by Kady Cross
So did he, but Finley knew better than to say that aloud. Jack Dandy was one of the most dangerous and attractive young men she’d ever met—bastardizing of the English language aside—and he knew it.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”
He gestured to a silver pot and cups on a tray beside him on the desk. “Freshly brewed. Ground the beans m’self just for your enjoyment.”
“You are a man of many talents,” she said archly as she came toward him.
“You don’t know the ’alf of ’em, darling.” His flirtatious tone was lightened by a smile. “Take one of them croissants, as well. You need to eat.”
Her stomach rumbled at the sight of the buttery, flaky pastries that sat on a china plate also on the tray. She smiled self-consciously as he chuckled. He took one, as well.
Coffee fixed just the way she liked it, Finley took her breakfast and moved to sit on the sofa, placing her cup and plate on the low table before her. She pulled a section off the croissant—it came apart easily, still a little warm. She popped the piece into her mouth, closing her eyes in delight as the buttery flavor embraced her tongue.
“This is delicious,” she said, when she finally recovered enough to speak.
Jack was watching her in a curious manner. “You could have ’em every morning if you want.”
Finley stilled, another piece of croissant poised halfway to her mouth. “Pardon?”
He smiled at her, as though he found her surprise amusing. “You can stay here—with me—as long as you want.” It couldn’t have been coincidence that all traces of Cockney disappeared at that moment.
She wasn’t certain what to say. This generosity from him wasn’t totally unexpected, but she knew better than to take it as innocent. If she stayed there, eventually Jack would want something from her in return, and the idea of what he might want from her was as scary as it was strangely exciting.
“Thank you,” she said at last—it seemed much safer than yes or no, especially since part of her was very tempted to say yes.
Jack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I know the minute His Grace comes for you, you’ll ’ead back to Mayfair wiv him, but if ever you need somethin’…” He let the offer drift off.
Silence filled the room as they stared at one another. Finley’s mouth was suddenly very dry. Good lord, what was going on?
“Last night you asked me what I knew about that Machinist bloke,” he said, breaking the silence and the strange growing tension. He popped the last of a croissant in his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his long hands. “I ’aven’t had dealings wiv him, but I know some who ’ave. Keeps to hisself, deals mostly in metal. My associate’s ’eard of lots of thefts and anarchy believed to be The Machinist’s work, but there’s no proof. He knows how to keep his head down.” There was a note of respect in his voice, reminding Finley that as attractive as Jack Dandy might be he was not a “good” man.
“I appreciate your help,” she said sincerely. “It seems The Machinist is something of a phantom.”
Jack inclined his head. “That’s easy though, innit? When you get a bit o’ metal to do all your dirty work.”
Yes, she supposed it was. “Who do you get to do yours?” she asked before she could censure herself.
He grinned at her, flashing those straight white teeth that reminded her of a wolf. “A man’s got to ’ave secrets, Treasure.”
Like whether or not he killed Lord Felix—for her. The idea made her head swim. On one hand it was terribly romantic to think someone might kill for her. On the other, it was terrifying to think Jack could take a life over something so petty as a slight against her. Yes, Lord Felix had intended to do her great harm at the time, but she’d escaped relatively unscathed. He deserved to be stopped, but killed? Still, she couldn’t bring herself to get the least bit upset about it. She was more tormented with the thought of finding a murderer attractive than concerned with who he might have done in.
She didn’t want Jack to be a killer. There, she’d thought it, admitted it to herself. She didn’t want it because she liked him, and because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who could have feelings for a murderer.
A knock at the front door pulled her from her thoughts. Her head turned to gaze out into the foyer. Jack only smiled wryly into his cup. “Wonder who that could be?” he mused drily. “Do be a love and get that for me, will you?”
It was odd that he asked her to answer the knock, but since he’d been so good as to take her in when she needed it, she didn’t think to refuse. Setting her cup on the table, she rose from the sofa and slowly walked out of the room, her gaze fixed on the front door.
She depressed the latch with her thumb, and swung the heavy wood inward, revealing a most unexpected surprise.
Griffin stood on the step.
Jack had predicted he would come, but she hadn’t believed it, and she certainly hadn’t suspected it would be this soon. And she hadn’t thought for a moment that she would be so bloody happy to see him. How had he known where to find her? Had he thought the worst of her and suspected she’d run to Jack? Or did he simply know her well enough to know that she’d run to the one person who seemed to understand her as well as he did?
“Hello,” he said. His voice was rough and he looked tired. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was mussed beyond its usual disregard. There was an ugly bruise on his jaw where Sam had struck him. It spread up his cheek to darken his right eye and across his nose to cast a purple smear under the left eye, as well. His poor face. She wanted to touch it, but resisted the temptation, knowing how badly it must hurt.
“Hello,” she echoed lamely, partially hiding behind the door frame. “How’s Sam?”
“Recovering,” he replied with a slight smile. “As charming as ever.”
She laughed at that, more out of relief than anything else. Sam was all right, and Griffin didn’t hate her.
