Frigid waters seemed to pour over the length of Clara’s body. She’d been expecting him to play his hand but not so soon. Had he grown tired of his fruitless search, or was he simply running out of time? Regardless, he must be quite desperate to risk a renewal of his troth now. Without the letter’s compelling leverage, Mr. Forrester was betting everything that slander and spies had been sufficient to back her into a corner, one tight enough to make her renege. Accept his offer of rescue from the perils he’d created.
Grant him access to the Stanton coffers he needed to save himself.
“Say you’ll accept my offer, darling, and let me set everything right. Say you’ll become my bride, and let me care for you as I promised.”
The cold settled into her bones with a sobering numbness. Mr. Forrester’s appearance was not the only thing unchanged—his candied promises still concealed arsenic-filled centers. “You’re not capable of caring for anyone other than yourself, Mr. Forrester. Never have been. Never shall be.”
“Come now, pet. You must know that I care. That I’ve missed you terribly. Let us put these wretched months of separation behind us and be as we were before.” Mr. Forrester reduced the space between them to a mere breath, his dimpled grinextending an invitation. “Marry me, Clara. I assure you, becoming my wife would have numerous benefits.” His right hand glided across her cheek in a scalding caress.
A single slap to that insolent dimple freed Clara from his touch.
A well-aimed kneecap to the loins vented a measure of her fury.
Cheek burning and fists poised to fly at the slightest provocation, Clara glowered at Mr. Forrester, now leveled to his knees upon the floor and moaning in insufficient agony. “Understand this, Rupert Forrester. You may as well choke on that forked tongue of yours, for I won’t be taken in by your snake-charmer act a second time. I will never pledge myself to be your wife, and no amount of scheming, seducing, or groveling will change my mind. Not now. Not ever. I’d sooner drink from the putrid Thames than marry you!”
Her emphatic declaration reverberated through the still and silent hall. Clara swallowed, covering her mouth. When had she taken to shouting? Stars, if the gossips caught sight of her now ... What a pitiful spectacle she must be. A wobble unsettled her knees.
Home. She needed to go home this very moment before her stupidity caused the family more irrevocable harm.
Clara fled across the gallery toward the winding staircase that would take her to fresh air and the comfort of peppermint-filled pockets.
“Don’t go! Clara ... I need you.”
The angst-ridden plea grated on the back of her taut neck, and she gripped the rail at the top of the stairwell. Of course he needed her. Everyone always needed her. “After all the havoc you’ve wrought ... tell me, Mr. Forrester. Why, exactly, am I supposed to care any longer?”
A growl infused his voice with menace. “Because the bloodletting creditors latched to my back are devoid of patience orscruples. Without your family’s money, I’ll be dragged back to—” Mr. Forrester bit off his own words with a curse. “Blast! You love me, woman. Shouldn’t that be reason enough?”
Clara sighed. No, it wasn’t. The naïve love she’d once felt for a lad she’d called Buccaneer Bill could never be reason enough to shackle herself in matrimony to the heartless man he’d become. “Stay away from us, Mr. Forrester. Stay far, far away.”
CHAPTER
5
The spring catapulted from the clock with a metallic snap, nearly taking out Theodore’s eye as it soared across the workshop and landed ... somewhere.
It was hard to locate anything amid the scattered heaps of tools and dismantled clock parts tossed onto dusty shelves, tucked into sticky drawers, and strewn across the battered desk. Drosselmeyer assured him there was an organizational system in place, but Theodore was beginning to question said system’s efficiency. And soundness. Just when he’d committed the whereabouts of an item to memory, he’d find it replaced with a long-cold cup of tea or a rosy-eyed automaton rabbit.
Either the system was a bad fit for the shop ... or he was.
“Wherever you came from, you certainly don’t belong here.”
Seated on a wooden bench before the creaky desk that nigh rested upon his knees, Theodore caved into a slouch. A month later and Miss Stanton’s words still needled. Still raised doubts like drops of blood upon pricked flesh. Why did the woman distrust him with such vehemence? She’d acted asthough he were the worst of criminals. Interrogating, charging, and passing judgment within minutes. He couldn’t fault her for being protective of her grandfather or for eyeing him with caution.
But to accuse him of acting as a spy for some chap he didn’t even know was frustrating. And odd. There had to be a story there. A reason for Miss Stanton’s behavior. Something had wound her suspicions so tightly that she’d been poised to snap like yonder spring. When he’d ventured to ask Drosselmeyer about it the morning after the dinner party, the old man had said only that it washerstory to tell.
Not that she was likely to ever tell it to him, thedubious vagabond.
He rubbed a hand over his beard and round to the back of his taut neck. What was he doing—allowing criticism from a fair face to distract him as though he were a gangly besotted boy? He was no boy.
And he abso-bloomin-lutely was not besotted.
Theodore pried his knees out from under the blighted dollhouse furnishing and strode across the workshop in search of the flying spring. He turned up the flame on the nearest wall-mounted gaslight and rummaged through an open drawer in the speculated landing area, clanking cogs against brass clock hands of varying sizes. Miss Stanton could fire bullet-force glares all she liked. He’d not be scared off or shamed into running. Not anymore. Not from this place. Nor from these people. Drosselmeyer and the Stantons were too kind and generous to consider parting from them. He’d never find a better benefactor, not if he searched a month of Sundays. And he had, by jove! For five exhausting years.
Theodore shoved the drawer closed with a thud that rattled the whole bureau. Hang his doubts and the lady’s censure! He was staying on and would enjoy himself, at that. If Miss Stanton was determined not to like him, then he’d be equallydogged in convincing her of his good intentions and somehow win over the pretty little grump.
Drosselmeyer’s warbling whistle emanated from the upstairs apartment, increasing in volume as he flew down the stairwell and entered the workshop. Brass-rimmed goggles inset with amber glass encircled his head. He didn’t alight at his desk but rather winged his way toward the door, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. “Fair morning and fair thee well, Arthur. I am off to see the world.”
A grin quirked the side of Theodore’s mouth. He snatched up his crutch and followed Drosselmeyer into the vacant storefront. For all her glares, he had to respect the way Miss Stanton looked in on her grandfather and accompanied him to the Great Globe for adventures of imagination. This week’s choice to aid imagination with fancy dress felt strange, though. Even for them. He’d not have pegged Miss Stanton as the type. What sort of costume might the pretty grump choose ... and why was her grandfather leaving without her?
