The Girl with the Windup Heart
Page 27

Behind his house was a somewhat run-down-looking shed. In actuality it was a rather sturdy structure that concealed an even larger one where he kept his vehicles. Everyone in Whitechapel knew that stealing from him would be a mistake they’d only make once, but Jack didn’t see the point in flaunting how well his business paid, nor was he an enthusiastic tempter of fate.
He chose his glinting black-and-brass velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled machine that could easily maneuver through traffic and navigate narrow alleyways and tight spaces. It was going to be necessary for him to do just that. He swung a leg over the seat and started the machine’s engine—it came to life with a powerful roar. Gripping the steering bars, Jack took his feet off the ground and leaped forward.
The velocycle hugged the cobblestones as it sped through the streets of Whitechapel. Jack wove in and out of traffic—and pedestrians. He narrowly avoided an old drunk who shouted obscenities at him as he whipped past. People screamed and jumped out of his way as he steered the machine down the steep steps of the Aldgate East underground entrance. He sped down the platform, rose up on the footrests, out of the seat and pulled the steering bars up. The velocycle leaped from the platform onto the dark track, its headlamp illuminating the long stretch ahead. Rats scattered as the wheels spun up debris as they grasped for purchase.
Jack knew every inch of London. He’d made it his business to know the city like the back of his own hand. He drove west to Moorgate, then swerved to the left toward the Bank stop. From there he continued west, rushing headlong into another long tunnel—an almost straight line to Oxford Circus. He pushed the velocycle as fast it could go. The goggles he wore prevented his eyes from watering as he bent low over the bars, but the wind tore at his hair and tried to tear his coat right off.
A lucky bit of debris—some old crates tossed over the side of the track—at his desired station formed a makeshift ramp that made it easier to jump the machine up onto the platform at Oxford Circus. People shouted when he emerged from the station—driving straight up the stairs as if he were escaping from hell with the devil hot on his heels. He swerved to miss a carriage and almost toppled over, his leg scraped the street before he managed to get upright once more.
From there it was a short drive into Mayfair to where Blackhurst lived—not far from King House. He drove over the mechanism to open the gate and sped straight up the drive to the front steps. He steadied the velocycle, disengaged the engine and jumped off. He ran up the steps and tried to open the door. Locked. Jack stepped back and threw himself at the heavy oak, but he bounced off it like a child’s ball.
He swore—profusely.
“Move.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder at the familiar voice. It was Sam Morgan—and the rest of the Duke of Greythorne’s little family, minus the duke, of course. Even Finley was in attendance. “What are you lot doing here?”
“Same as you,” Finley answered. “We heard a friend might be in trouble. Your trying to break down an earl’s door proves it. Step aside, Jack. Sam’s been dying to break something.”
The big lad grinned, and Jack immediately stepped out of his way. “Be quick about it.”
Morgan walked up the steps, lifted one foot and kicked. The door flew into the house, through the foyer, across the front hall and partway up the stairs. A footman yelped in surprise.
“Nice,” Jack praised, stepping in front of the young man to cross the threshold. He pushed the footman aside when he tried to engage them. Finley or Morgan punched the man in his already-bruised face and knocked him out. Jack didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the fellow, as he was obviously one of the ones who had tangled with Mila.
“Where is she?” Jack asked, going still. It was a big house. He turned to Wildcat, who was already sniffing the air.
“Upstairs,” the girl said, and took the lead. It was little disconcerting to see her drop to all fours and bound up the staircase like a human-cat creature. Jack ran after her, the rest giving chase. At the top of the stairs she’d barely paused to sniff again before leaping to the left. She stopped at a door almost at the end, poised in a crouch, her mouth slightly open as though tasting the air. Her fangs gleamed.
“In there,” she murmured, pointing. “But it smells like trouble.”