“You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that.”
He put one foot on the threshold, closing the distance between them. “I didn’t.”
“Oh.” That was a bit of cold water in the face. She opened the door a little wider, putting herself behind it. “Did you come to see Jack? He’s in the—”
“Finley.” She started as his palm slapped the door frame just above her head. He leaned closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. There was a glint in his eyes she didn’t understand, but it made her heart pound. “I’m not here to see Dandy, either.”
“Then…” She cleared her throat. Her voice sounded like a little girl’s in her ears and she cursed herself for it. “Why are you here?”
“For you.”
He had to know she didn’t belong at his house, with him and his friends. They wouldn’t want her after yesterday. “Griffin, I…”
Suddenly he was in the doorway, looming over her in a determined fashion. Gone was sweet, patient Griffin. This was the Duke of Greythorne, one of the most powerful men in England.
“I don’t care that you came to Dandy,” he said, his voice low, but sharp. “If you want to blame yourself for Sam’s injury, then go ahead and be a fool. And I don’t care that you could cosh my head in if you wanted. I came here to get you and if I have to, I’ll toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you all the way to Mayfair. I’m taking you home where you belong.”
Home. How long since she’d felt like she even had one?
“Ohhh, even I ’ave goose bumps,” came Jack’s lightly mocking voice behind her.
Cheeks hot, Finley looked over her shoulder to see her dark savior standing there, her valise in hand. He must have run up stairs to her room and collected her things as soon as she went to answer the door. He knew she’d go if Griffin came for her.
And he wasn’t giving her a choice.
“You’d better go with ’im, Treasure,” he said before she could utter a word. “I don’t wants ’im appearing on my step whenever he likes. I ’as a re
putation to fink of.” His tone was light, but she didn’t believe it, not completely. And though she knew she didn’t belong in his world, she was sad to leave it so soon.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the bag from him. She locked her gaze with his. “For everything.”
He merely inclined his head, smiling that enigmatic smile she’d come to find so charming.
She turned back to Griffin, who took her luggage.
“Take care of her,” she heard Jack say, his tone more than just vaguely threatening.
Griffin shot him a hard glance. “I will.”
She felt a bit like a bone between two hungry dogs.
Finley cast one last glance at Jack over her shoulder and waved goodbye. He returned the gesture with a salute and a darkly amused smile, then shut the door behind her.
Griffin’s steam carriage sat in front of the building, but the ducal crest wasn’t out on the door where it was normally displayed. She knew how much he disliked small spaces, so he must have given thought not only to his own privacy, but Jack’s, as well. The driver wore plain black rather than Greythorne livery as he sat behind the steering wheel on his high perch.
“Would you really have carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes?” she asked.
He shot her a wicked grin before moving so quickly she scarcely had time to realize what he was doing. He came at her, bent over and scooped her off her feet as his shoulder fit against her stomach. The next thing she knew she was hanging upside down over his back, admiring the fit of his trousers across his posterior, squealing.
Griffin carried her to the carriage and hoisted her inside like she weighed no more than a child. Laughing, she fell back against the seat as he climbed inside to sit across from her. He shut the door and tapped on the roof to signal his driver to leave.
If either of them had thought to peek out the window they might have seen the man watching them—a man who wasn’t Jack Dandy. A man who scowled at the sight of them together and who turned down an alley to climb into a carriage driven by an automaton.
Chapter 17
Sam would rather eat glass than apologize to Finley, especially since the lunatic had almost killed him. But he had started the fight and tried to kill her, so he supposed that made them even.
Regardless, Emily was angry with him, as was Griffin. He was going to have to do a lot of apologizing to make up for this mess, and Finley was only the beginning.
He had to do it today, because apparently there were plans to go into the tunnels beneath the city later and he wasn’t about to let the lot of them go down there without him. It didn’t matter how irrationally afraid he was that an automaton would be waiting there to rip him apart once and for all. Griffin hated being underground or in enclosed spaces, and he was going. Sam wouldn’t be the coward of the group. Besides, Finley would be there, and he wasn’t going to leave his friends alone with her, either. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t the villain he thought her to be, she was still damn dangerous. Anyone who could take him down so easily was worth watching.
The incision on his chest where Emily had cut him open was healed, as though the skin there had never been touched. He pressed the flat of his palm against it, feeling the steady beating below. It felt natural, not like a machine at all.
He’d had what Griff called an epiphany then, when faced with the knowledge that his life could very well end on the floor of the laboratory. At that moment, even though he didn’t like having the metal in him, he realized that it was preferable to death.
Emily had saved his life. Again. How could he ever repay her, especially when he’d been such a total arse to her?
He was fully healed and recovered from the blow Finley delivered. He might not like or trust her, but he had to hand it to her—she could fight. And she was strong. If she proved herself trustworthy, she would prove a valuable person to have around, especially if there was trouble. Emily would be safe with her around, and she could go places with Em that he and Griff and even Jasper couldn’t—or wouldn’t. Emily’s safety meant a lot to him. She was so little and fragile, so delicate.
