The Girl in the Steel Corset (7 page)

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Dandy.” She wished she
could be there the next time Lord Felix came ’round and heard her message. He’d probably suffer an apoplexy.

“My door is always open,” he replied, but his tone was lacking its previous joviality. “You know how to find it.”

Finley arched a brow at him, not liking at all this new seriousness. She had just gotten accustomed to his flippancy, and his tone was just a little too sincere for her to discredit. “That sounds an awful lot like an offer of friendship, sir.”

Jack Dandy reached out the long fingers of his right hand and gently touched her cheek. “Don’t mistake me, Treasure. I can offer you many things, but friendship ain’t one of them. Now, for once in your life, be a sensible girl and run away.”

And surprisingly, Finley did.

By the time his aunt Cordelia arrived, Griff had already had the morning from hell. First, he awoke a few hours before dawn to the sound of a velocycle pulling into the drive. It was Finley. He hadn’t known she was gone. And a note from Emily told him that before Finley left last night she’d been very much unlike the timid sweet girl she’d been earlier that day. She’d seemed almost like a completely different person.

Awake and irritable, he took a shower, wishing he were on his estate in Devon where he might have gone for a swim in the pond instead. Once dressed, he went downstairs for an early breakfast and found a letter waiting for him from
Sam’s father, steward of that Devon estate. It was brief, but annoying. It seemed the new groundskeeper had left his post without any warning over a week ago and now Morgan was left trying to hire someone new. Knowing Morgan’s dislike of modern technology, Griff tried not to be too irritated that the man had written rather than telephoned or even telegraphed the information.

There was also a similar missive from the museum curator who had sent on a list of things taken the night of the robbery. Amongst the various innocuous items was a hairbrush on loan from Queen Victoria for an upcoming Jubilee exhibition.

Bloody marvelous, now he’d have to deal with the Buckingham set.

He was just pouring a cup of coffee when a bleary eyed Emily emerged from her workshop/laboratory in the cellar. He avoided the lab if at all possible, riding the lift down there made him feel as though he couldn’t draw a deep enough breath.

“Have you been up all night?” he demanded, incredulous. He’d been the only one in bed the night before, and now he felt foolish for it. He was supposed to be the leader, shouldn’t he have had
something
to at least keep him up late?

Emily nodded, obviously almost asleep on her feet. Her ropey hair was mussed and her shirt wrinkled and stained beneath her open smock. There was a smudge of something thick and oily on her pale cheek. “I had to replace the
velocity control in my cycle and then I wanted to go over two of the automatons we recovered again. I know the explanation for these crimes is in them somewhere.”

Griffin smiled at her and brought his hand up to squeeze her shoulder. “I won’t have you exhausting yourself, you wonderful, foolish girl. Off to bed with you now. Get some rest.”

Nodding wearily, she turned on her heel and walked away as though she were already asleep.

Griffin went on to the dining room where breakfast waited. He filled a plate and sat down at the head of the table and opened the newspaper sitting there.

As he read, he finished his coddled eggs, sausage and toast and then poured a second cup of coffee before making his way to his study.

With dark paneled walls, huge oak desk and large leather chair, the study was Griff’s refuge from the rest of the world. It looked exactly as it had his entire life, right down to the books on the shelves, though he had added a few of his own. Oh, and of course the Aether engine in the corner.

The room had belonged to his father up until his untimely death three years ago. Edward and Helena King had been killed in a steam-carriage accident. Only, it hadn’t been an accident at all. He knew this because his father told him. Shortly after the event, deep in grief, Griffin had accessed the Aetheric plane and tried to contact his parents. He had wanted only to see them one last time, but when his
father appeared he told him that almost everyone involved with their journey to the earth’s center twenty years earlier was dead, as well—quite possibly murdered.

Since then, Griff made it his personal mission to give his parents peace. The fact that he had yet to find the culprit was a deep and private disappointment, but he refused to give up, even when his aunt Cordelia told him she worried about him.

Even Cordelia didn’t know just how deep Griff’s connection with the Aether went. He’d always been able to access it, even as a child. Back then he’d been something of a medium and could contact the dead. Now…it was difficult to explain, especially when no one truly understood what the Aether was. To many, it was the Fifth Element. To others, it had to do with the propagation of light. For some, it was another dimension. And to scholars of the classics, Aether was the anthropomorphic representation of sky, space and even Heaven.

But to Griff, it was much simpler and terribly more complex than any of that. The Aether was the thread that bound everything—humanity, the world and the cosmos—together. It was energy. It was
everything
—and he was a conduit for it.

