by Kady Cross
Given a choice, Finley would rather ride one of those new velocycles—a two-wheeled vehicle better balanced than the penny farthing, and much faster as each was powered by an engine. They weren’t allowed in Hyde Park however, because they scared the horses—the real ones, that is.
The carriage came to a halt in front of her, so she rode up alongside it. Lord Vincent had just climbed down when she reached Phoebe’s side.
“A gentleman from the Scientific Academy,” the girl explained, tipping back her head so Finley might see her face beneath the wide brim of her hat. “Lord Vincent wished to say hello.”
Finley nodded. She didn’t care and didn’t need to know about his lordship’s social life. “What’s that?” she asked, knowing the answer as she nodded at the box in the other girl’s lap.
Phoebe glanced down, a flush spreading through her cheeks. “A gift. Pearls.”
Finley waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was too embarrassed, for which Finley couldn’t blame her.
One of the mechanical horses attached to the carriage began to make an odd whirring noise. Frowning, Finley glanced at it, then Phoebe. “Is that normal?”
Phoebe frowned, as well. “I have no idea.” She turned her head—presumably to ask Lord Vincent if the horse was going to explode—and then was gone.
It took Finley a split second to realize that the carriage had taken off, with Phoebe still inside.
Lord Vincent looked horrified—which he should. “How do I stop them?” she demanded.
White-faced he turned to her, obviously in shock. “There are foot controls on the floor of the carriage, and a stick brake on the right.”
That was all she needed to hear. She dug her heels into her horse and fell low over its neck. The animal shot forward at breakneck speed. Finley was a fast runner, but not this fast.
“Come on, darling,” she urged the mare. “Just a little faster.”
People cried out as she sped past. Some had already stopped to watch the runaway carriage as it careened out of control with Phoebe screaming inside it. Did the girl not think to try the controls? She must have seen Lord Vincent use them. Perhaps she was too frightened to think.
Odd, but Finley found that fear always made her mind that much clearer. Her horse picked up the pace as though she realized what was at stake. As she closed the distance between Phoebe and herself, she pulled her feet free of the stirrups and began to lean to the left.
She came up on the carriage on the right side. As soon as she was convinced her horse could keep pace, she reached out and grabbed the side of the vehicle. Phoebe’s cries of panic grated her nerves and urged her on. She would stop this carriage if for no other reason than to shut the girl up. She refused to think of what might happen if she failed.
Up ahead there was a curve in the track. The carriage would run off the gravel, onto the grass and head straight for the Serpentine. The weight of Phoebe’s skirts would be enough to drown her if she wasn’t tossed from the carriage and crushed by the metal horses before that.
Finley let herself be pulled free of the saddle and swung her legs toward the shiny lacquered vehicle. Narrowly she managed to avoid getting her foot caught in a wheel. She would not think about how badly her leg could have been broken if not for her reflexes.
She heaved herself over the side, onto the padded seat. Phoebe screamed hysterically beside her.
Righting herself, Finley slammed her foot down on the first pedal. Nothing. Then the second. Nothing. She seized the steering mechanism and tried to turn it so the carriage would stay on the track. Nothing. She pulled the brake.
Nothing. It was like pulling on a ribbon hanging by a thread. No resistance.
They were, she realized, buggered.
They were going too fast to jump, and her horse had given up the chase shortly after she leaped from its back. The turn in the track was closer now.
And Phoebe still screamed.
Finley whirled around and slapped her. Instantly the girl stopped screaming and stared at her in shocked indignity.
“Pull it together!” Finley shouted at her. “I’m going to see if I can disengage the horses. I need you to see if you can get the brake to work. Can you do that?”
Her cheek was turned an angry red, but Phoebe nodded. She was still terrified, but at least she wasn’t screaming.
Finley crawled over the other seat, legs dangling over the side as the ground rushed by below. If she fell now, the best she could hope for would be to live. More than likely she would be caught beneath the frame and dragged to her death. Lovely.
She took a breath and cautiously extended a foot toward the bar that connected the two metal horses to one another. At least she’d have a perch. She pushed forward, wavered for a heart-pounding second, and then found her balance despite the terrible bouncing and swaying of the vehicle.
The horses’ exteriors were made of plates, so she dug her fingers beneath one and pulled. It resisted, having been welded in place, but she ground her teeth and yanked.
The plate flew into the air and spun backward. Phoebe ducked just in time to avoid being brained by it. Finley didn’t take the time to even consider how bad that could have been.
“Duck!” she shouted this time, and repeated the maneuver with the other horse. She didn’t check to make sure Phoebe did as she bade. They were almost at the turn.
Inside each horse she could see pistons and gears pumping and spinning. If she grabbed the bar that seemed to be the part that drove the legs…if she broke that, the horses should stop.
But it was a solid metal bar. No, wait! It had a rotating piece attached at the end for the back legs. She could jam it if she had a tool….
Each horse had a metal tail—more for appearance than any real use. She snapped the tail from each horse, and holding each like a spear in either hand, drove them into the open drive works. Sparks flew up, but she didn’t flinch, even when the molten metal landed on her clothes and skin.
