The Girl In The Clockwork Collar (31 page)

The thought of actually having that pistol cut through the fog of depression that had surrounded him since Mei’s betrayal. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want you to have it.” She rose to her feet. “I have to get back and spread the word. Most of them will listen to me, but those Dead Rabbits and Bowery Boys can be an ornery, stubborn bunch. They might decide to taunt the cops. Idiots.”

As she moved toward the window, Jasper said, “You can use the door, you know.”

Cat threw a grin at him over her shoulder as she slipped a leg out the window. “And let the fancies see me? Nah, I have a reputation to uphold. Take care, Jas.”

He smiled. “You too, Cat.”

And then she was gone. He wondered if she climbed down the building or jumped—she had a knack for always landing on her feet.

He consulted his pocket watch. It was almost half past seven. He would be meeting Griffin and the others soon for dinner; he’d relay what Cat had told him then.

For the first time since being roped back into Dalton’s circle, Jasper felt like there might actually—finally—be an end to this chapter of his life. He would be exonerated of the murder charges, and his family would be released from the shame that lie had brought upon them.

He could look toward the future now and stop living in the past. He could move on. Hopefully his heart would, too. * * *

Finley’s eyes snapped open. The room was dark save for the moonlight shining through her open window.

That window had been closed when she went to bed.

Hunkered down beneath the covers, she let her gaze move slowly from the curtains gently billowing in the breeze to survey the rest of the room. Unless she’d developed the habit of opening windows in her sleep, she was not alone. The faint creak of floorboards confirmed the suspicion.

She had been expecting Dalton to send an assassin after her and Jasper. In fact, she was surprised he’d waited this long to try to snuff them out. No doubt he wanted to foster a false sense of security in them before he struck, lovely bloke that he was.

Keeping her breathing shallow, she feigned sleep, waiting for her would-be killer to make his or her move. They would choose an up-close-and-personal method of death, of course, as firing a pistol would attract too much attention. Her eyes were open just enough to watch the shadows in the room.

One of the shadows moved, taking on a human shape as it drifted toward her. It was too big to be Mei. Disappointing, that. She’d rather hoped she would get the chance to square off against the detestable chit. It was also too small to be Little Hank. Either it was one of the other fellows, or Dalton had hired a professional. Or perhaps an amateur, given how easily she had sensed his presence.

The shadowy figure came closer, moving up the side of the bed to hover by her head, blocking out most of the moonlight. Closer it came, bending over her, a length of rope stretched between both hands. Finley waited until that rope just barely touched her neck before reaching up, grabbing the assassin’s coat and pulling him down to smash her forehead into his nose. He cried out—her assumption that her attacker was a man had been correct—but she didn’t let go.

Finley came up onto her knees, still holding the man. He’d regained his wits and struggled against her hold, but he wasn’t much of a threat without his rope. She coshed him with her head again—this time hard enough to knock him out.

Then—still in her unmentionables—she climbed out of bed, flipped him onto his stomach on the floor and used his own rope to tie his hands behind his back. She used the laces out of one of her corsets to secure his feet and then tied the lace to the rope, effectively “hog-tying” him.

The thought of Jasper’s colloquialism made her think of the cowboy himself. If an assassin had come for her, one might have come for Jasper, as well. Or maybe hers was supposed to eliminate both of them, but she couldn’t be certain.

Hastily, she threw on the trousers she had borrowed from Griffin and the shirt, as well. They hadn’t been laundered, but they would do for the moment. In her bare feet, she hurried silently from her room and just down the corridor to Jasper’s.

The door was locked. Bollocks.

Finley ran back to her room, hopped over the unconscious man on her floor and leaned out the window. Jasper’s room was two doors down from hers, but the only way to get there was to traverse the narrow brick ledge that ran around the building.

Good thing she wasn’t afraid of heights.

Sighing, she slipped half of her body out of the window and unhooked the assassin’s climbing apparatus. It landed on the sidewalk below, the attached rope muffling the crash.

