The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(13)

"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."