The Girl in the Steel Corset (12 page)

He was going to kiss Finley Jayne. Wouldn’t that complicate things?

Fortunately, Finley didn’t notice his sudden nearness, or if she did, she misinterpreted it. She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and turned her gaze toward him.

“Is it awful of me to be relieved that he’s dead?”

The question was like a bucket of cold water in the face. The shock wore off immediately, leaving Griff feeling slightly guilty. The poor girl. She must have put herself through hell thinking she’d killed that waste of breath Lord Felix and now she felt guilty for not mourning him.

“No,” he told her honestly. “It’s not wrong. I wager you’re not alone in your feeling.”

Her lips twisted wryly. “No, I reckon not. He hurt a lot of people.” Her gaze met his again. “I know it’s awful to be glad that someone is dead, but I think of what might have happened if he was allowed to go on…”

“How many other people he might have gone on to hurt,” Griffin offered softly. Gads, how he wished he had August-Raynes at hand so that he could knock the bounder’s teeth loose.

Finley nodded. “I don’t blame him for what he did to me. Well, I did for a bit, but he wasn’t himself. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

A burst of harsh, humorless laughter escaped Griffin. “You are too forgiving.”

“Am I?” She sounded dubious at best. “When it was that vile drink responsible?”

“I admire you for looking for good in the man, but the fact remains that he was a good-for-nothing wastrel who indulged in drink and took delight in hurting people he believed weaker than himself.”

Her gaze was wide and…angry as it locked with his. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that he was that much of a villain?”

He didn’t understand her vehemence. “I certainly do. I’ve heard accounts the length of my arm that testify to just how much of a scoundrel he was. You are the last person I would expect to defend him.”

“How can I condemn a man I didn’t even know?” She looked as though she might cry. “A man my mother thought of with such high regard and love? Dear God, I might be glad he is gone and his suffering over, but I could never despise him!”

Griffin blinked. “Wait a moment. About whom are we talking?”

Finley froze. Slowly, her mouth opened. “My father?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. “I referred to Lord Felix. Damn my eyes, Finley, I would never speak so lowly of your father. My own thought him the very best of men, and I am certain he was right.”

Pink filled her cheeks. “And I must be awful for being partially glad he is gone.”

“Never. You said so yourself, his suffering is at an end. Lord, you must have thought I was thoroughly heartless, believing I spoke of your father.”

She chuckled. “A little, yes. I am glad to be wrong. To be honest, I am not sorry to be done of Lord Felix, but I am even happier to know that his end did not come at my hands.”

Something happened then—a subtle shift in her expression that made him jump to the logical conclusion. “You think Dandy did it.”

“No,” she insisted. “He wouldn’t.”

One eyebrow rose as Griffin fought to keep his expression neutral, but inside he despised Dandy for inspiring such hope in a short period of time. Would she be so quick to defend him were he and Dandy reversed?

“Probably not,” he reluctantly agreed. Then he couldn’t help adding, “Dandy wouldn’t get his hands bloody. He’d get someone else to do it.”

“Not if it was personal he wouldn’t.”

Griffin didn’t like the idea that she had such insight into Dandy’s nature, or that she almost sounded as though she respected the man for it.

“Jack Dandy is a criminal, Finley. No matter how much you might wish it otherwise, he is not a good person.”

“Some would say I’m not, either—not completely,” she retorted with a stubborn lift of her chin. “You’ve seen what
I’m capable of. That doesn’t make me a murderer, and it doesn’t make Dandy one, either.”

She had him there. He sighed. “No, it doesn’t. But he is one of the most infamous crime lords in this city for a reason. Because he
wants
to be one.”

And now they were even because she couldn’t argue with that, either. She pulled her hand from his. “Why are we arguing about Jack Dandy?”

Griffin reluctantly drew his own hand back, as well. “Because part of you likes him.”

Finley smiled that wry smile again. “Part of me also tried to strangle your aunt. I think taking control of this
part
of myself can’t happen soon enough.”

He was glad to hear it, but it put a lump in his chest, as well. When the two halves of Finley came together, she would no longer be this girl in front of him, nor would she be as dangerous as her other self. She’d be a little of both, and she might not like him so much then. He might not like her quite so well as he did now.

Still, it was a risk he had to take.

The door to the parlor opened and Sam, Emily and Jasper came into the room, followed by two of the maids carrying trays of tea, sandwiches and sweets. Griffin was immediately swept up into other conversation, as was Finley, giving him very little time to regret that he hadn’t kissed her when he had the chance.

