She needed to ascertain whether this stranger was, in fact, a spy for Mr. Forrester before her tenderhearted family was robbed, gutted, or conned. Taking the stairs two at a time, Clara raced toward the foyer and landed upon the newly polished hardwood with significant momentum, skidding straight across the vast entry into Mum’s plush posterior.
“Gracious!” Mum grasped Clara’s hand in time to prevent an unfortunate topple as boisterous laughter set her blue eyes twinkling. “What a theatrical entrance, ducky. I shall have to remember that one for our next social gathering.”
With her luck, Mum would too. Embarrassment singed Clara’s cheeks as she feigned a chuckle. “Forgive my tardiness, Grand. I was seeing to last-minute preparations.”
“Of course, of course.” Grand wrapped her in a warm hug, squeezing ever too tightly as his customary kaleidoscope of clockwork butterflies danced about their heads. With a loud clap on her back, he pulled away and motioned to the stranger in their midst. “Clara, this is Arthur. My new apprentice.”
Clara bit her lip. Her tongue. Her cheek. Anything to keep the panic from escaping. This was of more concern than a spy dispatched with the pretext of a single errand like cleaning the chimneys. By insinuating himself into Grand’s workshop, this outsider was positioned to witness all manner of oddities that could be twisted to support the rumors of hereditary insanity.
More dangerous still, he’d be in proximity to the letter that gave those rumors the ring of truth.
Had Mr. Forrester altered his tactics?
Apprentice Arthur dared to grin in the face of her fears.“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Stanton.” Hand outstretched in greeting, he stepped forward and crushed her slipper with the full weight of Buckingham Palace.
Clara’s scream startled man and metal alike, scattering automaton butterflies hither and yon as her nails dug into Grand’s jacket.
“Rusted cogs!” The man recoiled, liberating her wounded foot.
Pain surged through Clara’s toes. Whimpering, she choked back a few of Mr. Fowler’s favorite words.
“Do forgive me, Miss Stanton. I’m still getting used to this contraption.” He gestured toward the floor.
Breathing through gritted teeth, Clara glowered at the man’s offending boots—one crafted of cognac-hued leather and the other composed of shining brass and bronze. Her jaw slackened. “You’re an automaton.”
Apprentice Arthur dared to chuckle in the face of her pain. “Not quite, but Drosselmeyer was kind enough to fit me with a custom prosthetic boot.”
A blasted heavy boot. Waves of pain, pulsing from toes to ankle, segmented Clara’s breath. Salted paper cuts, it smarted! “Grand, would you ... help me to the parlor? I think ... I need to sit down.”And get away from this maladroit man.
Grand assisted her into the adjacent parlor, wherein she lowered herself with a stifled moan upon a chaise lounge and carefully elevated her throbbing foot upon a pillow embroidered with leaping gazelles. Remain. Calm. No matter how much she wished to drop a bronze paperweight of a dunce cap on Apprentice Arthur’s skull, she must remain calm and gather more information on this potential spy. “Grand, tell me, where did you find that man?”
Reclining on the nearby sofa, Grand tucked a thumb under his collar. “He found me, actually.”
Of course he did. The previous spies in Mr. Forrester’semploy had found her family easily enough. The merry ship captain she’d discovered rummaging through papers in Papa’s office. The elderly charwoman she’d caught at the parlor desk reading Mum’s correspondence. The darling little boy who’d delivered a box of groceries, only to wind up in the library, leafing through books as if hoping a letter would fall out. Not to mention the charming, dimpled, knife-wielding chimney sweep who’d torn her parents’ chamber apart just last night.
Mr. Forrester must’ve deduced that the proof he needed to gain leverage over her wasn’t to be found in the Stanton home and had shifted his attention to Grand’s shop.
Clara worried her hands. “Grand, what do you really know of this person? What is his surname? Are we acquainted with his family? Do they live in Greater London?” And had they any connection to her determined ex-fiancé?
“No surname or family to speak of, poor chap. He’s alone in the world. Sort of a wayfaring traveler, I gathered, but he’s an excellent clockmaker.”
Another enticing lure to draw Grand into a snare. “Who has Mr. ... erm ... bother. What am I to call the man if he has no surname?”
“Simply call him Arthur, my dear.”
Her mouth threatened to fall agape, but Clara snapped it shut before making herself a codfish. Call a single man—a stranger and a probable spy, no less!—by his Christian name? Out of the question.
She clasped her hands upon her lap. “Who hasMr.Arthur apprenticed for previously?”
“I’m not sure. He didn’t provide a reference, but knock me down, that boy is as skilled a clockmaker as I’ve ever seen.” Grand leaned forward, brass butterflies aflutter. “Not only did my inventions seek him out, but earlier today, while I was constructing his prosthetic, he had a marvelous idea for improving the knee joint’s flexibility. Mark my words, LittleAtlas. Now that Arthur has agreed to make himself a permanent place in the shop, brilliant innovations are bound to shine forth from every loose board and windowpane.”
A twitch toyed with Clara’s right eyelid. “Did you say ... p-permanent?”
“Aye. I saw no reason to limit Arthur’s apprenticeship to a set number of years. As long as he’s keen to learn, it will be my pleasure and honor to teach such a capable student.”
Fabulous. Grand had picked up a no-name drifter who “just so happened” to be without relations or past employers who could vouch for his character—a well-suited pawn for Mr. Forrester to buy off with the meager enticement of a five-pound note. And to make matters worse, Grand had all but adopted the rogue. She sighed. How was she to protect her family from spies and swindlers when they insisted on trusting anyone and everyone on sight?
“Grand, don’t you think it’s the least bit suspicious—”