There was an odd mechanical lock on the door—the kind that required a punch card and a numerical code. If the wrong sequence was entered, or if someone tried to break the lock, it was rigged to spray acid outward in a wide arc. There were nozzles along the top of the door, as well, so that the spray was guaranteed to strike its target.
“Get back,” Morgan instructed. “I’ll heal.”
The tiny little Irish girl stepped up. “Or, you could let me do it.”
Immediately the tall fellow moved back, but he didn’t stray far from her. Jack knew if something went wrong, Morgan would throw himself on her to prevent her from getting sprayed. That was loyalty. That was love.
Kind of like risking hanging for murder to save a girl. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. “Just open the bloody door.”
The fact that no one had opened it—or that no staff had come to see what was going on was unsettling enough, but then his father was the sort of master whose wrath was to be avoided. He needed to find Mila and get her out of there. Now.
The redhead placed her palms against the wide metal plating of the lock and closed her eyes. Within seconds Jack heard clicks and groans as the mechanism inside did as she bid. He arched a brow. She was a handy little girl to have around. There was one final click and she dropped her hands. “Go ahead.”
Jack turned the knob and pushed. The door swung open and he ran inside. He skidded to an immediate halt. The room was obviously a bedroom, but it had a small fighting ring in one corner. In that ring were Blackhurst and Mila. His father wore only his trousers and Mila was in her corset and shift. They were sparring, and there was no doubt that Mila held back because Blackhurst was still standing. Not far from the ring a footman stood with his arm around the neck of the woman from the boardinghouse, a pistol to her head.
“What the tarnation...?” Jasper Renn asked.
Jack reached for one of his own pistols, but the footman jerked the woman toward them. “Don’t.”
The sparring stopped. Mila looked at Jack as though she couldn’t believe it was him. When she tried to leave the ring Blackhurst stopped her.
Jack growled.
“This is an interesting party,” Blackhurst said. “I’ll have you all arrested if you don’t leave immediately.”
Jack took a step forward.
“I’ll kill her, boy,” his father said. “Both of them.”
It was then that Jack noticed the strange shackle around Mila’s ankle.
“Electrical charge,” Irish explained. She was so much smarter than she ought to be. “One flick of the switch on his wrist and it will send enough current through her to stop her heart.”
Even Mila couldn’t survive that. Could she? Jack’s own heart jumped into his throat. Just as he was about to offer Blackhurst whatever he wanted something flickered in the corner of his vision.
Renn—the cowboy. One second he was standing at Jack’s shoulder and the next he was in the ring holding not only the switch for Mila’s shackle, but a pistol, which he trained on the footman. Blackhurst stood there, stunned. Jack knew how he felt.
“Drop it,” Renn advised the footman. “I’m a lot faster than you, friend. A much better shot, too.”
The footman dropped the pistol and the woman ran to them. Finley intercepted her, wrapping her in a hug. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
Suddenly Renn was with Jack again. He gave him the wrist-strap switch, which Jack then offered to Emily. “Would you?”
She touched it. It grew warm in Jack’s hand and he smelled hot metal. “Done.”
Mila ran to Jack and threw her arms around him. There were so many things he wanted to say and do, but he couldn’t do them just yet, not with this cold rage running through his veins. Gently, he pushed her toward Finley and the others. “Would you all excuse us, please? I need to have a word with Lord Blackhurst.”
“Jack...” Finley’s voice carried a wealth of meaning, all of which he ignored.
He looked at each of them, making eye contact. “Go.”
And they did. The area behind his right eye throbbed from the effort of imposing his will on them, but it was worth being saved the inevitable argument that would have ensued. They filed out of the room like obedient children—even the footman went with them.
Jack turned to his father.
Blackhurst smirked at him. “Well played, boy.”
Jack punched him in the face—hard. The impact jarred all the way up his arm but it felt bloody good. The older man’s head snapped back. Blood spurted from his nose. Jack hit him again. “You like violence?” he challenged. “I’ll give you violence, you son of a bitch!” He hit him again. His father struck back, but Jack struck again and again, until his hand throbbed and bled.
