by Kady Cross
She drifted off, and when she woke up she discovered that a little over two hours had gone by since she first drank Griffin’s concoction. She was still on the sofa in the library, and Griffin stood not far away, placing what looked like an engraved brass tube into a cardboard storage carton.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“There you are,” he said, turning to glance at her with a smile. “I thought you might sleep through luncheon. This is a phonograph cylinder. I recorded our session so you could listen to it later if you want.”
That he had recorded her without her knowledge bothered her, but he was right, she would like to hear what transpired while she was “gone.” Gingerly, she sat up. “Are we done?”
“For today.” He crossed the carpet and crouched in front of her to take hold of her hand. His fingers were warmer than hers. “How do you feel?”
Gazing into the faded blue of his eyes, she felt a little light-headed, like when she used to twirl in circles as a child, only to fall in a dizzy heap. “Fine,” she replied hoarsely. Lord, she hoped she didn’t make a cake of herself in front of him. The last thing he needed was her mooning over him like some infatuated idiot. He had rescued her last night, and for that she would be forever grateful—and sorry for whatever shame or scandal she brought down upon him.
“Excellent.” He stood, still holding her hand. “May I escort you to the garden? It’s a beautiful day, it would be a shame to miss it.”
Slowly, Finley rose from the sofa. Her brain seemed to swing slightly to the right, then to the left before righting itself. Griffin released her hand once she was steady and offered her his arm instead. She took it.
“What happened?” she asked as they crossed the great hall, then down another corridor. She tried to ignore how solid his arm was, how tall he was. How peculiar, but it was as though she was seeing him for the first time, or through different eyes.
He grinned. “Do you want the simple answer, or the long, drawn-out scholarly answer?”
“Let’s start simply. My head’s still a bit foggy from that awful stuff you made me drink.”
“First, I feel I should tell you that I didn’t take advantage of you as per your wishes.” He chuckled when she blushed. “I gave you a weak relaxant that opens the mind up to mesmerism. While you were in this tranquil state, I was able to bring out your other self without creating the kind of stress that normally precipitates a change. By doing this, and allowing both halves to coexist without opposition, we were able to overlap the personas, easing them onto the path of becoming one rather than two.”
Finley didn’t say anything. It took a few moments for her to understand what he’d just said through the fog in her brain. “So, is that it?”
“No. We still have work to do, but it went much easier than I expected. I thought I’d walk out of there with a bruised jaw at least, but you didn’t hit me, not even once.”
What a relief that was! She’d feel terrible if that other part of her had struck him while he was trying to help her. Yet…well, he seemed to accept that it could happen.
“Do you feel any different?” he asked.
“A little,” she replied, certain the direction of her thoughts seemed unusual. She was more aware of him as the opposite sex, and didn’t feel quite so guilty for her “other” nature. She felt calm, but stronger, pleasant, but not timid. It was odd. “I’m still me, but different somehow.”
He nodded. “That feeling will intensify as the two personas merge, but once it’s done you’ll feel more comfortable with it, and you won’t have to worry about one side taking over the other anymore.”
And that was what made this strange unease in her skin worthwhile. “Good. Griffin…” She stopped, trying to think of the right words to describe all the things she felt. There weren’t any. “Thank you. I know I’ve been a trial for you, and you’ve been so very good to me despite it all.”
His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “I reckon you’re worth it.”
Finley warmed and tried to conceal her pleased smile as she fell into step beside him once more.
They walked out into the garden via the main exit rather than the newly repaired door in Griffin’s study. There, on the back lawn, close to the house, was a canvas shelter on posts. It cast shade on the pristine cloth beneath it, the table loaded down with cold meats, breads, cheeses and fruit. At the sight of the banquet, Finley’s stomach growled once again. She placed her hand over it in mortification.
Griffin only chuckled. “I’m starving, as well,” he whispered near her ear, sparing her the embarrassment of anyone else overhearing. And anyone could have—Emily, Sam, Cordelia and even Jasper, the cowboy from last night, were all in attendance, the lot of them already gathered around the table.