If not for the control he cultivated, it would kill him. Man was not meant to know what lurked beyond the veil. The living were not meant to traverse the world of the dead. There was always a price to be paid for tapping that kind of
power—a loss of self. And yet, lately he’d felt more at peace with it, even though he knew his connection to the Aether had grown inexplicably. As his connection deepened, so did his understanding and control of it. Still, he had to be careful. It was too easy to become addicted to accessing the plane. Talking to the dead, seeing old friends and relatives—even old pets—was what drove so many to the Aether dens. But the Aetheric was for the dead, and every time a human accessed it, they lost a little of themselves. He had seen it for himself, and had been cautioned by his parents. The more time spent there, the less appeal real life held.

He had tried to use the Aether to find his parents’ killer and found nothing. His parents couldn’t tell him because in life they hadn’t known the answer.

Though, he was not entirely without hope. As he searched for the person responsible for destroying his family, he dedicated himself to hunting down other villains, as well. Eventually, he would find the one he sought.

As always, being in this room made him feel connected to his father, to whom he had been very close, especially as the only child and heir. That bond eased the tension in his shoulders and the pounding that threatened in his skull. When he sat down in front of the Aether engine, he was relaxed but with purpose.

He turned the key on the side of the mahogany box that also housed the auditory speaker. There was a slight thumping noise as the engine came to life, followed by
a gentle hum. Next he flipped a small brass lever on the upper casing to illuminate the viewing screen. Those who traversed in the Aether knew that a reflective surface was the best medium for transmission. When the engine wasn’t in use the screen appeared to be nothing more than a simple mirror, but when illuminated from within it became the perfect receptacle for Aetheric images.

Emily had put the monstrosity together using different items she found around the mansion. It was a godsend because it meant he didn’t have to tap into the Aether directly and open himself up to the barrage of spirits and suffocating power.

The machine also doubled as an analytical engine and, like those belonging to governments and police organizations across the globe, was connected through telegraph and telephone lines, sharing important and often coded political information. The information was carefully encrypted to keep people like him from understanding, but Emily’s great big brain had also devised what she called a “cryptex”—a code breaker.

To begin his search, Griffin spoke into the “phonic accelerator” Emily had made from a candlestick phone base. “Lord Felix August-Raynes.”

The engine kicked into motion, filling the room with its gentle chugging. He didn’t expect to find much as August-Raynes was still alive. Only the dead lurked in the Aether.

The engine instantly chugged faster, going from a slow,
steady beat to a heart-pounding rhythm in mere seconds. He peered at the screen—nothing but a newspaper article. He slipped a piece of paper into the typewriting machine’s rollers and hit the spacer bar. Immediately the article began to print.

“I do hope you’re using that thing to look at photographs of Moulin Rouge ladies as a young man your age should, and not hunting down another bothersome criminal.”

The sound of aunt Cordelia’s voice was enough to put a grin on Griff’s face. Though she was technically his guardian until he turned one and twenty, she was more a friend to him than an authority figure. They were the only family either of them had left.

He met her in the center of the room for a hug. A tall, blonde woman with the same gray eyes as his, she was handsome and dressed in the height of fashion. Delicate strands of six silver chains ran from a piercing on the right side of her nose to one in the same ear—one chain for every year without her husband, the Marquess of Marsden, who had gone missing during a mission. It was a blatant symbol to any man who might approach her that she was not available, no matter what the gossips might say.

“It’s good to have you home,” Griff told her when he finally released her. “What of the mysterious crop circles?”

She shot him a slightly chastising look, but it was softened by her smile. “You know I can’t tell you any of that.”

“Not even if you had a good trip? Found a being from
another world?” He was only half teasing. Her work for the Crown was often a sore spot between them.

“The trip was what it was. No Mars men, either,” she replied lightly, stripping off her gloves as she moved toward the analytical engine. “Not Moulin Rouge, but at least it’s a pretty girl. Well done, Goose.”

Griffin rolled his eyes at the unfortunate moniker given to him as a child because of how he waddled when he walked. He had grown out of the waddle but not the name. He glanced at the article, which had a photograph attached. “It’s not like that. She was a servant who worked at the August-Raynes household.” He tore the paper from the rollers so he could better read it. “She disappeared after accusing Lord Felix of rape.”

“I always despised that boy, but what does this have to do with you?”

“I’ve found a girl in Hyde Park two nights ago. She’d been hurt and she had the August-Raynes crest on her corset.”

