Legacy of the Clockwork Key (32 page)

We spent a quiet night in a pasture under the stars, and our conversation was nothing more than a functional sentence here or there.

The next day, the need to make some sort of greater sense of what had happened overcame us, and we recounted our parts in the story for the benefit of the others.

Rathford had confronted Will on the moors. Will had tried to act as if he were loyal to Rathford, but Rathford saw through the ruse. Rathford used some sort of gas explosion to knock Will out. When he came around he ran back to the cottage. Oliver and Lucinda had assumed the worst of our behavior and were leaving us to our ruinous devices. They were livid with themselves when they discovered what had really happened.

They found the valiant little mechanical pigeon flailing in the coach. I could still see his wing marks scarring the once pristine paint and wood.

I told them about Alastair and how he had pulled me from the oubliette. I didn’t tell anyone what I had seen in the time machine. It wasn’t right. Some of the secrets I had witnessed,
I would take to the grave, though I was terribly curious about Oliver’s wound in the wilderness and how he had received it.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak about my parents, or the choice I had faced. The wound was too raw. I mourned their deaths a second time, far more deeply than the first.

The terrible weight of my guilt burdened my heart.

My parents were gone. They had died in a fire months ago. I couldn’t change that, not without destroying everyone around me.

I would feel the pain of their loss until the day I joined them, but it was time to move on. I was alive.

I had my life before me. With Rathford and Alastair defeated, my grandfather could return.

There was only one thing that would continue to haunt me. I told Oliver about the man with the steel face. He seemed both shocked and appalled by my revelation, but didn’t know his identity. He mentioned that long ago, before any of us was born, there had been an Amusementist with an interest in developing new limbs for soldiers who came home injured from war, but he had never heard of a man with a false face.

It would have to wait, but I was patient, and I knew I wouldn’t be fully safe until I found my parents’ murderer and watched him hang.

BACK IN LONDON, I SAT WITH LUCINDA IN FRONT OF THE
hearth at the toy shop. She sipped her tea as I opened a formal invitation.

“Her Grace the dowager Duchess of Chadwick has invited me to a dinner party to celebrate the return of her prodigal son. I wonder how I came to be on her list of acquaintances.” I felt a deep warmth in my chest as Lucinda chuckled while trying to sip her tea.

“You have some fine friends, Miss Whitlock. I’d wager she choked on a biscuit when she found a Scottish tinker on the guest list,” she quipped. It was my turn to chuckle. Lucinda tucked her chin. “I have a favor to ask.”

I reached over and placed my hand on hers. “Anything.”

“Now that my father . . .” Her voice faltered, but she took a deep breath and continued. “I feel I should return home for a time. Between my mother and everything she has to deal with, and Oliver—”

“Has he proposed?” I nearly squealed. Lucinda silenced me with a look.

“As I was saying.” She folded a serviette and placed it on the table. “This shop means so much to me. I want you to look after it.”

My heart stopped entirely. “Me?”

“I will pay you a salary plus a percent commission, and I wish to hire one of my old nurse maids to be your housekeeper and chaperone. I’ve recently discovered my father left her with very little when she was of no more use to him. I wish to make it up to her.” Lucinda looked at me hopefully. I felt my eyes begin to water. “I know it is an enormous responsibility.”

“Yes.” I hugged her as tightly as I could. “Oh, yes. And thank you. It’s an honor. I promise, I’ll make this shop a wonder.”

She patted my back. “I know you will.”

• • •

On Wednesday night, after a grand dinner of everything other than beef stew, complete with treacle tart for dessert, I found myself in the library of the Duke of Chadwick’s enormous London town house, idly polishing the glass of an unlit lamp.

One of the female foot soldiers in the army of Chadwick servants caught me cleaning the lamp and gently took my cloth away. A young, blustery girl with ample cheeks, she blushed as she looked to her feet. “Pardon me, miss. You shouldn’t be doing that.”

I blinked at her, surprised. She blushed further. “You’re not a maid, you know.” She bustled out of the room.

I clenched my hands in my lovely dove-gray skirts, with black braid and lavender trim. My dress was properly modest with a genuine crinoline, and Lucinda’s new lady’s maid had tied matching lavender ribbons in my fashionably styled hair.

Will entered. He looked spectacular in a silver waistcoat and finely cut trousers. The two of us certainly didn’t look as if we didn’t have a penny to our names.