Later that day, driven by forces she didn’t understand, Finley sent a note ’round to a certain house in Whitechapel. It contained one line:
Tell me you didn’t do it.

She waited for a reply. Even though she was off the hook, she knew the truth about her own involvement. And if Dandy had killed Lord Felix because of what she had told him, then she was responsible for the bounder’s death, to an extent.

Nothing that night, but the next morning as she sat alone at breakfast, the butler delivered a letter to her on a silver platter. Her name and direction were scrawled upon the envelope in sharp, black ink. The seal on the back was black, as well, the impression in the wax that of a simple gothic
D.

Her fingers shook as she broke the seal and withdrew the heavy, quality paper. Her one-line request had been acknowledged with a one-line answer:

Of course I didn’t, Treasure.

She tossed the note on the fire and went off to meet Griffin in the library. She had her answer. That was the end of it.

But part of her wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t enough that Jack Dandy had told her he hadn’t killed Lord Felix, because that part of her knew Dandy was smart enough not to tell her—or anyone else—even if he had.

The following morning, another delivery arrived for Finley. It was brought to her in the morning as she and the others—even Sam—enjoyed a somewhat amiable breakfast. It seemed that by assisting Griffin she had earned a spot in the good graces of not only Lady Marsden, but the big “mandroid,” as well.

“What is it?” Emily inquired, eyes wide as saucers as Finley took possession of the large pink box, tied with an elegant black-and-pink-striped ribbon.

“I don’t know,” she replied with all sincerity.

Lady Marsden arched a brow. “It’s from Madame Cherie’s. Whatever it is, it is expensive.” When Finley gaped at her, she continued with a smile, “Don’t just stand there, girl. Open it!”

Fingers clumsy with anticipation, Finley did just that, draping the ribbon over the back of the empty chair next to
her. She removed the lid and set in on the floor, and then parted the delicate blush-pink tissue paper….

She gasped. Inside was a costume for a fancy dress ball—a fairylike gown of iridescent ebony feathers that glowed with deep violet, rich green and bright blue under the light. A matching mask accompanied it.

“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Emily whispered.

Finley was inclined to agree. Certainly she’d never owned anything so fine before. Why, the bodice was the same green as in the feathers—like a vibrant peacock’s plumage.

Astounded, she glanced up to see Griffin scowling and his aunt smiling coyly. “It seems you have an admirer, Miss Finley. Very bold of him to send you such an extravagant gift.”

“Read the card,” Griffin suggested, sounding as though he spoke through clenched teeth. Finley glanced at him. His jaw was tight indeed. Was he jealous? The notion seemed too fantastic to entertain, and yet he was certainly displeased. Either he was jealous or he thought her loose—it was highly improper for a gentleman to send a girl such a personal present. This was the kind of thing men bought their mistresses.

Suddenly, Finley was afraid to open the card. The beautiful costume had been ruined by the scandalous nature of its deliverance. Everyone was watching her, however, so
she had little choice but to pick up the small envelope and withdraw the note inside.

Wear this tonight. I will come for you at nine o’clock.

We’re going to the Pick-a-Dilly Ball.

Jack

“Who’s it from?” Griffin asked in a low voice.

Finley glanced at him, heart pounding hard against her ribs. She cleared her throat. “Jack Dandy.” Still it came out a hoarse whisper.

Griffin said nothing, but she could see how white his knuckles were as he gripped his cup of coffee. His eyes were positively thunderous, his expression as hard as stone.

“You can’t go,” Sam blurted out. “That’s no place for a girl.”

Emily scowled. “Oh, but I suppose t’would be all right for you to go, would it, Samuel Morgan?”

The muscular young man flushed. “It’s dangerous, Em. Men are better equipped to defend themselves.”

“I’m better equipped to defend myself than most men,” Finley reminded him tartly. She didn’t like being told what to do—and there was a part of her that very much wanted to go to this ball. She’d never been to one before—not as a guest. She’d sat in a stupid room with other ladies maids and tapped her foot to the music while sipping warm lemonade,
but never had she been one of the dancers or a debutante in a beautiful gown.

“Of course you should do whatever you want,” Griffin said, his voice still that strange, low pitch. “No one would argue that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself should a situation arise.”

Finley stared at him. Did he mean that, or was he just saying it? And why did another part of her want him to demand that she not go? Wanted him to act like a tyrant and command that she return the dress to Dandy and never see him again.