Cordelia clucked her tongue, still looking at the image. “Taking in strays again? You don’t have to save everyone, you know.”

Griff chuckled. “She can take care of herself. I find her intriguing. It’s as if Finley—Miss Jayne—is two people in one body.”

Cordelia stiffened and suddenly straightened like a marionette with its strings yanked. “What did you say?”

Bewildered, Griff frowned. “I said it was as though Miss Jayne was two people in the same body.”

When his aunt turned to face him, she was pale. “I would like to meet this guest of yours. I think I might know her.”

“Really?” Griffin couldn’t believe the luck! “How extraordinary.”

His aunt clasped him by the shoulder. “Don’t get your hopes up, dearest. In fact, I’ve never hoped to be more mistaken in all my life. If she is who I think she is, then we may all be in very grave danger indeed.”

Finley was still half-asleep when she was “summoned” to Griffin’s study late that morning. Her memories of the night before were somewhat foggy—as they always were when the darker side of her nature took over. She vaguely remembered Whitechapel and the enigmatic Jack Dandy—the thought of his dark eyes sent a tremor to the base of her spine. What had she been thinking going to such a place to see such a man?

She had to get this under control or someday her other half would get them—
her
—killed.

So it was with some trepidation that she entered the study, wearing an embroidered silver-silk dress of Oriental design—one of the more sedate clothing selections in her closet. It was sleeveless and had knee-high slits on either side. Over it she wore a cherry-red corset with little silver
dragons stitched on. The clothing felt appropriate—like armor for going into battle.

Where had the clothing come from? More hand-me-downs from the absent aunt? Or had the duke actually purchased the items for her? She hoped it was the former. She couldn’t afford to repay the latter.

Had he heard of her adventure and decided to turn her out? She’d been cast into the street before, so there was no need for this sudden chill of fear—except that Griffin had made her think he could help her and she desperately wanted that help.

She didn’t want to live like this—as though something crawled beneath her skin wanting out. It was getting worse. Last night, she’d had no control over herself and she’d walked boldly into very dangerous territory. Fortunately, the “other her” seemed to be right at home with danger and had managed to escape in one piece.

Griffin’s head turned at her arrival. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, dressed in a white shirt, dark plum waistcoat, black trousers and boots. His hair looked mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it. He had a woman beside him. A pretty woman about Finley’s size but older, and much more refined in a silky gray gown in the latest fashion. She had to be family because she and Griff had the same eyes—like a spring sky about to be taken over by storm clouds. When she turned her head, Finley saw the fine chains that ran from her nose to ear. But it wasn’t until
those stormy eyes met hers and she felt a strange sensation in her head that Finley knew this woman was anything but ordinary.

The thing inside her reared up like a giant hand and came crashing down on the buzzing in her brain, squashing it like a bug.

The woman flinched.

“I beg your pardon,” Finley said, a little shaken at having been protected by that shadow of herself—at needing to be protected, “but isn’t it a little rude to crawl about in someone’s mind without permission?”

Griffin’s expression was all surprise and censure as he glanced at his companion. “Aunt Delia, you didn’t.”

The woman rubbed two fingers against her temple. “I did, but I was promptly shut out.” She looked at Finley in a manner that was both distrusting and respectful. “Well done.”

Finley didn’t know what to say to that, and since there was no way to explain it, she kept silent. Griffin spoke instead, introducing her to the woman, who was his aunt Cordelia, Lady Marsden, recently returned to London.

“Cordelia is a telepath,” Griff explained. “And telekinetic. That is to say—”

“She has a very powerful mind,” Finley interrupted. “I’ve noticed.” Not only because the woman had tried to intrude upon her thoughts, but because she’d held out her arm
toward one of the bookcases and a leather-bound journal had flown off the shelf into her hand.

“That must make you very entertaining at parties,” Finley said to the woman, a tad snidely.

“And at court,” Lady Marsden replied with equal bite. She passed the book to Griffin. “Tell me, Miss Jayne, is your mother’s name Mary by any chance?”

“It is,” Finley replied, trying not to look too shocked. “What else did you see inside my mind?”

“The only thing I saw in your head, my girl, was my nephew’s visage next to that of Jack Dandy. Might I say what interesting company you keep.”

Finley flushed as Griff stared at her, but she held the older woman’s gaze. It was obvious that Griff’s aunt neither liked nor trusted her. “Who I see is none of your concern, ma’am.”