The carriage lurched as the horses made the most horrific noises—grinding that sounded almost like a woman screaming. Steam rose all around them as the metal beasts staggered and stumbled. They were coming apart.
At the last second, Finley realized she was in the wrong spot. She turned and dived toward the carriage, taking Phoebe to the floor with her as the horses came apart. She sheltered the other girl with her body as they slammed to a standstill, pieces of metal raining down around them. Something hard slammed her in the back of the head. She saw stars but didn’t pass out. Warmth ran down her scalp and neck. Drops of crimson plopped onto Phoebe’s pale green jacket.
There was a heaviness on her back as everything finally stilled. As Finley pushed up, she realized it was the head of one of the horses. It must weigh a good three and a half stone. Hopefully none of the people racing toward them saw her toss it aside like it was no more substantial than a jug of milk.
She offered Phoebe a hand. “Are you all right?”
The girl nodded, face so white she might be a ghost. “You’re bleeding.”
Finley nodded. “I’ll heal.” And she would—quicker than she ought.
Suddenly they were surrounded. Voices demanded to know if they were all right. Finley tried to reassure them all, but the sight of her blood only added to the frenzy.
Lord Vincent appeared, his face almost as white as Phoebe’s. His relief to find her whole and unharmed might have been touching if he hadn’t then turned to look at his precious horses. His brow furrowed when he saw the damage. Something strange flickered in his eyes when he spied the tails sticking out of the open sides. He turned his gaze to Finley, and what she saw there sent a shiver down her spine.
He knew what she had done. It was there for everyone to see, but only Lord Vincent knew just how impossible it should have been for her to get those panels off, let alone rip off the tails and jam up the works.
Suspicion, and the understanding that she was not as she ought to be, turned his eyes flinty and dan
gerous—just like the villagers turned against Dr. Frankenstein when they realized what a monster he had created. Lord Vincent looked at her like she was that monster.
So Finley did what so many rich girls did when confronted with a situation they did not want to face. She rolled her eyes back into her head and pretended to faint.
Chapter Seven
“It’s almost completely healed.”
Finley shrugged at the awe in Phoebe’s voice as the girl examined her scalp where she’d been injured during the carriage accident. “I know.”
She pointed at her cheek where Finley had slapped her. There was a red mark on her cheek with faint bruising. “But I’m stuck with this.”
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t think of any other way to calm you down.” Finley really did feel bad about it.
Phoebe waved a dismissive and impatient hand. “That’s not what I meant. Of course you were right to strike me. I was an absolute hysterical mess. A little powder will cover it. What I meant is that you should have more than a fading scar.”
Shoulders sagging, Finley sat down on her bed. “I should, but I don’t.” Was this the moment that Phoebe finally turned on her? “I’m not normal.”
The other girl laughed. “No, you most certainly are not.” She plopped down beside her, dark eyes wide. “You are extraordinary, and you saved my life. Thank you.”
Finley stared at her, jaw loose. “You’re not afraid of me?”
More laughter. “Of course not, silly! I might be a little nervous around mechanical horses for a while, but I could never be afraid of you.”
Heat pricked the back of Finley’s eyes. She blinked away the sting. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now—” she gave Finley’s leg a slap “—why don’t we get Mama and go out for a bit? I’ve a craving for chocolate from that little shop on Bond Street.”
Chocolate was good, and getting out of the house would be good, as well. If she was distracted, perhaps she wouldn’t think of the look Lord Vincent had given her. It scared her and angered her at the same time. Part of her was afraid of him now, while another part of her wanted to grab him by the throat and thrash him until he cried like a baby.
But it wasn’t really herself she was worried about. She was worried about Phoebe. Phoebe was more breakable than she was.
They found Lady Morton downstairs. She agreed that an outing sounded delightful, and insisted that Finley allow her to treat—a thank-you for saving her daughter’s life.
“You don’t need to thank me, Lady Morton,” Finley told her.
The lady put her arm about Finley’s shoulders and squeezed. “When you are a mother, my dear girl, you will realize that I will be beholden to you for the rest of my days.”
That was a strange concept for Finley to wrap her head around—that someone might feel indebted to her for so long.
They called for the carriage and collected their coats. The day was slightly overcast and a little cool, but still pleasant. The city bustled with activity. Vehicles filled the cobblestone streets with pedestrians threading in and out of traffic. The steam-moistened air was filled with the scents and sounds of London as ladies in bright walking gowns mingled with the drably garbed lower classes.
Bond Street was one of the most fashionable locations in the West End. A place Finley rarely ever haunted before coming to the Morton household. There were many fine shops catering to any number of tastes, and little coffeehouses and tearooms where ladies might stop to rest their shopping-weary feet.
Their destination was a small shop with a bright blue awning and sign that read Chocolatier. As soon as Finley crossed the threshold, her stomach growled in appreciation. Here, there was nothing but the smell of chocolate—warm and delicious.