“It’s about time,” Sam admonished with a frown. “I’m bloody starving out here.” Sam seemed a little moodier than usual. Finley wondered if that had anything to do with the way Jasper Renn looked at Emily.
Griffin arched a brow. “You’re always starving.” There was no maliciousness in his tone, only the easy teasing Finley had come to expect of him. She wondered if Griffin King, Duke of Greythorne, ever lost his temper.
She’d wager it was spectacular when he did.
Yes, she had changed already. Yesterday the idea of a man’s temper would have unsettled her. But then again, she’d changed a lot since coming to this house. The fragments of her were coming together, like a puzzle long left unfinished.
Griffin led her to the table. As duke, his place was at the head. Lady Marsden was at the foot. Sam sat to the right of Griffin, which put him beside Emily, who looked vastly uncomfortable sitting next to the boy she obviously adored. The big oaf didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps, given the tightness of his jaw, he noticed too much. Finley sat in the empty chair to Griffin’s left, next to Jasper. The boys had stood at her arrival and now they all sat once more. The American smiled at her. He was very handsome with his sandy hair, strong jaw and quick grin. “You look right fine today, Miss Finley.”
She smiled at the compliment, embarrassed that he had seen the other side of her the night before. “Thank you.”
“You’ll have to excuse Jasper,” Griffin said to her. “Flirting’s like breathing to him.”
Jasper grinned, not at all insulted by the darker boy’s barb. His green eyes sparkled. “Yes, it is. And, Miss Finley, might I say that you are a breath of fresh air.”
They all laughed at that, even Sam, though Finley thought there was little humor in his dark eyes.
“There was a burglary at Madame Tussaud’s last night,” Lady Marsden said a few moments later as she nibbled on a piece of cheese.
“What did they take?” Emily asked.
“Who did they take?” Jasper echoed, causing a few chuckles, Finley included.
Lady Marsden shot him a droll look. “How very perceptive of you, Mr. Renn. Scotland Yard believes it to be nothing more than a jubilee-inspired prank, but the thieves absconded with the likeness of Victoria.”
“Queen Victoria?” Finley asked, jaw dropping.
The lady nodded, not quite meeting her gaze. The older woman hadn’t been quite so confrontational with her since forcing her way into her mind. “The one and same.”
“It must be a prank,” Sam commented, stuffing cheese and meat between two slices of bread. “Why would anyone want to steal a wax doll of an old woman?” He shook his head.
Griffin watched his friend for a moment, a smile curving one side of his mouth. Then, he turned to his aunt. “It can’t be a coincidence that her likeness would be stolen during celebrations of her diamond jubilee.”
“Indeed,” Lady Marsden agreed. “Less so when you consider that it was Her Majesty’s hairbrush amongst the items stolen from the museum.”
Jasper frowned. “A hairbrush?” He made a scoffing noise as he leaned back in his chair, an apple in his hand. “Why would anyone steal that? Was it gold?”
The lady looked down her nose at h
im, obviously dismayed at his lack of “Britishness.” “It was a gift from Prince Albert.” When Jasper stared at her, she added, “The queen’s late husband. He died thirty-six years ago and she mourns him still.”
Jasper’s eyebrows rose. “That’s an old hairbrush.”
Lady Marsden rolled her eyes and Finley hid a smile behind a grape.
Griffin picked up a ripe, red strawberry and seemed to study it before taking a bite. “Does the Yard believe the theft to be the work of The Machinist?”
Cordelia shrugged. “They are uncertain at this time, but it seems probable.”
He swallowed and licked juice from his lips. “What does he want? I can’t hypothesize the method to this madness.”
“What else was taken from the museum?” Emily inquired. “Perhaps if we put together what has been taken, we’ll know better what his goal is.” Finley understood what the other girl left unsaid—that they might also better understand why The Machinist toyed with the automaton that attacked Sam.
“I don’t know,” Griffin replied. “The room was left in shambles. The curator was to send me a list once an inventory was able to be completed. I’m sure he’s very busy with the collection Franks left the museum upon his death.” Finley didn’t know much about Sir Augustus Wollaston Franks, but she’d heard that he bequeathed to the museum a collection that included, amongst other things, more than a thousand antique finger rings from various cultures.