The woman stiffened. “While you’re in this house—”

“She’s my concern,” Griffin interjected. “Not yours, Aunt, and this conversation is getting way off track. Why don’t you enlighten both Miss Jayne and me as to how you knew her mother’s name?”

Lady Marsden looked both mollified and embarrassed. She no doubt was not accustomed to her nephew speaking to her in such a manner in front of others. “It’s in the book,” she said with a lift of her chin. The book in Griff’s hands opened, the pages seeming to flip on their own, though
Finley knew it was the power of his aunt’s mind that moved them. Finally, they lay still, open to a page of photographs.

Finley moved closer, drawn by her own curiosity. She stood beside Griff and peered at one of the tea-colored images adhered to the page. It depicted a small group of people standing next to a strange vehicle that looked like a metal carriage with a large drill on the front of it. The man standing closest to it with his hand on the vehicle looked so much like Griff he could only be his father, the late duke. Next to him was a beautiful woman she took to be the duchess. There were other people, as well, but Finley gave them little notice as her gaze fell upon the man and the woman farthest away. The man she didn’t recognize, but the woman she did. Though this photograph had to have been taken almost twenty years ago, she knew her mother’s face.

Astonished, she looked up and saw Griff’s aunt watching her warily. “This is my mother,” she said unnecessarily.

Lady Marsden inclined her head. “Yes.”

“Who’s the man with her?” Griffin asked.

His aunt smiled tightly. “That would be Thomas Sheppard. He was a great scientist.” Her gaze cut to Finley. “And Mary’s husband.”

The bottom of Finley’s stomach felt as though it had dropped to the floor. “But that would mean…”

Lady Marsden nodded. “Your father, yes.”

Finley had always despised those girls who fainted anytime something fantastic or surprising happened, but at
that moment she felt as though her knees might give way. Her head spun and she clutched at Griff’s arm for support.

She had never seen a photo of her father before this day. He mother said she hadn’t any.

“My father’s name was Thomas Jayne, not Thomas Sheppard.” Even if she said the words, they tasted like a lie. There was enough of her own looks in Thomas Sheppard’s face to prove his indentity.

“Then perhaps we should call upon your mother,” Lady Marsden suggested, a note of challenge in her voice. “I had heard that Thomas and Mary had a daughter they named Finley
Jane
Sheppard. What a coincidence you made your way here after all these years, your parents having been so closely tied to my brother and his wife.”

Finley stared at her and finally understood. Her ladyship thought she’d machinated all of this to get into Griffin’s household. She believed Finley to be capable of throwing herself in front of a moving vehicle, risking injury to capture His Grace’s attention. Seeing Jack Dandy in her thoughts only solidified what Cordelia King-Ashworth already believed—that Finley was a liar, possibly a criminal and not to be trusted. That her being in that house was simply too much of a coincidence.

To be honest, Finley thought exactly the same thing. She’d never been much for believing in destiny or fate, but it certainly seemed as though she and Griffin had been connected long before they’d ever met.

“Yes,” she agreed, obviously surprising Lady Marsden. “We should visit my mother.” In truth, she’d rather stick pins in her eye. She didn’t want to hear what her mother had to say about the photograph and Thomas Sheppard, not because she thought her mother would lie, but because she was very much afraid of the truth.

Sam was sitting at the dining-room table, reading the paper and eating his usual breakfast of oatmeal, sausage, ham, eggs, fried potatoes, toast and coffee when Griffin walked in.

“Hello, Samuel,” Griff said, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Sam’s spine went rigid. Had Emily put metal in his back, too? he wondered bitterly, waiting for his friend to make some remark about it being closer to luncheon than breakfast time, or to ask what hour Sam had returned home. It was none of Griff’s business, and it wasn’t as though
he
ever felt the need to explain himself. Sam could come and go as he pleased, as well, but that didn’t change the little worm of guilt swimming uneasily in his stomach.

“Morning,” Sam replied somewhat gruffly.

“Did you sleep well?” the other boy inquired.

Here it came, thought Sam. An interrogation. “Yes.”

Griff nodded. “Excellent. Listen, Aunt Delia is back. She and I are taking Finley to visit her mother. Seems there may be a connection between Finley’s father and my parents.”

This was what he’d missed by being out late and sleeping the morning away. He knew there was more to Finley than they first thought, and now it seemed they were about to find out just what. Though he ought to thank her for taking Griffin’s attention off him.

“Do you need me to come along?”

“No need. Although, if Emily comes down, let her know what’s going on, will you?”