“You look lovely,” he said, walking toward me as if he had a purpose.

My heart fluttered. We hadn’t had much of an opportunity to be alone since our return to London. Oliver had hired him as a courier, and he had been busy. It was as if the freedom
we had known had disappeared, crushed by the expectations of society.

“I thought you said you didn’t wish to live off the charity of others,” I teased. A courier’s salary wouldn’t have bought a waistcoat like that. He looked regal.

“I don’t want to live off it, but I figure Oliver owes us this much for all the trouble he put us to.” Will shrugged, tugging on the edge of his coat.

I laughed.

“That’s a fine dress.” He gave a brass figurine of a rearing horse a half turn on the mantel, then flinched as if expecting some secret door to open. Hastily, he twisted it back.

“It doesn’t seem to suit me.” I glanced at the clock next to it, watching the pendulum swing in a steady rhythm.

Will tugged at his collar. “Me either. I had grown rather accustomed to seeing your ankles.”

I playfully lifted my skirt enough to reveal the tip of my toe. He grinned and took my hand.

“You chose me,” he murmured.

“What are you talking about?” I tilted my head, studying the intent expression on his face.

“I know you could have gone back, changed what happened
with the fire, but you didn’t.” I tried to pull away from him, but he held my hand fast.

My guilt ate at me. I had sacrificed my family, for what? He wasn’t willing to have me. He had made that clear.

“Meg?” I slowly brought my gaze to his. He brushed a kiss across the back of my hand.

“When I found out Rathford had taken you, I thought the worst. I thought I would never see you again.” He pulled me closer. “I discovered I can’t bear that thought.”

I didn’t know what to say. My heart dipped, then I felt as if I had wings once again.

He leaned in close to my neck. “I need you,” he whispered so close to my ear. “I want you.”

Pulling back, he peered deeply into my eyes. “Please say you’ll have me, too. We can find a way.”

My heart fluttered, then burst like fireworks on the fifth of November. “I love you, Will.”

He turned my hand over and kissed my palm in answer. I smoothed it over his cheek.

“Whatever happens, I’m watching out for you.” He kissed me, hard, fast, as he lifted me up and spun me around the room.

I knew he always would.

I AM SO GRATEFUL TO EVERYONE WHO PLAYED A PART IN
the writing of this book. First I have to thank my incredible editor, Anica Mrose Rissi, for all her hard work and her dedication to this story. Her talent has made me a better writer, and her enthusiasm has kept me a sane one. I also have to thank my agent, Laura Bradford. She said the things that needed to be said, even when it wasn’t easy. She pushed me to make something great, then she championed it with passion. For that, I owe her my gratitude.

Several people helped me during the writing process, giving me support, encouragement, and a critical eye. My critique partner, Angie Fox, who deserves the title of Goddess
of All Things Critique-y, put in an amazing effort both in her critiques and in her insistence that I slow down and get some sleep during the frantic nights when I considered sleep optional. Even with Angie’s help, this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day without the remarkable insight of Katie Wallace, who helped me find Meg’s voice. I also owe my eternal thanks to her mother, Lisetta Wallace, for being the best English teacher I’ve ever had, and for looking the other way when I used to scribble stories in the back of my binder during her class. I also have to thank Jules, Julie, Vivi, and Kristie for their encouragement, and Tracey Stefureak and Hasna Saadani for helping keep the language authentic to England.

There is so much more than just writing involved with creating an amazing book. I’d like to thank Shooters Productions for their generous time and efforts to create a beautiful online presence for this book. I also want to give a special thanks to Julie, my assistant, for her help with any odd request I have thrown at her.

I appreciate the contributions of all of the agents associated with the Bradford Literary Agency who worked to bring this story to the widest possible audience. And finally, I have to thank all the people at Simon & Schuster who had a hand in
bringing this book to the market. From the art department to marketing and metadata, I’m so proud to have you on my team.

Last thing, I swear. I have to give all my love to my incredible family, especially my husband, who put up with me crawling into bed too late for too many nights, mumbling about clockwork coaches and battling giant mechanical sea monsters. I couldn’t do this without you.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

JACKET PHOTOGRAPH OF BIRD COPYRIGHT © 2013 BY SCOTT NOBLES

JACKET PHOTOGRAPHS OF LONDON AND CLOUDS

COPYRIGHT © 2013 BY THINKSTOCK

AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH COPYRIGHT © BY KATIE MURPHY

SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.