They sat at a table near the window and ordered a pot of hot chocolate along with a selection of sweets, such as chocolate-filled croissants and tiny, decadent cakes.
Finley glanced out the window and spied two men on the opposite side of the street. They were a little rough looking—not normally the type that one saw in this part of the city—and they seemed to be looking directly at her. Her heart gave a nervous kick at their intent gazes, and she quickly turned her head.
“He’s so handsome,” Phoebe commented just as Finley directed her attention at her.
“Who?” she demanded.
“The Duke of Greythorne,” came the reply. “He just left.”
She glanced out the window, but all she saw was a tall gentleman with reddish-brown hair and wearing very fashionable clothing as he walked away from her. “Well, he has a tolerable back,” she commented drily.
Phoebe snickered. “Looking at his backside are you, Finley?”
Lady Morton chuckled, as well. A slight heat crept up Finley’s cheeks. Why she was embarrassed escaped her. It wasn’t as though she could actually see his derriere with his coat in the way.
“He’ll make a fine catch for a debutante one day,” Lady Morton commented. She wore her dark spectacles, but Finley could see a twinkle in one eye. “Rich as the devil, handsome and polite.”
“Not much for society, though,” Phoebe rebuked. “Whoever marries him will have to be content to go to balls alone, or stay at home for the most part. He’s not out and about very much.”
Her mother raised her cup of chocolate to her lips. “He may grow into enjoying society.”
“Well, it hardly matters to me. It’s not as though I’ll have a chance of ever marrying him.” Phoebe’s tone was surprisingly sharp, and drained the color from her mother’s face.
“I don’t have a chance with him, either,” Finley jumped in, hating that guilty look on her employer’s face. “All I’ll ever have is the memory of his backside.”
Phoebe’s smile broke first, then she chuckled. Her mother followed suit, and the tension at their table lessoned. By the time they’d finished their treats—the croissants were to die for—they had been in the shop for more than an hour, talking, laughing and indulging in more chocolate than was wise.
They bought croissants to take home with them for breakfast the next morning. Personally, Finley thought they’d be lucky if the pastries made it to midnight. They were to attend a musicale that evening, and might be in need of a snack when they returned home.
As they left the shop, Finley glanced across the street. The men she’d spied earlier were gone, much to her relief.
They barely made it half a block before an arm snaked out of the alley they were passing and grabbed Lady Morton, snatching her into the narrow space. She cried out, but her abductor slapped a hand over her mouth and pointed a pistol at Finley and Phoebe.
It was the ruffians. She’d been right to be suspicious of them.
Phoebe gasped, and looked as though she was about to scream. The second man pointed a knife at her. “Make a sound and I’ll slit yer mum’s throat.”
The color drained from Phoebe’s face, but Finley was most concerned with Lady Morton. The woman was terrified—to the point where she might pass out.
“What do you want?” Finley asked, a strange calm settling over her. The other part of her had come to call, and she was glad of it.
Both men looked at her. “Yer money and yer valuables,” the larger of the two—the one with the knife—informed her. “You come over here and take off Lady Posh’s glittery bobs.”
Slowly, Finley advanced toward them. How dare they terrify Lady Morton so. How dare they be so brazen as to accost them in broad daylight on Bond Street!
She stopped directly in front of her employer, and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring glance before turning her attention to the man with an arm around her shoulders. He had yet to pull back the hammer, so that gave her a little room to play.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she told both men. “Picking on harmless, defenseless women.”
“Gotta eat, girly,” Lady Morton’s captor replied with a sneer.
Finley’s lips twisted. “That’s going to be difficult
for you from now on.”
Before he could ask or utter a sound, her first flew into his mouth with all her strength. Blood and teeth sprayed the air as he screamed in pain. She snatched the pistol from his hand and pointed it at the man with the knife. Then, she gently nudged Lady Morton behind her, pushing her toward Phoebe.
The bully with the blade gaped at her. He barely glanced at his friend, who was laid out cold on the ground, blood dripping from his slack mouth.
“It’s not loaded,” knife man announced just as he lunged for her.
Finley didn’t think; she simply acted. She caught him hard across the jaw with the pistol and dodged out of the way of the knife he swung at her. The tip of the blade sliced through the fine wool of her coat, but did not touch her flesh. She caught his arm before he could swing again, and gave his wrist a sharp twist. He dropped the knife, crying out as his friend had as she snapped the bones in his arm like they were as brittle as matches.
Finley let him go when his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, clutching his wrist, calling her names that she had never heard of before.
“Maybe I am all those things.” She sneered at him, pocketing the knife. “But I’m still the girl that kicked both your arses.”
She turned then, toward the two women near the mouth of the alley. Both of them rushed to her, crushing her in their fierce embrace. Lady Morton might have actually been crying.
“There, there,” Finley consoled them. “Enough of that. Let’s get out of here before we attract attention, shall we?” The last thing she needed was some nosy Peeler—the nickname given to those on the London police force—coming by asking how a girl like her managed to debilitate two very large, full-grown men at least eight stone heavier than her.
