The Girl in the Steel Corset
Page 27

“But finding the spot where it dug might provide information.”
She had a point, and for the first time since stumbling into this mystery, Griffin had real hope. “I’ll contact the company laying the new tracks. They’ll be able to tell me where the digger had been working for the months leading up to the attack.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we were close that day. The metal probably attacked Sam and those workers because it thought they were trying to stop it from doing its task.”
“Bloody hell,” Griffin said on a groan. “Almost torn apart because someone mucked about with a machine’s engine. What I want to know is how did The Machinist know this would happen?”
She shrugged. “It could have been by accident. Could anyone who worked with your parents have talked about them?”
Now it was Griffin’s turn to not have an answer. “I don’t know. As far as I know they were all sworn to secrecy. Queen Victoria knows, obviously. She was the one who demanded the Organites be secret. She feared what might happen if they fell into the wrong hands.”
“Like now?”
He hated not being able to find his way through this puzzle. “Even if someone did break their vow of silence, they would have had to tell the person exactly where to locate the entrance to the cavern on my estate. It’s not that easy to find.”
His head snapped up as pieces of this infernal puzzle began to fall into place. “Unless they already knew.”
Emily blinked. “Beg pardon?”
It all made sense now. “The gardener—the groundskeeper—that suddenly up and quit. My steward said he got into the cavern. He even stole my stationery to cast suspicion on Finley. He did know my parents, and he knew Finley’s, as well. The Machinist was involved with my parents’ work, possibly even with the expedition itself.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Saints preserve us.”
Something sharp gnawed at Griffin’s belly, stoking a fire that had burned inside him for a long, long time. It filled him with an unbearable yearning for vengeance. He lifted his head and stared straight into Emily’s eyes.
“What if my parents’ deaths are connected? What if The Machinist killed them and everyone else involved in their work?” Something raw bloomed darkly inside him. Was it possible that he could be so close to his parents’ killer?
“You can’t know that for certain,” she said, a wary expression on her face. “Don’t go doing anything hare-brained.”
Oh, he had no intention of doing anything impulsive. He had to be more careful than ever now. If The Machinist had known his parents and Finley’s father, then he knew their secrets, and he knew their weaknesses. He would be hard to catch, but Griffin would catch him.
He would end this, and give his parents justice.
The black in her hair had gotten longer, more present. Finley couldn’t ignore or deny it any longer, just as there was no denying what caused it. It started when she began working with Griffin on controlling her other half—when the two halves of her personality began trying to merge into one. Last night she had managed to retain some semblance of control, and her shadow had become an even larger part of her rather than something she tried to keep at bay.
She twisted her hair back and pinned it rather messily on the back of her head. She was still a little stiff and sore from her fight with Sam, but the bruises were already fading, even without the benefit of Emily’s “wee beasties.”
Was Sam completely recovered this morning? Griffin must have discovered her gone by now. Was he upset, or glad to be rid of her? It didn’t matter. She’d made the choice to leave and now she had to go forward with it.
She slipped into her shift and an Oriental dress of violet silk with dragons embroidered upon it in gold thread. The dress was long, but had slits up the sides for ease of movement—if she got into a fight, she’d be able to use her legs. A few weeks ago she never would have thought of such a thing. She had changed so very much during her short time under the Duke of Greythorne’s roof. Most of it for the better, she hoped.
Though, when she thought of how she’d used her legs against Sam, under Griffin’s roof, it made her feel sick.
After attaching her stockings to her garters, she slipped into her boots and left the bedroom. She suspected this room was the one Jack used on the odd occasions he slept at his Whitechapel address. It was decorated in cherry and ebony—rich velvets and sleek silks, with a massive four-poster bed that could easily sleep four adults. It seemed a little excessive, but then Jack didn’t strike her as the kind of person to do anything half-arsed.
It had been nice of him to give her his room, however. And he’d been the perfect gentleman—not a title many would assign to him. He hadn’t asked any questions and she hadn’t volunteered any information. How could she tell him that she’d almost caused someone’s death? Yet, if anyone could understand how she felt, it was probably Jack.
She walked down the narrow hall, the heavy soles of her boots making very little noise on the richly patterned rug. The same carpet continued down the winding staircase, covering the gleaming oak with a mantle of crimson, gold and navy.
She found Jack in the library, where they had sat and talked the first night she came to visit him. It looked different in the light of day—not nearly so dangerous. Jack—she’d stopped thinking of him as “Dandy” somewhere along the way—sat on the edge of his desk, long legs crossed at the ankles of his polished black boots. He was in head-to-toe black today. Even his carelessly knotted cravat was a shimmering black silk.
His long dark hair was still damp, waving about his shoulders as he spoke into a baroque-styled telephone. He must be rich indeed to afford such a contraption. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about etiquette, Knobby,” he growled into the mouthpiece. “If I tells you to do somefink, you does it. Is there any part of that your imbecilic brain don’t understand? Good. Now, don’t bother me again unless you ’ave something useful.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle with a curse.
“Tsk, tsk,” Finley teased from the doorway. “What would your mother say if she heard you use such language?”
Jack lifted his head. Perhaps it was vain of her, but she rather fancied his dark eyes brightened at the sight of her. “Well, if it ain’t sleepin’ beauty. Who do you fink taught me them words, Treasure? ’Twere me mum.” He grinned. “You look heartily refreshed this morning.”
So did he, but Finley knew better than to say that aloud. Jack Dandy was one of the most dangerous and attractive young men she’d ever met—bastardizing of the English language aside—and he knew it.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”
He gestured to a silver pot and cups on a tray beside him on the desk. “Freshly brewed. Ground the beans m’self just for your enjoyment.”
