by Kady Cross
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.”
There was a side of Finley that saw the corset as a little frightening, but it was beautiful. Another side couldn’t wait to put it on. It was protection—armor. A normal girl shouldn’t need armor, but a girl who often courted trouble, who wanted to protect herself and her friends, loved it.
“I thought you could wear it tonight,” Emily said, shooting her an uncertain look. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, Emily!” Finley threw her arms around the girl in a rare burst of affection. “I love it! Forgive me for not saying so earlier—I was too amazed to speak.”
The other girl sighed against her. “Oh, good! Now I won’t be quite so worried while you’re gone.”
Finley gave her another quick squeeze for the sentiment. “Then help me put it on.”
There were smooth grommets and laces in the back as in a normal corset to adjust the fit. A small panel of metal then closed over the ribbons to protect exposed flesh. The hammered metal molded to Finley’s torso as though it was made of supple fabric and not unyielding steel. It was snug but allowed her to bend and move as well or better than regular underclothes. Best of all, it was surprising light and comfortable.
“It’s brilliant,” she whispered as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror, twisting to the left and right to see how the corset moved.
Emily beamed, clapping her hands together. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.” Finley squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s see how it looks with my costume, shall we?”
Her friend—her friend—helped her into the beautiful feathered gown, pulling the fabric over her head and shoulders and then tugging it into place as Finley slipped her arms through the little feather sleeves that sat low on her shoulders. Then, small nimble fingers quickly hooked the frogs to close the back of the bodice.
“I was right—you do look like a princess.”
Standing in front of the mirror, Finley smoothed her palms over the snug bodice and downy skirt. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Try the mask.” Emily handed her the feathery accessory.
It was black, with the same sheen as the gown, trimmed with peacock-green like the bodice and framed with more feathers. It came down over her cheeks to form points and the nose cover protruded slightly and came to a rounded point, so that it looked something like a tiny beak. She tied the ribbons around her head, hiding the bow beneath her hair.
Emily’s mouth hung open. “Stay right there,” she instructed, before running out of the room. Finley did as she was told, and a few minutes later, the girl was back with a camera and stand. Quickly, she set the stand on the carpet, adjusted the accordion-like camera and pointed it at Finley.
“Smile!”
Finley did and was rewarded with a bright flash that left stars dancing before her eyes. She shook her head as Emily babbled about something having to do with emulsion, light-sensitive something or other and special paper. When the colors cleared, she looked down to see Emily holding a photograph under her face—it was of a beautiful bird lady. Oh! It was her.
Emily was truly a genius. Somehow she’d invented a way to develop photographs almost instantly. A way to make Finley look at herself and see not a monster, but something…lovely. It brought tears to her eyes, but she held them back. As much as she liked Emily, she wasn’t ready to let the girl see her cry. Not yet.
“So you can remember this night forever,” Emily said with a hopeful smile.
Finley thanked her—and hugged her again—and then it was time for her to go downstairs and wait for Jack. She slipped a hooded black cloak over her shoulders and fastened it at the throat, then she left.
When she reached the great hall she was brought up short by the sight of the devil himself. Standing before her was a tall, lean man in head-to-toe black. Glossy dark hair curled about his shoulders and a black mask covered most of his pale face, leaving only his full mouth and dark eyes visible. The top of the mask came up on either side to curve into horns, and a long, barbed tail peeked out from beneath the back of his long coat.
Emily gasped at the sight. The devil grinned, revealing bright white teeth, and bowed formally from the waist.
“Hello, Treasure. Care to introduce me to your friend?”
Pick-a-Dilly Circus was housed in a great domed building near Covent Garden. Colorful banners ran from a pinnacle on the roof to various points along the edge of the building before trailing to an end down the wall. Fro
m the street, one could hear music over the busy din of evening traffic and clamoring crowds.
The grounds were filled with those merrymakers who hadn’t the fare or inclination to go inside. Inside was where most of the aristocrats would be, so they could avail themselves of all entertainments. Outside there would be small amusements, but food and drink were available to all as were the music and dancing.
Griffin peered from the cutout eyes of his mask—the eyes and nose of a lion—as his carriage approached the chaos. He shouldn’t have come. Drunken revelry held no appeal to him for the simple reason that drinking or opiates often made it difficult for him to control his abilities. Therefore he had to remain sober—and being sober made being around people who weren’t all the more tedious.
He opened the compartment in the wall beside him and spoke into the voice-amplifying device secured there. “Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
A few moments later, he ambled up the front steps of the circus, long coat billowing slightly behind him. He’d find out what he could about The Machinist and perhaps track down his American acquaintance Jasper Renn, and then he’d leave. He would not stand about all evening like a fool, watching Finley with that scoundrel Dandy. It would be far too tempting to lay Dandy out flat.
Inside the main building, the theater of the circus was closed off by a round wall that circled the entire ring. Between that wall and the outer structure was a wide corridor that housed various vendors selling ale and punch, toasted nuts and other savory snacks. There were also several stands selling souvenirs of the circus and its performers.
It was this corridor he stuck to for the first quarter hour. He purchased a mug of cider from one of the vendors and planted himself by the south entrance to the main tent. That was where he was to meet Renn, right about…now.
“Howdy, stranger.”
Griffin smiled. Punctual as ever. He turned and watched as a young man dressed like an American cowboy, right down to the dusty boots and spurs, approached. He had a black demi-mask covering the upper half of his face.
