The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(33)

"Why should she?" Duke grunted. "She's right."

Willie marched back to him and punched him so hard in the shoulder that he was forced back a step. She stormed out of the drawing room to the sound of his chuckles. "We beat you in the war!" she shouted back.

"We've been at war with America?" Miss Glass asked, a hand to her chest. "Dear me, how dreadful."

"I think she's referring to the War of Independence over a hundred years ago," I said, trying not to smile in relief. Willie, at least, wasn't a threat—at present.

Miss Glass sipped her tea. "Where is he?" she asked, looking past Duke to the door. "Where is the fellow claiming to be my nephew? I want another look at him."

"Keep your hair on," Duke said. " He'll be back soon."

Miss Glass patted her gray curls.

Mr. Glass strode into the drawing room, and Miss Glass immediately sat up straighter. She couldn't take her eyes off him, nor he her. He looked healthier again, the signs of illness and exhaustion gone. He dragged a chair over to sit near her and handed her a tintype photograph. He held another back.

"This is me with my parents," he said quietly. "I was about three years of age."

He watched Miss Glass's reaction intently. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she traced the man in the photograph with her thumb. It must be her brother then. He looked remarkably like Mr. Glass did now, only with a mustache and hair parted at the side. He stood a little behind the seated woman with hooped skirts. She was very pretty, with slender features and large eyes. She held the hand of the little boy scowling at the camera. He looked like he resented having to stand still for so long.

"And this is me with my parents just before they fell ill. I was fifteen."

The couple's appearance had hardly changed. Her gown was dark instead of light, the skirts not quite so broad, and she wore a bonnet over her hair. The man's hairline had begun to recede a little, but he was still very handsome. The boy had grown up and now stood behind his mother's other side. He was taller than his father, with wide shoulders, and he no longer scowled at the camera but looked directly into it with calm countenance. His face may have been more youthful, but it was unmistakably the man sitting opposite, and he was most assuredly the son of the man in both photographs. It was a wonder Miss Glass hadn't noticed the striking familiarity immediately upon seeing him. Then again, she was touched in the head.

She sniffed loudly. Mr. Glass handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "Harry," she whispered, stroking the tintype again. "My dearest Harry."

Mr. Glass watched her, his elbows on his knees, his throat moving with his swallow. "Aunt Letitia?" he murmured.

She wiped her cheek with the handkerchief and handed back the photographs. She clasped both his hands. "Matthew," she whispered. "We have so much to discuss. We must be quick."

"Quick? Why?"

She flapped the hand that held the handkerchief. "Is it true your parents died from an illness?"

He nodded. "Both died with weeks of the other."

"Then what did you do?"

He leaned back in the chair and studied each of the tintypes. "Returned to my mother's family in California. Until I was old enough to leave," he added with chilling bite.

I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to dole out more pieces of the puzzle that could help me solve the mystery of Mr. Glass.

"Why did you come to England after all this time?" she asked. "Harry vowed never to return."

"I'm looking for someone." His gaze flicked to me them back to his aunt. It was the first time he'd acknowledged my presence since walking into the drawing room.

"I see. Well, I am glad you came." She wrung his hand in both of hers. "Are you married?"

He pulled free. "No."

"Promised to anyone?"

"No."

"Excellent! We must find you a bride now that you're home. A good English girl, someone from our set." She clicked her tongue. "If only I knew who the right girls are nowadays."

"Aunt, please, I'm not looking for a bride. Just a watchmaker." Again, he glanced at me. He must want to get away to speak with the watchmaker known as Mirth. "Nor am I here for long. I leave on Tuesday."

"Tuesday! But that is too soon."

He stood. She tried to clasp his hand but he moved away. He couldn't have failed to notice the attempt, however. He held himself rigidly as he went to stand by the mantel, as far away from us as possible while remaining in the room.

"I hope you are well, Aunt."

"Fit as a fiddle. But Matthew—"

"And my Uncle Richard?"

She clicked her tongue. "Still alive, more's the pity."

"Does he take care of your needs?" Mr. Glass asked.

"I am adequately fed and housed, like one of his horses, if that's what you mean." She clasped her hands on her lap, her proud chin once more tilted at an imperial angle. This was a woman aware of her elevated position in the world. The madness was nowhere to be seen.

"Does he know I'm in England?" Mr. Glass asked.

"Yes."

"Did he have me followed?"

"Followed? Why would he follow you?"