Emily. The thought of seeing her again filled him with a mix of eagerness and dread. He’d been so angry at her, so hurt and…well, he didn’t know what else. He was still angry, still hurt, but he knew he should apologize.

“I’ll tell her,” he said, noticing that Griff had been watching him, waiting for a reply.

His old friend smiled. To Sam, Griffin looked relieved. “Thank you. And, Sam?”

He had lifted his fork in an attempt to resume his rapidly cooling breakfast, and gritted his teeth as he raised his head once more. “What?”

The smile, and the relief were gone. All that he saw was Griff’s unapologetic face. “I told Emily to do whatever necessary to save your life. If you’re going to be mad at anyone, it should be me.”

Too stunned to say anything, Sam just sat there in stupefied silence. Coffee in hand, Griff left the room without a backward glance and all Sam could do was watch
him go as betrayal and anger ignited in his gut and slowly set him ablaze.

Were he not so bloody hungry, he would have thrown his plate, but someone would have to clean that up. Instead, he finished his breakfast. Then, he got up and went to Griff’s study. He stood there, in the room he’d spent so much time in during the course of his life, and looked for something to destroy that hadn’t belonged to the former duke, that was solely Griffin’s.

His gaze fell upon the Aether engine Emily had built so Griffin could access the Aether without becoming part of it. It was a testament to Emily’s brilliance and Griff’s power. If he ruined it, both of them would be hurt by it. Both of them would feel as he did at that very moment—betrayed, bewildered.

It would be so easy. The engine was right in front of him now. His mechanical arm would reduce the entire rig to rubble in seconds. All he had to do was make a fist and swing.

“I replaced your heart.”
The words rang in his head as his fingers curled into his palm.
“If you’re going to be mad at anyone, it should be me.”
The voices of Emily and Griff overlapped in his mind, creating a cacophony of misery he couldn’t silence.

They had ruined him out of love. Ruining this thing the two of them had built might ease his anger, but he wouldn’t feel good about it. He would want to apologize
later. Neither Griff nor Emily would ever apologize for what they’d done to him because it had saved his life. To them that was all that mattered. Even now, knowing how angry he was and how much he despised the metal parts of himself, they would do it all over again because they would rather have him as a mess than not have him at all.

It wouldn’t even matter that he loathed them for it.

Sam lowered his fist and left the study. He wrote a note for Emily telling her where Griffin had gone and slipped it under her door. Then he went to his own room. He tossed some clothes and a few personal items into a bag before heading to the stables and climbing on his velocycle. He needed to get away. He needed to think.

Most of all, he needed to put as much space as he could between himself and the people who loved him.

Finley’s mother and her husband lived in Chelsea, which was just enough of a distance to make being stuck in a steam carriage with Griffin and his aunt uncomfortable.

Finley had never been in a carriage this fine before. The outside was a glossy black, the driver perched up high in a padded seat. Plumes of white steam rose from the shiny exhaust pipe that ran from the steam engine up the side of the carriage. The interior was all soft velvet, so dark a blue it was almost black. Though there were lamps on either wall for nighttime travel, it was dim inside the coach with the shades drawn.

They didn’t speak. There were a hundred and one questions she wanted to ask, but there wasn’t any point until they met with her mother. If what Lady Marsden said was true, then her mother had lied to her when she was a child and continued to lie until this very day. Why?

She sat next to the lady on the carriage seat. Griffin sat across from them, looking every inch the haughty duke in his pristine cravat, black jacket and dark gray trousers. He wore a long black greatcoat of soft leather over the ensemble, and carried a silver-topped walking stick. She had heard of gentlemen carrying swords concealed in their canes. She wondered if Griffin was such a gentleman.

Every once in a while she caught him watching her with absolutely no expression on his face or in his eyes. He must be a very good card player. It made her nervous. It made that other part of her nervous, too—nervous and indignant. Part of her wanted to slap him, even though she didn’t blame him for thinking the worst of her.

Finley opened the shade on her window just enough so that she could peek out at the passing scenery. She leaned her temple against the velvet-covered wall and watched hackney coaches, still pulled by horses, lumber past. Omnibuses, run by coal-fed engines cast grime-laden soot—like dark thunderclouds—into the damp air. Public transportation was nowhere near as luxurious as this vehicle. She doubted the Duke of Greythorne or his snooty aunt had ever seen the inside of an omnibus, or the third-class seating section
in a dirigible—nor the second-class section, for that matter. They took this opulence for granted.