She braced her toes on the ledge and got a good hold on the window frame with her right hand before easing the rest of her body out. Then she pressed her back against the rough brick and quickly moved toward Jasper’s room, legs moving in wide strides.

As she approached, she spotted a rope dangling from Jasper’s open window.
Don’t let me be too late.
She couldn’t bear to get there and find him already dead. She would have to kill Dalton herself if that happened.

Neither finesse nor silence played any part in how she launched herself through the window. Her ungraceful sprawl onto the floor was quick as she immediately sprang to her feet. Jasper was struggling with his attacker, who appeared to be a bit more skilled than hers. The cowboy couldn’t use his incredible speed to hit the man because he was trying to keep the rope around his neck from cutting off his supply of oxygen.

Finley walked up behind the man and kicked him hard between his legs. As he doubled over, crying out in pain, Jasper turned and punched him hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling.

Jasper pulled the rope from around his neck, coughing and gasping. “Thank you,” he said.

Finley grinned and snatched the rope from his hands. “Happy to be of service. Help me tie him up.”

It was at this point that the door to the room crashed open—thanks to the sole of Sam’s boot. He, Emily and Griffin all rushed in. Sam in trousers and an untucked shirt, Emily in her nightgown and Griffin in nothing but a pair of trousers.

Finley wasn’t the least bit ashamed of stopping what she was doing to simply admire the view.

“What happened?” Griffin demanded.

“Assassins,” she replied as she pulled the limp man’s legs up so Jasper could bind them with a pair of braces and then secure them to the man’s wrists. “One for me and one for Jasper. A lovely gift, courtesy of Reno Dalton if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not,” Jasper replied. His voice was slightly hoarse from being strangled. “He’s the only one who would know to find you and me in the same place.”

Griffin offered his hand to help her to her feet. She didn’t need any help, but she accepted the gesture, regardless. When she stood, he pulled her against him in a fierce hug. If he planned to do this every time someone tried to kill her, she might risk her life more often.

She returned the hug—shamefully, more so she could touch his naked back than comfort him in any way. His skin was warm and smooth. Muscles twitched beneath her palms. When he pulled back their gazes locked, and she knew—
knew—
that if they had been alone, he would have kissed her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.” Reluctantly, she released him. “But Jasper is.”

Emily swept forward, her bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her white cotton nightdress. “Let me see.” Jasper had no choice but to stand and offer her a view of his bare throat.

And of course, Sam scowled because the cowboy was wearing a robe and showing an indecent amount of collarbone.

“Sam, could you fetch my bag?” Emily asked. “I need to put some salve on these abrasions.”

Sam hurried off to do as she asked and returned in a few moments. While Emily tended to Jasper, the big lad hoisted the assassin over his shoulder.

“There’s one of those in my room, too,” Finley informed him. “Do you want me to help?”

“I’ve got it” came the stern reply, and he walked from the room as though carrying nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“You’re going to have to pay for that door.” Finley nodded at the splintered wood.

Griffin shrugged. “I would have had him go right through the bloody wall if necessary.” He glanced at Jasper. “Your window’s seen a lot of traffic tonight.”

The cowboy chuckled—a hoarse sound. “Maybe I should put in a toll.”

Griffin turned back to Finley. “I feel as though I should apologize for all the trouble you’ve had since meeting me.”

Both of her brows shot up as she looked at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I was attracting trouble long before I met you.” She didn’t say it in a self-pitying way, because she didn’t feel the least bit sorry for herself. She felt sorry for the people who tried to harm her.

Sam appeared in the doorway, a man over each shoulder. He looked massive—like a mythical hero—standing there with his mussed long hair and fierce expression. “Oy, Finley. What’s the address of Dalton’s house?”

She told him. “Why?”

He shrugged, lifting each man as though the answer was clear. “I’m going to deliver a present.”

“I’ll come with you,” she announced. “If he’s waiting for them to report, he’ll be watching. He might use the device on you. It will be faster if I come along. The sight of me might throw him off.”

“Be careful,” Griffin urged, but he didn’t try to stop her. She liked that. He knew she could look after herself, and even though he worried about her, he had faith in her and her abilities.

