A shudder coursed through Clara. There was no avoiding the man’s name now. For, aside from Papa, the only other person who knew of their connection to the owl was Mr. Forrester. But why would he go to the great length and expense of following them across the continent? After her last adamant refusal to become his wife, what could Mr. Forrester possibly hope to gain?
Pluck, pluck, pluck. She shut her twitching eyes only to be confronted with a vison of bold, black newsprint.HRH Prince Albert has announced that if the owl’s pilot will present himself and his inventionat the palace, he shall, at that time, receive a royal commendation and patronage purse of 10,000 pounds per annum.
Of course. With Mr. Forrester, everything always came down to wretched money.
Clara pulled her lip between her teeth. Mr. Forrester wasfollowing her once again. Lurking and scheming to get what he most desired. How could he be expected to resist the temptation of ten thousand a year? And so easily obtained? All Mr. Forrester need do was reach Grand first, steal the machine she had taught him to fly, and present himself to Prince Albert as its inventor. Who would have cause to doubt the word of he who landed the great owl atop Buckingham Palace? Who would believe the contrary claims of an old man accused of lunacy?
Not a blessed soul.
Mr. Forrester would bring ruin upon her family at last—all because she’d been fool enough to accept his proposal, weakened by the selfish longing to have someone take care of her for once.
“What I can’t puzzle out ishowhe knows you and Mrs. S. are linked to the owl.”
Squaring her shoulders, Clara forced herself to open her eyes. Face reality. Mr. Forrester hadn’t won yet, and she did not intend to let him. “He knows because he’s seen the machine before.”
Mr. Arthur’s brows vaulted. “I thought the machine was a secret. Known only by the family.”
“The family ... and my former fiancé, Rupert Forrester. I have no doubt that he’s the man you saw following us.”
“The Forrester bloke? How can you be so certain? Suppose he mentioned the machine to someone else?”
“I don’t have to suppose. I know Mr. Forrester, and he’s skilled at keeping secrets. He gives away nothing unless it will give him more still. He had no incentive to mention Grand’s warehouse or the owl to someone else. The information held no monetary value—until Prince Albert named a price. When news of the owl hit the papers, and when he learned of the prince’s patronage purse, Mr. Forrester would’ve seen a way out from under an anvil of debt. He knows I’d chase Grandanywhere to keep him safe. He knows how to follow my trail, and he knows how to fly the owl back to London and claim it as his own.” Clara fisted her hands at her sides. “And I know he’d have no qualms doing so if it meant lining the pockets of his garish yellow waistcoat with ten thousand a year.”
Mr. Arthur’s brows furrowed over eyes of green. “Am I to understand, Miss Stanton, that this ... former fiancé ... has followed you before?”
The pity in his voice set Clara’s cheeks aflame, but she didn’t lower her gaze. “Twice, that I’m aware of. The last time, he accosted me at the docks in London the night we set sail. He knew about the owl. Threatened to leverage his knowledge and have Grand institutionalized unless I married him. He was so desperate ... so cruel.” Another shudder unsettled her frame. “If he hadn’t been distracted by some clumsy dockhands . . . if I hadn’t been able to get away . . . I fear what he might’ve done.”
A grave mixture of emotion deepened the furrows along Mr. Arthur’s brow, and he nodded with resolution. “Now that we know what we’re up against, we can give the scoundrel the old slip and dodge. Plant false trails. Shake him off our scent. As long as the three of us stick together, we’ll be just fine. Never you fear, Miss Stanton. A little cat-and-mouse chase will just add a bit of excitement to this scavenger hunt. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs.—” He gawked at something over Clara’s shoulder. “What the deuce! Where’s she gone in such a hurry?”
Clara whirled around just as fuchsia blooms bouncing atop a silken bonnet disappeared amidst the crush of pedestrians. A tremor unsettled her fisted hands, now empty. Heart thudding in her ears, she numbed to all sensation except the pulse of a single, chilling word.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
CHAPTER
19
Helpless, that’s how Clara felt as she dashed across the Stone Bridge. Helpless, although she’d no time for the paralyzing emotion. For she must run. Not hasten as proper ladies were taught, but hoist skirts clear of boots andrun, pushing aside young men who reeked of fish and dodging old women slower than slugs. Run, unsure whether Mr. Arthur followed. Run, lest the wolf pack of fears nipping at her mind pounced on her sanity.
Oh, how the beasts were gaining ground.
Clara reached the other side of the bridge and, finding no sight of Mum, raced down the thoroughfare. People gawked at her unusual haste, but none were the face she sought. Where could Mum be? What if she got lost following a stray kitten? Her ankle wobbled. What if Mr. Forrester happened upon Mum first? Her chest ached. What if Mr. Forrester held Mum captive in exchange for Grand’s machine? What if he hurt her in his desperation?
Her foot landed wrong on a loose cobble, and she fell, skidding across hot stone. Pain flared in her hands, her knees. Collapsed in a dusty heap, her world went still but for the heaving of lungs that didn’t know she’d stopped running.
Have to get up. Have tofind Mum.
Slowly, she rose onto shaky legs and eyed her torn gloves now stained with the blood of her scratched palms. Empty, stinging palms that weren’t supposed to let go. Her eyes misted. She’d grown careless in Prague ... selfish. The allure of books and stardust had distracted from her duty. If something happened to Mum today, it would be her fault.
Her lip quivered, but she bit the weakness into submission.Clara Marie Stanton does not blubber. By might and main, Clara Marie Stanton takes care ofher own.Shoving the ruined gloves into a skirt pocket, she wove through clusters of strangers, gaze combing the narrow street lined with various storefronts until something ahead caught her eye. Snagged her breath.
A bobbing bouquet of fuchsia.
The epitome of serene, Mum sat on the steps of a boarded-up shop. A bulging canvas sack lay at her feet, and Fred peered from her shoulder to sniff a bundle of fur in her lap.