Blackhurst was slumped against a dresser, his face bloody. And still there was that mocking grin. “Apple didn’t fall far, did it? Half an hour later and she would have been mine, Dandy. She might still, someday.”
“You stay away from Mila.” God, he’d never wanted to kill someone so much in his life.
“Or what?” the earl challenged. “You’ll call in my markers? Go right ahead. I’m already rebuilding my fortune. What can a piece of trash like you possibly do to someone like me? Kill me? You can try.”
“I have this.” Jack shoved the paper Gracie had given him in Blackhurst’s face, and had the satisfaction of watching the earl blink blood out of his eye, and his face go pale beneath the crimson. “Where did you get that?”
“Where do you think?” When Blackhurst tried to grab the paper, Jack yanked it back just in time, and shoved his father back with his other hand. “You actually married her, you rotten bastard. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to keep the evidence.”
The earl stared at him in horror. Jack might have enjoyed this power if he weren’t so damn angry. “You stay away from Mila. Stay away from me and anyone who knows me. Do whatever the hell you want with your money—I don’t want it. But if you come near her again, I’ll let the entire world know that I’m your legitimate heir. I’ll make your life miserable. Your wife and your children will be social outcasts. Everyone will know the truth, and when you die you’ll be on your deathbed knowing that I will inherit everything that was yours. Maybe I’ll let your granddaughter work here as a chambermaid.” It was a lie, of course, he’d never harm a child, but it was effective against his father. He didn’t even have to use his talent to drive the threat home.
Blackhurst didn’t insult him by challenging him with a “you wouldn’t” sort of thing. He knew better. The apple, as it were, had not fallen that far. “You have my word,” his father rasped. “Now get out.”
There was no satisfaction in this victory. Jack folded the paper and stuffed it inside his jacket as he left the room. It did nothing to change the fact that he and his father hated each other. It didn’t change that his mother had died in relative poverty when she’d in fact been a countess. Jack’s life should have been completely different.
And yet...he wouldn’t change who or what he was. He would rather be the person he’d made himself into than whatever Blackhurst would have made of him. He could ruin the man. He could take everything from him, but he didn’t want it. All he wanted was to go home with Mila and watch the sun come up.
They were all waiting for him when he stepped outside. Mila, her pretty face already healing from the blows she’d taken in the ring, turned to watch his approach, her amber eyes wide. “Jack?”
He hesitated. Oh, to hell with it. He walked right up to her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—a proper kiss. It was the sort of kiss he had been wanting to give her for quite some time but had been afraid of. All that rubbish about wanting her to have a better life and a good man had left the same second he realized he wasn’t going to ruin his father. Things had become suddenly clear at that moment—all the important things—and the rest didn’t matter anymore.
Mila wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Things might have gotten a little heated if Jack hadn’t started laughing. It felt good.
“Poppet,” he said when she gazed up at him quizzically, “put me down.” The foolish girl had lifted him clear off his feet!
Everyone had a chuckle over that and the intensity of the kiss dissipated—for now. There was a promise in Mila’s eyes that sent a tingle down his spine and made him eager to get home. She set him down.
Then Jack turned to face the others. “Thank you.”
Morgan clapped him on the back, and Jack thought the fellow’s hand might come out through his chest. “That’s what friends do, Jackie-boy.”
Jackie-boy?
They trailed past him down the steps, each giving him a little smile as they passed—as though they knew something about him that he didn’t. Only Finley stopped. She hugged Mila and then hugged Jack. And when she patted his cheek, giving him a faint smile, he understood everything she didn’t say. If these people were his friends, then she was the best of the lot. She understood him better than anyone ever had—until Mila. They would always be important to each other, but now it seemed she understood that he had someone that meant the world to him, and she also understood everything that came with that kind of feeling. Then she followed after the others.