by Kady Cross
Finley shuddered at the thought. She adjusted the earring and rose from her dressing table. “Have you been engaged for long?”
“Just a fortnight,” Phoebe replied. “Hold on, you’ve got a loose pin.” Finley watched in the mirror as the girl walked behind her and attended to her hair. She didn’t even wince when her would-be maid shoved a pin deeper into her coiffure.
“There.” The paler girl admired her work with a faint smile. “Now you’re gorgeous. All the eligible gentlemen at the party will line up to dance with you.”
“Not me,” Finley argued. “I’m just a companion.”
Phoebe’s smile faded, only to come back twice as bright—and a little forced. “Didn’t Mama tell you? We’re telling everyone that you’re my cousin from the country. No one will know you’re not filthy rich or connected.”
A wave of dizziness washed over Finley. For a moment, she felt that other part of her struggle to come to the surface, but she pushed it back down. “Why would you do that?”
Phoebe frowned. “I’m not certain. It was Mama’s idea. I reckon she thought we wouldn’t look so pretentious if it seemed that you were family. Since I’m engaged I no longer need constant chaperoning, so perhaps she simply wants someone watching over me at all times. I’m not certain what sort of trouble she thinks I’ll get myself into.”
Finley almost suggested she ask her mother, but then thought the better of it. Phoebe’s relationship with her mama was none of her business.
“I suppose being from the country will provide an excuse for any ignorance I might have for proper social behavior.”
Phoebe waved her hand. “You have more manners than most lords and ladies I’ve met. Trust me.”
Finley did, oddly enough. She didn’t think Phoebe or her mother were trying to harm her in any way, but the entire situation was very strange. She suspected there was more to it than either she, or Phoebe had been told.
“We’d best take ourselves downstairs,” Phoebe remarked with a glance at the clock on the mantel. “Mama will be waiting.”
Dutifully, Finley followed after the girl, despite the lump in her stomach. How on earth was she to pretend she was of the upper class? To be sure, Silas and her mother had instilled good manners in her, and her vocabulary was such that she could certainly speak properly, but she had no idea what that sort of life was like, outside of observing it. She had more of a “mongrel” look to her than aristocratic features—a fact she was more often happy for than not, as some nobles seemed to have been bred out of having any chin to speak of.
Well, there was no getting out of it. She would just have to do as well as she could and hope for the best.
Phoebe had been right, her mother was indeed waiting for them, along with the butler, whose name Finley couldn’t remember, if she’d been told at all. He helped first Lady Morton, then Phoebe and finally Finley into their wraps. Hers was yet another loan from Phoebe.
“Thank you, Tolliver,” Lady Morton said with a smile. She wore tinted spectacles that partially concealed her odd eye. “We will be home by four at the latest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed. “Have a lovely evening, ladies.” Then he opened the door so that the three of them could march out into the cool night air. A footman stood by the carriage to hand them in one by one.
As the carriage gingerly lurched into motion, Finley held her clenched hands in her lap and drew deep, even breaths. She could do this. All she had to do was follow Phoebe’s example and behave as she did. It would be easy.
So long as she never left Phoebe’s side.
It was a short drive to their destination, which was but a few streets away. The metal horses that pulled them moved faster than their flesh-and-blood counterparts. Finley couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a coach such a short distance when she had two feet perfect for walking.
That was exactly the sort of observation she had to remember to keep to herself. Aristocrats did not walk to social events.
As they stepped from the carriage, Finley took a deep breath. There were familiar scents in the air—the smell of real horses, of heated metal, of steam and grass—that calmed her pounding heart somewhat. Relief flooded through her as the anxiety waned. Intense emotions were not conducive to keeping control of herself. The darkness inside her loved to come out at those times.
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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
An hour later, Finley was still reeling. Lord Vincent was Phoebe’s fiancé? She knew large age differences weren’t uncommon amongst the upper crust—or the lower for that matter—but the man was more than twice Phoebe’s age!
She watched them on the dance floor. Lord Vincent had a limp, but that didn’t stop him from whirling Phoebe through a waltz. If he were only younger, or she older, they would make a handsome couple.
It was warm in the ballroom—too many bodies in one space. The smell of cologne and perfume mixed with heat and sweat gave Finley a headache. She hadn’t been asked to dance the waltz, and her card was blank for the next few selections—thankfully, as she wasn’t the best dancer—so she took this time to slip from the loud, stifling room.
She was nosy by nature, but her hurting head and pinched toes—Phoebe’s shoes were a titch too small—kept her impulse to look about under control. Rather than remain in the corridor, where she might have to socialize with other guests coming and going, she opened the door of the first room she found and stepped inside.
Finley waited a moment before closing the door behind her. She was in a parlor or a gentleman’s study—decorated in rich mahogany and dark blue. She’d read that such rooms were perfect places for a lovers’ tryst at these sort of parties, and wanted to make certain she hadn’t interrupted one.
“If there’s anyone in here, just clear your throat and I’ll go back where I came from,” she said. Better to feel foolish for talking to an empty room than accidentally spy a gentleman’s naked backside. Some things could not be “un-seen.”
The lighting in the room was mellow, easing the pressure inside her skull. She went to one of the windows and found it controlled by a strange apparatus. Instead of simply flipping the latch and opening the casement, she had to wind the key set into the window frame. Then, she watched as thin brass “arms” attached to the latch pulled it to the open position, and then slowly drew the glass toward her. When the breeze was exactly how she wanted, she merely turned the key back to its starting position and the mechanism came to a halt.