That was something like trust, wasn’t it?

“I will.” And then, out of impulse, she kissed him on the cheek before following after Sam.

Since it was so very late, they had to operate the lift themselves, which was just as well. It also meant that the lobby was deserted, also a blessing. How would they ever explain why Sam had two men trussed up like Christmas geese over his shoulders? They might be able to lie about the men, but they could never, ever come up with a believable explanation of Sam’s incredible strength.

For the same reason that the hotel was so quiet, Finley assumed they would have a difficult time finding a cab. She was wrong. There was one sitting just around the corner. Apparently New York, like London, was a city that rarely, if ever, slept.

Or perhaps the carriage was waiting for the assassins to finish the job and return them to Dalton.

“You waiting for these two?” Finley asked the driver.

The man’s eyes grew wide, the whites clearly visible in the light of the streetlamps. Sam turned his back to the man, so he could see his captives’ faces. The driver nodded. “Yes. They paid me to wait for their return.”

“Well, they’ve returned,” Sam replied glibly and proceeded to toss his burdens into the carriage.

Finley gave the driver Dalton’s address and climbed into the carriage behind Sam. The large young man sat across from her on the opposite side of the coach. The two men were piled on the floor between them. It might have been her imagination, but she was fairly certain the cab leaned to one side—Sam’s.

“How much do you weigh?” she inquired.

He frowned. “Plenty.”

Fair enough. She leaned back against the upholstery and remained silent for the rest of the trip. Obviously Sam had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Huh. One might think that
he
was the one who was attacked by a hired assassin.

When they pulled up in front of Dalton’s abode, several windows glowed with light despite the late hour. Obviously he was expecting company.

Finley opened the cab door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She pulled one of the men out into the night and tossed him unceremoniously onto the ground. His grunt was the only indication that he had regained consciousness.

Sam tossed the other out of the carriage. He landed with a groan next to his partner, so that both of them lay on the walkway leading to the front steps. Finley jogged toward the house. Her bare feet slapped on the cool ground—she’d have to wash them before she went back to bed.

She climbed the steps and rang the bell—several times— before turning and running back to the cab. “Get in,” she commanded Sam. Then to the driver, “As soon as I give the word, you get us out of here as fast as you can.”

He nodded. “Yes, miss.”

The front door of the house opened just as Finley jumped into the coach. Pivoting on her heel, she turned with a grin. Little Hank bent his head to walk out the door. It didn’t take him long to see the men on the walk.

“Give Dalton my best, will you, ducks?” she called out. The behemoth looked at her in disbelief, and then she had the pleasure of seeing Dalton come to the door. His too handsome face hardened into sheer rage. Finley waggled her fingers at him and then yelled at the driver to drive away. She didn’t want to risk the poor man’s life, and Dalton was sure to have a pistol nearby if not on him.

The steam carriage sped down the street, but no shots were fired. Finley was almost disappointed.

“That was a bit of fun, wasn’t it?” she remarked, feeling as though she’d eaten too much sugar—her insides positively buzzed with energy.

“We could have grabbed him,” Sam replied, his frown slightly deeper than usual.

“And do what with him? We can’t prove he hired those men. We can’t prove he means to steal anything. The only thing we could prove is that he shot at Jasper and myself, and Jasper is still considered a wanted criminal. No, we let him make his move, and then we take him.”

To her surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re starting to sound like Griffin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“By all means, if you reckon sounding arrogant, demanding and overbearing is a good thing.”

She stared at him for a second before bursting out laughing. He laughed, too. She didn’t know what she’d done to warrant this friendliness, but it was nice being able to talk to him without feeling like there was bad blood between them. It was almost as though they could forget that he had tried to kill her and that she had almost killed him.

They arrived back at the hotel and had to use Sam’s telegraph machine—that he had been smart enough to bring— to ask Griffin to come down and pay the driver as neither of them had any money on them. When he arrived Finley noticed, with chagrin, that he had put a shirt on.