The Strange Case of Finley Jayne
Page 8

The house they entered was huge—an old Gothic structure that had to have been built at least two centuries earlier. The stone had probably once been beige, but it had darkened to black in some places, giving the entire structure a sinister feel.
It instantly made Finley think of Frankenstein and the castle where the doctor conducted his scientific experiments.
“It’s like something right out of a novel,” Finley whispered to Phoebe.
Her companion didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. “Yes. It’s rather antiquated on the outside, but the inside has every modern convenience, I assure you.”
Finley glanced at her, uncertain as to why the girl sounded almost defensive. “I’m sure it does, not that it matters to me. I don’t have to live here.”
Was it her imagination or did Phoebe just shudder? Perhaps she shouldn’t continue reading Mary Shelley’s novel if it was going to make her mind so foolish.
They joined a handful of other guests walking up the stone path to the front door. Flickering torches illuminated the way, but that wonderful gothic feeling was lost as soon as they stepped inside.
The interior was just as Phoebe had promised—modern, which caused a peculiar disappointment in Finley’s chest. Had she hoped for a spooky run-down ruin?
Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and wall sconces bathed everyone in a warm glow. She didn’t hear the hiss of gas, which meant that the house—or at least the lighting of it—was powered by the “battery” manufactured by the Greythorne Corporation. The last house she worked at had been in the process of converting to the power source invented by a previous Duke of Greythorne long before Finley was born. He’d discovered an ore that, once refined and properly treated, could power an entire house for months off one small battery that could then be exchanged for another once it was depleted. Amazing discovery, it was. And somewhat expensive, though she’d heard that the current duke was taking measures to make the batteries more affordable so everyone in Britain could light their homes without worrying about fire—or the whole thing exploding.
There were ladies in all manner of beautiful gowns and jewels. Gentlemen were dressed in black and white, some with brightly colored neck cloths. Human servants and gleaming brass automatons milled around the guests, bearing trays of champagne, lemonade and other refreshments.
Finley had never seen so many automatons under one roof except for an exhibition she’d visited a few years ago with her parents. She had to remind herself not to stare.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” came a voice from her left.
She turned as an older man, perhaps a few years older than Silas, walked up to stand beside her. He gestured with his champagne toward one of the smaller machines collecting empty glasses. “This one knows his route. He’ll move in a precalculated pattern throughout the room, collecting empty crystal, which he’ll then take to the kitchen to be washed.”
Finley glanced at the man. He had a nice face, and was probably very handsome when he was younger and his dark hair not touched with gray. “Are you not worried about having so many, given the recent accidents?” There had been two or three mentions in the papers over the past few months of automatons acting against their programming. People had been injured, though not seriously.
He smiled at her. Yes, he must have been handsome as a young man. He was handsome now. “Of these beauties? Of course not. You see Miss…”
“Bennet,” Finley supplied, remembering the name Phoebe told her to use, and her manners. She offered her hand. “Finley Bennet. I’m here with Lady Morton and Lady Phoebe
Blue eyes brightened. “Are you? How lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet. I am Lord Vincent, creator of all the automatons you see around you.”
Finley flushed. Of course he wouldn’t be nervous of them. “Forgive me, my lord. I am new to town.” How easily the lie rolled off her tongue. “Am I to understand then, that this is also your home?”
Lord Vincent nodded as he continued to smile at her. “No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. I am surprised that neither Lady Morton or Lady Phoebe mentioned you to me when last we spoke, and that they seem equally remiss in mentioning me to you.”
There was nothing dark in his voice when he spoke, but the base of Finley’s spine tingled at his words. Why would Lady Morton neglect to inform their host that she would be bringing an extra guest? And why would either she or her daughter feel the need to tell Finley about his lordship?
Suddenly Lady Morton and Phoebe were there, inserting themselves so Finley was forced to step back from the man.
“Forgive me, Lord Vincent,” Lady Morton said, a flush in her cheeks. “I was caught up in conversation with Lady Marsden, else I would have made introductions. I see you’ve already met our cousin, Miss Finley Bennet.”
Indeed I have,” Lord Vincent replied as he bowed over each of their hands. “You are lovely as always, Lady Morton. Lady Phoebe, allow me to say that you are more beautiful each time I see you.”
Phoebe blushed at his praise. Finley didn’t blame her—it was a pretty racy thing for him to say to someone who was engaged.
Then Phoebe raised her gaze, and Finley saw something in her bright eyes that she could not identify. Was it fear? Panic?
“Forgive me, cousin,” Phoebe said to her, her voice low and a little shaky. She slipped her arm around Lord Vincent’s, her face now strangely pale. “I should have been the one to make the introductions. May I present Harris Spencer-White, Earl Vincent, our host for the evening and my fiancé.”