Lord Vincent certainly seemed to like his clockwork and automata. The house was positively crawling with scuttling metal creatures designed to do all manner of tasks. There were human servants, as well, but Finley had never seen such an abundance of brass and steel.
She turned her back to the window so the refreshing spring breeze could cool her nape. She rolled her neck, sighing as it popped and snapped, further easing the tension in her head and shoulders. When she opened her eyes she found herself staring at a portrait of Phoebe and Lord Vincent.
No, wait. That wasn’t Phoebe. Finley didn’t have to move closer to view the portrait in detail, but she did anyway. At this moment she didn’t trust her own eyes—which had become uncannily keen over the past few months. The improvement to her sight had been so gradual that she often forgot she could see much better than the average person. She walked toward the large, gilt-framed canvas, her eyes widening with each step.
It was a portrait of a much younger Lord Vincent—she’d been correct, he had been quite handsome in his youth—and the woman with him must have been his first wife, or at least a betrothed. The woman wore a large sapphire ring on her left hand—the same hand that covered one of Lord Vincent’s.
She looked so much like Phoebe it was eerie.
Of course, on closer examination it was easy to pick out the differences—Phoebe’s eyes were not quite as dark, her hair a bit more red, but the shape of her face was a perfect match, and her features so close they could have been twins, or at least sisters.
It was unsettling. Disturbing. And Finley wondered if Phoebe knew. She was also overwhelmed by the need to find out just what had happened to this woman.
“Robert, I said no!”
The cry came from outside, carried to her keen ears by the breeze through the open window. It was Phoebe’s voice.
Portrait forgotten, Finley quickly crossed to the window. From there she could see into the garden below. Flickering torches cast soft golden light over Phoebe and her companion—a young gentleman. Neither of them looked very pleased.
“I have to go,” Phoebe said. “Mama and Finley will be looking for me.”
The young man grabbed her by the arm. “You can’t leave. Not yet.”
Perhaps it was guilt that she hadn’t been doing her duty that flicked the switch inside Finley, or perhaps it was the way he grabbed Phoebe like he had a right to. Maybe it was a little of both. Regardless, one moment she was watching them from the window and the next she vaulted over the sill and dropped two floors to the grass below.
The two gaped at her as though she had just fallen from the sky—which she supposed she had.
“Let her go,” she told the young gentleman. He was tall and slim with thick dark hair and rosy cheeks.
He scowled, his amazement clearly faded. “This is none of your business.”
“Wrong.” Finley clapped her fingers around the wrist of his hand holding Phoebe. “My friend wants to leave and you won’t let her. Not very mannerly, Robert.” As she spoke she tightened her grip, stopping when his handsome face began to contort in pain. She let go as soon as she felt his fingers release Phoebe.
Robert cradled his arm close to his chest. Phoebe immediately brushed past Finley to stop at his side. Her hands touched him as though he were precious or fragile. “Robert, dearest. Are you all right?”
Dearest? Finley scowled. She’d been this close to giving Robert the thrashing she thought he deserved when he’d let go. She had seen Phoebe try to pull free of his grip, and now the girl was all over him wondering if he was all right?
“What did you do to him?” Phoebe demanded, glaring at her.
Finley raised her brows. “I heard you tell him no and then I saw him grab you. I thought he was trying to do you harm.”
“I would never hurt Phoebe,” Robert informed her indignantly. “I love her.”
“Love her?” Finley repeated dumbly, before pressing a hand to her head—which had started to ache again. This job was beginning to take on more twists and turns than one of those
“sensation” novels.
Lips tight, she looked from Robert to Phoebe. “Someone had better explain to me just what exactly is going on here.”
The explanation was truly the stuff worthy of Mr. Dickens—simple, but oddly convoluted. Phoebe loved Robert, and Robert loved Phoebe, but Robert had yet to reach the age of majority so they couldn’t marry without their parents’ consent. Robert’s parents might have been persuaded to allow it, but Lord Vincent had gone to Phoebe’s father and asked Lord Morton for her hand. Her father said yes.
Finley’s gaze slid back and forth between the two as she struggled to regain her composure. Did this young buck know just how close he’d come to having her fist down his throat? The thought of it made her stomach twist and roll. She’d thought he was hurting Phoebe, and in return that dark part of her had wanted to hurt him. It still wanted to hurt him, even if just a very little.
“So why don’t you break the engagement?” she asked Phoebe. “Seems a simple enough solution.”
Phoebe glanced away, and even in the murky darkness Finley could tell that her cheeks were red. “I cannot do that.”
All right. She could accept that weak-arsed explanation for now, but the other girl would have to explain in detail the next time they were alone.
“You could elope,” she suggested.
This time Robert shook his head. “That would bring shame down on both our houses, dishonor me and ruin Phoebe’s reputation.” The look he directed at the girl embarrassed Finley—it was so warm. “I couldn’t do that to her.”
Finley grimaced. “So if I’m to understand you, the two of you are desperate to be together, but are unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices?”
Robert frowned at her. “You mock us with your ignorance.”
She probably should have pleaded the contrary, but Finley didn’t like being called ignorant, especially when she would do whatever necessary to be with the boy she loved—if there was such a creature. “Yes,” she replied honestly. “I do. I would mock anyone who whines about their situation yet can’t summon the bollocks to fight for who and what they want.”