And yet he seemed to be the one who was always breaking and she was the one putting him back together.
Rubbing his hand absently over his chest, he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He bathed and shaved and dressed in a pair of brown trousers, a honey-colored waistcoat and even attempted to tie a decent knot in a cravat, despite that the blasted things made him itch. Finally he gave up, put on his boots and went downstairs to face the others. No point in delaying it any longer.
Clouds had moved in that morning and a light mist filled the afternoon air, making an outdoor meal impossible, so Sam found the three of them in the dining room, about to have luncheon.
There was a place set for him. The sight of it eased his anxiety a little. They couldn’t despise him totally if they would break bread with him.
They hadn’t sat down yet, so they were all gathered around the table, standing by their chairs when he entered the room. Each and every head turned at his entrance and stared at him in silence, waiting.
They certainly weren’t going to make this easy for him, were they? Better to get it over with as quickly as possible then. He walked over to Finley, who looked as uncertain as he felt. At least they had that in common—and the ability to heal quickly given the pallor of the bruises on her face. Griffin, unfortunately, was another story. Sam actually winced when he looked at him.
He offered Finley his hand. “I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I had no right to come at you as I did. I may not trust you, but I was wrong and I am sorry.”
She arched a tawny brow. As far as apologies went, she’d no doubt heard better, but at least his was sincere. She accepted his handshake. “And I’m sorry for almost killing you.”
Sam had to smile. He’d heard better apologies himself, but she meant it, he could tell from the effort it took for her to meet his gaze. Neither of them really cared for the other, but at least they were honest with one another.
He turned to Griffin next. He didn’t offer his hand this time, and neither did his friend. “We good?” he asked.
Griffin made him sweat a moment. “I reckon so,” he said finally, with just the hint of a smile. “Though I owe you a good thrashing.”
Were it any other person, Sam would have laughed at the idea. Physically Griffin was no match for him, but Sam had seen some of the things his oldest friend was capable of doing, and he knew better than to underestimate him. “Sounds fair.”
And then there was Emily. Dear, sweet Em. Her arms were crossed over her chest and there was a defiant brightness to her big, pretty eyes that he wasn’t accustomed to, not when she looked at him. He had changed things between them, and not for the better. Her opinion of him had fallen considerably.
“Thank you,” he said to her, so that all of them could hear, “for saving my life. Again. I’ll try to deserve it.”
That softened her up—not much, but it was a start. Her arms dropped to her sides. “You do that, lad.”
They sat down then, Sam in his usual spot beside Emily and across from Finley. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places to be, but he was glad to be there all the same. Griffin filled him in on some of the important discoveries they’d made as of late.
“The Machinist is responsible for your parents’ deaths?” It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping to the table. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be,” Griffin replied. “I’ll know more when Aunt Cordelia returns from Devon later this afternoon.”
It seemed too fantastical to believe—like something out of the novels he liked to read about adventurous heroes and diabolical villains.
“We’re going underground later,” Griffin told him. “Back to the spot where we fought the digger. Are you able to do that?”
To be honest, Sam didn’t care if it made him look weak, he’d rather rip the mechanical heart out of his own chest and stomp
on it rather than go back to that dark, awful place.
“I can,” he replied determinedly, absently rubbing his hand that was metal beneath the skin as he met his friend’s sharp gaze. “And I will.”
Conversation pretty much ceased after that. No matter that he had apologized and done what he had to, there was still tension in their party and Sam was smart enough to know it wasn’t all because of him. He wondered what was going on between Griffin and Finley that made them look at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking.
And he wondered if Emily was going to look at him at all. He refused to think they could never be friends again. He would fix this rift between them if it killed him.
He started after lunch by offering to carry any equipment she might need up from the laboratory. She thanked him but told him, “Everything I need is in my satchel.” She patted the leather bag slung across her front.
She wore a plain kerchief over her ropey copper hair, a leather corset over a linen shirt and knee-length trousers trimmed with lace. Her boots were scuffed brown leather and laced up to just beneath her knee. There was nothing unusual about her clothing, it was the way she usually dressed, but sometimes Sam was struck by just how pretty she was, and he felt as though he was seeing her with new eyes. This was one of those moments, and it struck him dumb as a fool.
She glanced away. Had she seen the wonder in his gaze? “You can walk out with me, though,” she said softly. “If you’d like.”
She may as well have called him her hero, he was so buoyed by her words. He didn’t say anything, but when she turned to walk out the door, he fell into step beside her, no matter that he had to shorten his stride considerably to match hers.
They joined the others in the stables—Jasper Renn had arrived and was going to accompany them—and each climbed onto a velocycle. Griffin rode at the front and the others followed like geese. Traffic was heavy—understandable given that it was a jubilee year and they were in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace. It took longer than it should have to reach the entrance to the underground near the north end of Vauxhall Bridge Road. Sam wasn’t sure if he wanted them to get there quickly or never get there at all. He had such violent emotions about returning to that place where his blood had soaked into the ground.
