He chuckled. “Well, I didn’t exactly have time to remove the prosthetic, now did I?”
Her jaw slackened. Mr. Arthur hadn’t known, and yet he dove off the boat without a second thought. The very same Mr. Arthur who thought he was a useless failure. A faulty piece. No, not Arthur. Theodore. The man who believed himself unworthy of his true name. The man who was not only a jovial soul, but a brave one who’d endured trauma and survived horrors that, for all their ill, had shaped him into acaring protector. A daring hero willing to risk the high probability of drowning to save her.
No other possible gain, monetary or otherwise.
Just ...her.
Clara’s heart swelled as she stared into Mr. Theodore’s eyes of jade. The ones looking back at her now, with a gleam of sincere tenderness, as though she were worth being rescued. “Your father was wrong about you. Woefully and deplorably wrong.” With a smile, tentative and small, she placed her hand on the patch of grass between them. “I hope you know ... I no longer wish you to shove off and out of our lives. You belong in the shop, Mr. Theodore. Our family keeps better time with you in it.”
His throat bobbed. “I can’t remember the last time I was called by that name.”
“It’s what you should be called. What I should like to call you from now on ... unless you object. I could keep the name between us, if you’d prefer.”
His mouth quirked. “You may keep and use the name as you like, Miss Stanton.”
“What of your surname? Is that to remain a mystery?”
“I think it had better. If I told you my surname, I should want you to keep it too.” Cheeks reddening, Mr. Theodore’s gaze fell to her lips.
Clara’s stomach rolled into the lake with a plop. She inched backward, but Mr. Theodore clasped her hand upon the grass. Quieting any thoughts of running away. Quieting every thought but one. Mr. Theodore was going to—
“Honk, hooonk!”
Mr. Theodore’s eyes widened, and a shriek tore from his lips.
Clara bolted upright. Their old friend the cob loomed over Mr. Theodore’s posterior, wings raised and slender neck arched in a menacing hook. “Stars, did it bite you?”
The swan answered for Mr. Theodore by snapping at the red inflatable on his boot. The balloon popped, and the resulting noise sent the swan into a frantic, flapping retreat.
Mr. Theodore grabbed her hand, pulling her onto her feet. “We must flee before the winged demon strikes again.” He retrieved his crutch and thrust it into her keeping. “Let us make haste, Miss Stanton!”
Hand in hand, they sprinted away from the lake as the outraged cob gave chase, honking and flapping. Honking and pecking. Honking and drawing the attention of every soul in Orangerie Park. Sophisticated couples promenading the neat trails. Dignified families picnicking beneath silk parasols. All eyed them with bewilderment, and all were deftly dodged by the sodden pair darting across the grass, Mr. Theodore clutching the torn fabric of his trousers and Clara laughing without fear of what the onlookers might say.
CHAPTER
26
Drosselmeyer’s invention had evaded them for too long. Every day spent scouring Orangerie Park for the automaton cygnet afforded Forrester another day in his search for the Stantons. Theodore hadn’t been too concerned at first, but now he could almost hear the hands of time ticking away the wasted minutes. Each tick and tock echoing through his mind like approaching footfalls. Forrester must be in Strasbourg by now. The question was, how long would it take the scoundrel to figure out they’d left the Grand Île?
An April breeze chased a sinewy cloud across the blue expanse above Orangerie Park, and Theodore shifted on the blanket they’d spread upon the grass. On the opposite side of the blanket, Miss Stanton and Mrs. S. enjoyed a picnic luncheon prepared by the accommodating cook at the Plucky Orange Peel inn. Every instinct in his marrow wanted to shepherd the ladies to another location, but they couldn’tleave that evasive automaton behind. It was their only means of finding Drosselmeyer. And it could not be allowed to fall into Forrester’s hands.
Theodore’s gaze scanned the lake for the glint of pewter feathers in the sunlight, then combed through the surrounding trees for the figure of a man in a yellow waistcoat. Nothing, and ... nothing. For now.
He sighed through clenched teeth. If only he’d rowed faster, Miss Stanton might’ve caught the cygnet that first day instead of catching a chill. That topple into the lake had cost them a day of waiting at the inn for his and Miss Stanton’s clothes to dry. The next day, he’d searched the park alone while the ladies had remained in their room, Miss Stanton to recover from her chill and Mrs. S. to nurse it away. This morning, a recovered Miss Stanton and giddy Mrs. S. had been anxious to be out of doors, so after breaking their fast, they’d traipsed to the park together. If they didn’t find the automaton today, he didn’t know what—
A metallic melody reverberated in his waistcoat pocket. “Eyes up, Stantons. Time for cygnet patrol.”
The ladies straightened to attention, and collectively, they inspected the lake and surrounding shore for any telltale signs of an automaton cygnet. A rustle among the reeds. A ripple on the placid waters. A faint trumpeting of a metal beak. Yet, once again, the pocket watch tolled the hour and fell silent. Once again, it was time to move out.
The search party took to their feet.
Miss Stanton gave the blanket a good shake, scattering crumbs and fallen petals into the air, and then retrieved the white basket containing the leftovers from their picnic. “Be sure all the children are accounted for this time, Mum. I’d rather not have to double back.”
Mrs. S. peered inside the wicker basket she carried. “Oh dear ... Phileas has scampered off again.” In a trice, thewoman was on all fours, peering through an ornamental hedgerow. “Phileas Vulpini, you come back here this instant!”
A grin tugged Theodore’s mouth. Phileas could make himself scarce faster than a confirmed bachelor in a ballroom aflutter with debutantes. Hmmm ... Bachelors hid away in places debs weren’t likely to go. Smoke room. Billiard room. Dark corner of a library with a flask of scotch. What might be the fox equivalent? Mrs. S. continued to trim the hedges with shears of scolding, while Miss Stanton searched nearer the lake, both focused on the ground.
I wonder ...Theodore looked up.
