The Strange Case of Finley Jayne
Page 17

The dead wife. Finley winced. Not the sort of thing you wanted to say to your future bride. Oh, I bought you this gift that my dead wife loved.
“I can see why,” Phoebe replied politely, but Finley could hear the stiffness in her voice, the disappointment. No one wanted to be compared to someone else.
“I thought you might wear them on our wedding day.”
“I should be delighted to, my lord.”
And that was it for the conversation. Personally, Finley thought Phoebe handled it very well. For a man who was a genius with machines, his lordship didn’t know much about women.
The silence gave Finley a chance to look around—and to enjoy the ride. It was easier now. Her body seemed to adapt to the mare’s natural rhythm. She was comfortable enough to notice how beautiful the day was as the sun began its slow descent. The grass was green, birds were singing. Voices carried on the breeze, the sounds of conversation and laughter mixing with the smells of grass and horses and machine oil.
Occasionally a young man or woman would pass by on a penny farthing, the large front wheel so funny when compared to the tiny back one. Others rode mechanical horses much like Lord Vincent’s, only their metal had been dulled so it didn’t glare so under the sun. Finley preferred these to his lordship’s. Some of them had fancy scrollwork on them, as well, unlike Lord Vincent’s hammered and embossed plates.
Given a choice, Finley would rather ride one of those new velocycles—a two-wheeled vehicle better balanced than the penny farthing, and much faster as each was powered by an engine. They weren’t allowed in Hyde Park however, because they scared the horses—the real ones, that is.
The carriage came to a halt in front of her, so she rode up alongside it. Lord Vincent had just climbed down when she reached Phoebe’s side.
“A gentleman from the Scientific Academy,” the girl explained, tipping back her head so Finley might see her face beneath the wide brim of her hat. “Lord Vincent wished to say hello.”
Finley nodded. She didn’t care and didn’t need to know about his lordship’s social life. “What’s that?” she asked, knowing the answer as she nodded at the box in the other girl’s lap.
Phoebe glanced down, a flush spreading through her cheeks. “A gift. Pearls.”
Finley waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was too embarrassed, for which Finley couldn’t blame her.
One of the mechanical horses attached to the carriage began to make an odd whirring noise. Frowning, Finley glanced at it, then Phoebe. “Is that normal?”
Phoebe frowned, as well. “I have no idea.” She turned her head—presumably to ask Lord Vincent if the horse was going to explode—and then was gone.
It took Finley a split second to realize that the carriage had taken off, with Phoebe still inside.
Lord Vincent looked horrified—which he should. “How do I stop them?” she demanded.
White-faced he turned to her, obviously in shock. “There are foot controls on the floor of the carriage, and a stick brake on the right.”
That was all she needed to hear. She dug her heels into her horse and fell low over its neck. The animal shot forward at breakneck speed. Finley was a fast runner, but not this fast.
“Come on, darling,” she urged the mare. “Just a little faster.”
People cried out as she sped past. Some had already stopped to watch the runaway carriage as it careened out of control with Phoebe screaming inside it. Did the girl not think to try the controls? She must have seen Lord Vincent use them. Perhaps she was too frightened to think.
Odd, but Finley found that fear always made her mind that much clearer. Her horse picked up the pace as though she realized what was at stake. As she closed the distance between Phoebe and herself, she pulled her feet free of the stirrups and began to lean to the left.
She came up on the carriage on the right side. As soon as she was convinced her horse could keep pace, she reached out and grabbed the side of the vehicle. Phoebe’s cries of panic grated her nerves and urged her on. She would stop this carriage if for no other reason than to shut the girl up. She refused to think of what might happen if she failed.
Up ahead there was a curve in the track. The carriage would run off the gravel, onto the grass and head straight for the Serpentine. The weight of Phoebe’s skirts would be enough to drown her if she wasn’t tossed from the carriage and crushed by the metal horses before that.
Finley let herself be pulled free of the saddle and swung her legs toward the shiny lacquered vehicle. Narrowly she managed to avoid getting her foot caught in a wheel. She would not think about how badly her leg could have been broken if not for her reflexes.
She heaved herself over the side, onto the padded seat. Phoebe screamed hysterically beside her.
Righting herself, Finley slammed her foot down on the first pedal. Nothing. Then the second. Nothing. She seized the steering mechanism and tried to turn it so the carriage would stay on the track. Nothing. She pulled the brake.
Nothing. It was like pulling on a ribbon hanging by a thread. No resistance.
They were, she realized, buggered.
They were going too fast to jump, and her horse had given up the chase shortly after she leaped from its back. The turn in the track was closer now.
And Phoebe still screamed.
Finley whirled around and slapped her. Instantly the girl stopped screaming and stared at her in shocked indignity.
“Pull it together!” Finley shouted at her. “I’m going to see if I can disengage the horses. I need you to see if you can get the brake to work. Can you do that?”