“It might be advantageous,” Lady Marsden remarked casually—a little too much so. “Much of London’s underground attends that ball, along with the upper classes. It would be the perfect spot to gather information on The Machinist and his plans.”

The Machinist—Finley had read about him in the papers. He was the one the Peelers thought responsible for the recent automaton malfunctions. She cast a quick glance at Sam out of the corner of her eye. His face was taut and pale, but otherwise impassive. Surely he wanted to find the man believed to be behind the attack that almost cost him his life? She would be doing him something of a favor then, wouldn’t she? If she went.

But it was Emily who finally convinced her—not stony Griffin or wounded Sam, not even sly Lady Marsden. Little Emily with her ropey hair, trousers and too-short
fingernails. She had gotten up from her chair and come around the table to peer inside the pretty box, her pale hand stroking the exquisite bodice.

“You’ll look like a princess,” she murmured, her voice trailing off into a sigh.

Yes, Finley thought. She would. She would probably feel like one, too, and at a ball where the seedier side of London mixed with the aristocracy and everything in between, Jack Dandy would be something of a prince, wouldn’t he?

She met Griffin’s hard gaze with a determined lift of her chin. It wasn’t as though he had asked to take her. Everyone would think her his mistress—a prostitute—if he did. But Jack Dandy, he could take her without such foolishness. Jack Dandy was within her sphere; Griffin King was not.

“You’re right. I should do what I like,” she said, forcing her voice not to tremble. “I’m going to go.”

Griffin had never been one for physical violence. His talents made it so that he rarely had to resort to using his fists. Still, part of being a man of rank meant engaging in some degree of physical exertion. Many young men of his acquaintance preferred boxing or fencing, but he engaged in a precept called jujitsu. It was a way of fighting from Japan in which samurai used their hands and bodies as weapons rather than swords or guns.

Recently Jasper Renn shared his knowledge of an art called kung fu, which he claimed to have learned in San
Francisco. They had sparred together, teaching each other various strikes and stances of each method. Griffin liked the physical and mental aspects of each, and one day hoped to travel to China and Japan so that he might learn from true masters.

He was breathing hard and perspiring despite being naked from the waist up. In fact, all he wore were his trousers—even his feet were bare—as he sparred against an invisible partner.

Perhaps he should teach Finley how to fight this way. Perhaps then she’d think him as appealing and dangerous as Jack-swiving-Dandy. Honestly, what was it about those kinds of men that made girls go all weak in the knees and soft in the head?

He’d heard stories about Dandy at school. The criminal was a couple of years older than him and already notorious. Rumor had it that Dandy’s father was an aristocrat—perhaps one of the royal dukes, or at least an earl. Whoever sired the blackguard, he had to be of some means and rank, because he could afford to make certain his illegitimate offspring had the best education England had to offer.

“Hardly fair to fight your shadow, is it not?” came Aunt Cordelia’s humorous voice. “After all, it’s not as though it can defend itself.”

Snatching up his shirt, Griffin used it to mop his face and chest before slipping his arms into the sleeves. “It does all right,” he countered with forced lightness.

She smiled as she walked toward him. “After the other day I’m surprised you have enough energy to lift a finger let alone train.”

Griffin shrugged. “I feel fine.” In fact, he felt bloody great, a condition that went against all his theories about the Aether actually draining his life force. Yet, on other occasions, he had felt as though ten years had been sucked from him.

“Excellent. It occurred to me that it might be good for you to attend the Pick-a-Dilly Ball, as well. See what you can find out about The Machinist and his
machinations,
for lack of a better term.”

He frowned, seeing something in her expression he didn’t quite like, and feeling a gentle nudge in his mind toward agreeing with her. “I intend to, but that’s not the only reason you suggested it. Your reason must be important or you wouldn’t be in my head as I’ve asked you repeatedly
not
to do.”

Most would have looked away from his sharp tone, but his aunt merely shrugged and met his gaze evenly. He knew she cursed the fact that he, unlike most people, could feel her intrusions. “It might also do you some good to see Miss Jayne with her own kind.”

“Her own kind? You make her sound like a commoner.”

Her expression spoke volumes—and he knew he’d guessed correctly. “She’s not far from it, Griffin. She’s a
special girl, yes. She’s also very pretty and intriguing. I can see why you would be drawn to her, but you will do her more harm than good with your attentions.”

He crossed his arms over his chest in a classic defensive posture, but he couldn’t help but ask, “How so?”

