The Girl in the Steel Corset
Page 9

But to Griff, it was much simpler and terribly more complex than any of that. The Aether was the thread that bound everything—humanity, the world and the cosmos—together. It was energy. It was everything—and he was a conduit for it.
If not for the control he cultivated, it would kill him. Man was not meant to know what lurked beyond the veil. The living were not meant to traverse the world of the dead. There was always a price to be paid for tapping that kind of power—a loss of self. And yet, lately he’d felt more at peace with it, even though he knew his connection to the Aether had grown inexplicably. As his connection deepened, so did his understanding and control of it. Still, he had to be careful. It was too easy to become addicted to accessing the plane. Talking to the dead, seeing old friends and relatives—even old pets—was what drove so many to the Aether dens. But the Aetheric was for the dead, and every time a human accessed it, they lost a little of themselves. He had seen it for himself, and had been cautioned by his parents. The more time spent there, the less appeal real life held.
He had tried to use the Aether to find his parents’ killer and found nothing. His parents couldn’t tell him because in life they hadn’t known the answer.
Though, he was not entirely without hope. As he searched for the person responsible for destroying his family, he dedicated himself to hunting down other villains, as well. Eventually, he would find the one he sought.
As always, being in this room made him feel connected to his father, to whom he had been very close, especially as the only child and heir. That bond eased the tension in his shoulders and the pounding that threatened in his skull. When he sat down in front of the Aether engine, he was relaxed but with purpose.
He turned the key on the side of the mahogany box that also housed the auditory speaker. There was a slight thumping noise as the engine came to life, followed by a gentle hum. Next he flipped a small brass lever on the upper casing to illuminate the viewing screen. Those who traversed in the Aether knew that a reflective surface was the best medium for transmission. When the engine wasn’t in use the screen appeared to be nothing more than a simple mirror, but when illuminated from within it became the perfect receptacle for Aetheric images.
Emily had put the monstrosity together using different items she found around the mansion. It was a godsend because it meant he didn’t have to tap into the Aether directly and open himself up to the barrage of spirits and suffocating power.
The machine also doubled as an analytical engine and, like those belonging to governments and police organizations across the globe, was connected through telegraph and telephone lines, sharing important and often coded political information. The information was carefully encrypted to keep people like him from understanding, but Emily’s great big brain had also devised what she called a “cryptex”—a code breaker.
To begin his search, Griffin spoke into the “phonic accelerator” Emily had made from a candlestick phone base. “Lord Felix August-Raynes.”
The engine kicked into motion, filling the room with its gentle chugging. He didn’t expect to find much as August-Raynes was still alive. Only the dead lurked in the Aether.
The engine instantly chugged faster, going from a slow, steady beat to a heart-pounding rhythm in mere seconds. He peered at the screen—nothing but a newspaper article. He slipped a piece of paper into the typewriting machine’s rollers and hit the spacer bar. Immediately the article began to print.
“I do hope you’re using that thing to look at photographs of Moulin Rouge ladies as a young man your age should, and not hunting down another bothersome criminal.”
The sound of aunt Cordelia’s voice was enough to put a grin on Griff’s face. Though she was technically his guardian until he turned one and twenty, she was more a friend to him than an authority figure. They were the only family either of them had left.
He met her in the center of the room for a hug. A tall, blonde woman with the same gray eyes as his, she was handsome and dressed in the height of fashion. Delicate strands of six silver chains ran from a piercing on the right side of her nose to one in the same ear—one chain for every year without her husband, the Marquess of Marsden, who had gone missing during a mission. It was a blatant symbol to any man who might approach her that she was not available, no matter what the gossips might say.
“It’s good to have you home,” Griff told her when he finally released her. “What of the mysterious crop circles?”
She shot him a slightly chastising look, but it was softened by her smile. “You know I can’t tell you any of that.”
“Not even if you had a good trip? Found a being from another world?” He was only half teasing. Her work for the Crown was often a sore spot between them.
“The trip was what it was. No Mars men, either,” she replied lightly, stripping off her gloves as she moved toward the analytical engine. “Not Moulin Rouge, but at least it’s a pretty girl. Well done, Goose.”
Griffin rolled his eyes at the unfortunate moniker given to him as a child because of how he waddled when he walked. He had grown out of the waddle but not the name. He glanced at the article, which had a photograph attached. “It’s not like that. She was a servant who worked at the August-Raynes household.” He tore the paper from the rollers so he could better read it. “She disappeared after accusing Lord Felix of rape.”
“I always despised that boy, but what does this have to do with you?”
“I’ve found a girl in Hyde Park two nights ago. She’d been hurt and she had the August-Raynes crest on her corset.”
Cordelia clucked her tongue, still looking at the image. “Taking in strays again? You don’t have to save everyone, you know.”
Griff chuckled. “She can take care of herself. I find her intriguing. It’s as if Finley—Miss Jayne—is two people in one body.”
Cordelia stiffened and suddenly straightened like a marionette with its strings yanked. “What did you say?”
Bewildered, Griff frowned. “I said it was as though Miss Jayne was two people in the same body.”
When his aunt turned to face him, she was pale. “I would like to meet this guest of yours. I think I might know her.”
“Really?” Griffin couldn’t believe the luck! “How extraordinary.”
His aunt clasped him by the shoulder. “Don’t get your hopes up, dearest. In fact, I’ve never hoped to be more mistaken in all my life. If she is who I think she is, then we may all be in very grave danger indeed.”
Chapter 6
Finley was still half-asleep when she was “summoned” to Griffin’s study late that morning. Her memories of the night before were somewhat foggy—as they always were when the darker side of her nature took over. She vaguely remembered Whitechapel and the enigmatic Jack Dandy—the thought of his dark eyes sent a tremor to the base of her spine. What had she been thinking going to such a place to see such a man?