“You are a man of many talents,” she said archly as she came toward him.
“You don’t know the ’alf of ’em, darling.” His flirtatious tone was lightened by a smile. “Take one of them croissants, as well. You need to eat.”
Her stomach rumbled at the sight of the buttery, flaky pastries that sat on a china plate also on the tray. She smiled self-consciously as he chuckled. He took one, as well.
Coffee fixed just the way she liked it, Finley took her breakfast and moved to sit on the sofa, placing her cup and plate on the low table before her. She pulled a section off the croissant—it came apart easily, still a little warm. She popped the piece into her mouth, closing her eyes in delight as the buttery flavor embraced her tongue.
“This is delicious,” she said, when she finally recovered enough to speak.
Jack was watching her in a curious manner. “You could have ’em every morning if you want.”
Finley stilled, another piece of croissant poised halfway to her mouth. “Pardon?”
He smiled at her, as though he found her surprise amusing. “You can stay here—with me—as long as you want.” It couldn’t have been coincidence that all traces of Cockney disappeared at that moment.
She wasn’t certain what to say. This generosity from him wasn’t totally unexpected, but she knew better than to take it as innocent. If she stayed there, eventually Jack would want something from her in return, and the idea of what he might want from her was as scary as it was strangely exciting.
“Thank you,” she said at last—it seemed much safer than yes or no, especially since part of her was very tempted to say yes.
Jack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I know the minute His Grace comes for you, you’ll ’ead back to Mayfair wiv him, but if ever you need somethin’…” He let the offer drift off.
Silence filled the room as they stared at one another. Finley’s mouth was suddenly very dry. Good lord, what was going on?
“Last night you asked me what I knew about that Machinist bloke,” he said, breaking the silence and the strange growing tension. He popped the last of a croissant in his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his long hands. “I ’aven’t had dealings wiv him, but I know some who ’ave. Keeps to hisself, deals mostly in metal. My associate’s ’eard of lots of thefts and anarchy believed to be The Machinist’s work, but there’s no proof. He knows how to keep his head down.” There was a note of respect in his voice, reminding Finley that as attractive as Jack Dandy might be he was not a “good” man.
“I appreciate your help,” she said sincerely. “It seems The Machinist is something of a phantom.”
Jack inclined his head. “That’s easy though, innit? When you get a bit o’ metal to do all your dirty work.”
Yes, she supposed it was. “Who do you get to do yours?” she asked before she could censure herself.
He grinned at her, flashing those straight white teeth that reminded her of a wolf. “A man’s got to ’ave secrets, Treasure.”
Like whether or not he killed Lord Felix—for her. The idea made her head swim. On one hand it was terribly romantic to think someone might kill for her. On the other, it was terrifying to think Jack could take a life over something so petty as a slight against her. Yes, Lord Felix had intended to do her great harm at the time, but she’d escaped relatively unscathed. He deserved to be stopped, but killed? Still, she couldn’t bring herself to get the least bit upset about it. She was more tormented with the thought of finding a murderer attractive than concerned with who he might have done in.
She didn’t want Jack to be a killer. There, she’d thought it, admitted it to herself. She didn’t want it because she liked him, and because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who could have feelings for a murderer.
A knock at the front door pulled her from her thoughts. Her head turned to gaze out into the foyer. Jack only smiled wryly into his cup. “Wonder who that could be?” he mused drily. “Do be a love and get that for me, will you?”
It was odd that he asked her to answer the knock, but since he’d been so good as to take her in when she needed it, she didn’t think to refuse. Setting her cup on the table, she rose from the sofa and slowly walked out of the room, her gaze fixed on the front door.
She depressed the latch with her thumb, and swung the heavy wood inward, revealing a most unexpected surprise.
Griffin stood on the step.
Jack had predicted he would come, but she hadn’t believed it, and she certainly hadn’t suspected it would be this soon. And she hadn’t thought for a moment that she would be so bloody happy to see him. How had he known where to find her? Had he thought the worst of her and suspected she’d run to Jack? Or did he simply know her well enough to know that she’d run to the one person who seemed to understand her as well as he did?
“Hello,” he said. His voice was rough and he looked tired. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was mussed beyond its usual disregard. There was an ugly bruise on his jaw where Sam had struck him. It spread up his cheek to darken his right eye and across his nose to cast a purple smear under the left eye, as well. His poor face. She wanted to touch it, but resisted the temptation, knowing how badly it must hurt.
“Hello,” she echoed lamely, partially hiding behind the door frame. “How’s Sam?”
“Recovering,” he replied with a slight smile. “As charming as ever.”
She laughed at that, more out of relief than anything else. Sam was all right, and Griffin didn’t hate her.
“You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that.”
He put one foot on the threshold, closing the distance between them. “I didn’t.”
“Oh.” That was a bit of cold water in the face. She opened the door a little wider, putting herself behind it. “Did you come to see Jack? He’s in the—”
“Finley.” She started as his palm slapped the door frame just above her head. He leaned closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. There was a glint in his eyes she didn’t understand, but it made her heart pound. “I’m not here to see Dandy, either.”
“Then…” She cleared her throat. Her voice sounded like a little girl’s in her ears and she cursed herself for it. “Why are you here?”
“For you.”
He had to know she didn’t belong at his house, with him and his friends. They wouldn’t want her after yesterday. “Griffin, I…”
Suddenly he was in the doorway, looming over her in a determined fashion. Gone was sweet, patient Griffin. This was the Duke of Greythorne, one of the most powerful men in England.