us."

  I gasped. "You hurt them?"

  He looked at me sideways. "Does it matter?"

  "I…I don't know. They were just law-abiding innocent men, trying to stop someone they thought was a thief." And there were three of them and only one of him. How had he beaten them?

  "They were vigilantes," he said. "Their kind of justice is never innocent and is rarely law-abiding."

  "Perhaps in your country."

  He walked on apace and I thought the conversation ended, when he said, "They would have had their sport with you, Miss Steele, before they handed you over to the authorities."

  "How do you know that?" But even as I said it, I knew he was right. I'd seen it in the eyes of the man who'd approached me. I shivered and folded my arms over my chest. "Thank you, again, for helping me escape."

  "There's no need to thank me."

  "There is. I'm also sorry you got inv
olved."

  "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been there in the first place. It's as much my fault."

  His logic was a little broken since he couldn't have known the reception I'd get. "I still don't understand why Mr. Abercrombie would do such a thing. Why accuse me of stealing?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," he muttered so quietly that I almost didn't hear.

  "I haven't seen him in years and the whole guild saga resolved itself in his favor. I ought to be the angry one, not him."

  "You'll have to explain this guild system to me at home. It's not the first time you've mentioned it."

  We entered Park Street and checked up and down the street before advancing.

  "Thank goodness you're not known here," I said. "Or the police would be knocking on your door by now." I was safe while I resided with Mr. Glass and kept away from Oxford Street, but once our business was concluded, I would need to be careful. While the Masons wouldn't believe Abercrombie if he told them I stole, I didn't want to involve them if I could help it. "I hope Mr. Abercrombie doesn't get it into his head to search for me and continue with the ridiculous accusation of theft."

  "I'll take care of Abercrombie," Mr. Glass said.

  "Take care of him how?"

  "Leave it to me."

  Did he mean to harm Abercrombie? Or threaten him, Wild West style?

  I didn't get a chance to ask again. We'd reached number sixteen, a red and cream brick townhouse that stretched up to the gray sky. I peered over the black iron fence running alongside the steps down to the service entrance. The blinds were down and no light rimmed them. It mustn't be the charwoman's day.

  Mr. Glass's knock on the main door was answered by a footman or butler. I couldn't tell which because only his head appeared around the door, as if he were hiding the rest of himself.

  "It's only you," the man said, opening the door wider. "Just as well. I ain't dressed proper yet."

  "Why not?" Mr. Glass said. "It's almost midday. What if we'd had callers?"

  "We ain't."

  "But we might have." He stepped aside to allow me to pass.