“Sam and Emily you can pass off as employees, but the way you look at Miss Jayne…well, I can tell you’re attracted to her.”

Griffin’s cheeks heated. “What of it?”

His aunt took a step closer. “Show her attention, and people will talk. They will assume that there is something sordid between you—especially while she lives under your roof. She is in your protection, Griffin. You do not want to take advantage of that, or be seen to do so. Her reputation will be forever damaged.” Her expression was one of sympathy. “She’s not for you, my dear.”

It was one of those times when Griffin wanted to act like a spoiled brat—stomp his foot and declare that he was a duke and he could do whatever he damn well pleased. But that would be too selfish. Of course he could do what he wanted, but it would be Finley who suffered for it.

He hooked his thumbs under the braces hanging loosely around his hips and lifted them over his shoulders over his partially open shirt. “You’ve never been one for proprieties, Aunt Delia. Why now?”

Her strong features softened with sadness. “Because I want to see you happily settled one day with a normal girl
rather than one who might get you killed, or worse—leave you without a trace, wondering what happened to her. If she’s alive or dead, safe or in pain.”

It was impossible to be angry with her when she spoke so candidly about her own life. She did not want for him the misery she lived every day, wondering if her husband was alive or dead. Holding on to hope when doing so must surely be folly.

Griffin hugged her, suddenly realizing how much taller he was than she, that the woman he’d always thought so amazingly powerful felt small and fragile in his arms. “I promise you I will be careful with my affections, but beyond that I can offer nothing else. I cannot tell my heart what to feel.”

Were it but that easy, he would tell his foolish heart to shut out all thoughts of Finley Jayne, because it was painfully obvious that her heart was engaged elsewhere.

She had a little over an hour before Jack Dandy arrived to collect her, and Finley stood in her bedroom in nothing but a short silk shift using curling tongs on her hair. Her time as a lady’s maid certainly came in handy for getting ready for an evening. She could have asked one of the housemaids to help her, but why bother when she was more than capable of doing the same job herself?

Besides, she didn’t want to give Griffin any more reason
to be angry with her. He had barely spoken to her since breakfast.

Since Jack’s gift arrived.

Her gaze went to the costume hanging on her wardrobe door. Even in the dim light of her room, the feathers reflected the most beautiful colors.

Propriety told her to send it back and politely refuse Dandy’s attentions and invitation, but she wanted to go so very badly. And she wanted Griffin to see her before she left so he could see how she looked in such a beautiful creation. Was that wrong of her? Undoubtedly, but that didn’t stop her from silently wishing for it all the same.

Lifting the tongs from the pretty matching heater her mother had given her on her previous birthday, Finley fitted the last uncurled lock of her hair between the barrel and curved clamp and quickly rolled it. She took care to ensure she didn’t get it too close to her scalp. She might heal quickly, but that didn’t mean a burn wouldn’t hurt.

A few moments later, she released her hair from the tongs and a perfect ringlet joined the others she’d made. Then she plucked up her brush to smooth the front and began arranging curls—some still warm—into the style she wanted, pinning them in place. By the time she was done, curls cascaded down her back from high on her head while a few others framed her face in delicate spirals. Perfect—except for that strange patch of black. Was it longer?

Finley was just about to tackle her pretty black lace corset when a knock sounded upon her door.

“Who is it?” she called, quickly reaching for her robe and slipping her arms through the sleeves.

“Emily,” came the muffled reply. “I have something for you.”

Finley started. Something for her? “Come in.”

The door opened and the petite redhead came in, carrying a medium-size box. “Oh, good, you’re not yet dressed.”

She never expected to hear someone say that to her, let alone a girl. “Do you think you could help me with my corset?”

Emily grinned. “That is exactly why I’m here.” She set the box on the bed and removed the lid. “I made this especially for you.”

Finley’s mouth dropped open as Emily lifted the most wonderfully strange contraption she’d ever seen. “Is that…is that a
corset?
”

Smiling broadly, Emily nodded. “Do you like it?”

She stepped closer, tentatively reaching out to touch the cold metal. A steel corset—thin, shiny bands with embossed flowers and leaves, held together with tiny hinges to allow ease of movement. Little gears and other decorative pieces of steel were soldered over some of the larger gaps between bands. The garment looked like an industrial metal flower garden.

“The spaces are small enough that bullets and most blades won’t be able to get through, and if someone hits you the bounder’s going to break a knuckle or two.”