She had to get this under control or someday her other half would get them—her—killed.
So it was with some trepidation that she entered the study, wearing an embroidered silver-silk dress of Oriental design—one of the more sedate clothing selections in her closet. It was sleeveless and had knee-high slits on either side. Over it she wore a cherry-red corset with little silver dragons stitched on. The clothing felt appropriate—like armor for going into battle.
Where had the clothing come from? More hand-me-downs from the absent aunt? Or had the duke actually purchased the items for her? She hoped it was the former. She couldn’t afford to repay the latter.
Had he heard of her adventure and decided to turn her out? She’d been cast into the street before, so there was no need for this sudden chill of fear—except that Griffin had made her think he could help her and she desperately wanted that help.
She didn’t want to live like this—as though something crawled beneath her skin wanting out. It was getting worse. Last night, she’d had no control over herself and she’d walked boldly into very dangerous territory. Fortunately, the “other her” seemed to be right at home with danger and had managed to escape in one piece.
Griffin’s head turned at her arrival. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, dressed in a white shirt, dark plum waistcoat, black trousers and boots. His hair looked mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it. He had a woman beside him. A pretty woman about Finley’s size but older, and much more refined in a silky gray gown in the latest fashion. She had to be family because she and Griff had the same eyes—like a spring sky about to be taken over by storm clouds. When she turned her head, Finley saw the fine chains that ran from her nose to ear. But it wasn’t until those stormy eyes met hers and she felt a strange sensation in her head that Finley knew this woman was anything but ordinary.
The thing inside her reared up like a giant hand and came crashing down on the buzzing in her brain, squashing it like a bug.
The woman flinched.
“I beg your pardon,” Finley said, a little shaken at having been protected by that shadow of herself—at needing to be protected, “but isn’t it a little rude to crawl about in someone’s mind without permission?”
Griffin’s expression was all surprise and censure as he glanced at his companion. “Aunt Delia, you didn’t.”
The woman rubbed two fingers against her temple. “I did, but I was promptly shut out.” She looked at Finley in a manner that was both distrusting and respectful. “Well done.”
Finley didn’t know what to say to that, and since there was no way to explain it, she kept silent. Griffin spoke instead, introducing her to the woman, who was his aunt Cordelia, Lady Marsden, recently returned to London.
“Cordelia is a telepath,” Griff explained. “And telekinetic. That is to say—”
“She has a very powerful mind,” Finley interrupted. “I’ve noticed.” Not only because the woman had tried to intrude upon her thoughts, but because she’d held out her arm toward one of the bookcases and a leather-bound journal had flown off the shelf into her hand.
“That must make you very entertaining at parties,” Finley said to the woman, a tad snidely.
“And at court,” Lady Marsden replied with equal bite. She passed the book to Griffin. “Tell me, Miss Jayne, is your mother’s name Mary by any chance?”
“It is,” Finley replied, trying not to look too shocked. “What else did you see inside my mind?”
“The only thing I saw in your head, my girl, was my nephew’s visage next to that of Jack Dandy. Might I say what interesting company you keep.”
Finley flushed as Griff stared at her, but she held the older woman’s gaze. It was obvious that Griff’s aunt neither liked nor trusted her. “Who I see is none of your concern, ma’am.”
The woman stiffened. “While you’re in this house—”
“She’s my concern,” Griffin interjected. “Not yours, Aunt, and this conversation is getting way off track. Why don’t you enlighten both Miss Jayne and me as to how you knew her mother’s name?”
Lady Marsden looked both mollified and embarrassed. She no doubt was not accustomed to her nephew speaking to her in such a manner in front of others. “It’s in the book,” she said with a lift of her chin. The book in Griff’s hands opened, the pages seeming to flip on their own, though Finley knew it was the power of his aunt’s mind that moved them. Finally, they lay still, open to a page of photographs.
Finley moved closer, drawn by her own curiosity. She stood beside Griff and peered at one of the tea-colored images adhered to the page. It depicted a small group of people standing next to a strange vehicle that looked like a metal carriage with a large drill on the front of it. The man standing closest to it with his hand on the vehicle looked so much like Griff he could only be his father, the late duke. Next to him was a beautiful woman she took to be the duchess. There were other people, as well, but Finley gave them little notice as her gaze fell upon the man and the woman farthest away. The man she didn’t recognize, but the woman she did. Though this photograph had to have been taken almost twenty years ago, she knew her mother’s face.
Astonished, she looked up and saw Griff’s aunt watching her warily. “This is my mother,” she said unnecessarily.
Lady Marsden inclined her head. “Yes.”
“Who’s the man with her?” Griffin asked.
His aunt smiled tightly. “That would be Thomas Sheppard. He was a great scientist.” Her gaze cut to Finley. “And Mary’s husband.”
The bottom of Finley’s stomach felt as though it had dropped to the floor. “But that would mean…”
Lady Marsden nodded. “Your father, yes.”
Finley had always despised those girls who fainted anytime something fantastic or surprising happened, but at that moment she felt as though her knees might give way. Her head spun and she clutched at Griff’s arm for support.
She had never seen a photo of her father before this day. He mother said she hadn’t any.
“My father’s name was Thomas Jayne, not Thomas Sheppard.” Even if she said the words, they tasted like a lie. There was enough of her own looks in Thomas Sheppard’s face to prove his indentity.
“Then perhaps we should call upon your mother,” Lady Marsden suggested, a note of challenge in her voice. “I had heard that Thomas and Mary had a daughter they named Finley Jane Sheppard. What a coincidence you made your way here after all these years, your parents having been so closely tied to my brother and his wife.”