“There might very well be a connection,” Lady Marsden commented. “You should proceed with caution just in case.”
Griffin arched a brow. “Because I’m normally so reckless. I’m not the one who once apprehended a criminal using only my own shoe.”
Lady Marsden’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly as all attention focused on her. “I suppose not. Forgive me for feeling somewhat protective of you.”
“No,” Griffin replied firmly, but with a sparkle in his eye. “I refuse to forgive you for caring about me when I do so little to deserve it.”
It might have been Finley’s imagination, but she thought she saw him shoot a pointed glance at Sam when he finished speaking. Nice way to drive a point home.
Lady Marsden smiled and said nothing more on the topic, obviously placated by her nephew’s pretty words.
A little while later, Mrs. Dodsworth came looking for Griffin—apparently he had an urgent call from Sam’s father, the steward of his estate in Devon. He rushed into the house to take it, with Cordelia following after him at a more ladylike pace.
Finley smiled nervously at Emily, who sat fidgeting next to a frowning Sam. Only Jasper looked completely at ease. He watched the other two for a moment before swiveling in his chair to address Finley, “Do you know jujitsu or kung fu?”
She shook her head, certain she had not heard him correctly. “Beg pardon?”
“Jujitsu and kung fu.” He raised his two fists. “Ancient methods of fighting.”
She stared at him. Surely he was somewhat touched in the head to even ask such an absurd question. “No,” she replied.
“Huh. Would have thought His Grace would have taught you. Would you like to learn? Might come in handy for a girl like you.”
Like her. She thought of how she’d bested Lord Felix and was tempted to tell the American she didn’t need to know his mysterious arts, but a part of her agreed with him. She didn’t know how to properly fight, and given her predilection for finding trouble, defending herself would be a very good thing for a young woman to know.
“Yes,” she said, surprising not only him, but Emily and Sam, as well. “I would like that.”
Jasper looked positively gleeful at the prospect. “I ain’t never sparred with a girl before.”
She smiled at him, not the least bit ashamed that the curve of her lips was a little coy. “I’m not just any girl, though, am I, Mr. Renn?”
“Call me Jasper, Miss Finley. Since you’re strong enough to pound me senseless, I hope you don’t mind that I plan to use my own abilities.”
It wasn’t a question, but Finley responded as though it were. “Of course not, although I hope you’ll show me the basics first.” And just what were his abilities? she wondered. The secret heightened her anticipation.
He grimaced, mildly affronted. “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me not to.”
“Wait a minute,” Sam said, butting in. “This is foolish. You can’t fight a girl. I don’t care how strong she is.” He glanced at Finley. “No offense.”
Finley arched her brows, but didn’t get a chance to say anything because Emily spoke first. “Samuel Morgan! That is the gackiest thing I’ve heard you say. What does it matter if she’s a girl? She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met other than you, you great dense article.”
Sam’s cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “When she’s like this—” he jabbed a finger in Finley’s direction “—she’s not that strong. And I am not dense.”
“Oh, aye, you are,” Emily argued. “And she’s supposed to be learnin’ how to bring the two sides of herself t’gether, so this will be a good exercise.”
Finley flushed at Emily’s mention of her two selves, but the American didn’t seem the least bit perplexed. Either Griffin had already filled him in after last night’s debacle, or he didn’t care.
“You folks got a place to train ’round here?” he asked.
Emily nodded. “The ballroom.”
A slow grin spread over his face. “Thank you, Miss Emily.”
The red-haired girl’s pale cheeks turned red. She muttered her thanks.
The four of them got up and made their way into the house, Emily and Sam leading the way. Finley could hear them talking heatedly with one another and smiled. There might be hope for them yet.
They entered the ballroom and Jasper immediately leaped into the boxing ring set up near the wall. Finley followed him. He stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, leaving himself naked from the waist up, not the least bit self-conscious in front of their spectators—not that he had any reason to be embarrassed. He was quite fit—like a classical statue—and though Finley admired his physique, she did not feel the strange flutter in her stomach that she often felt around Griffin.
But she was glad she wore a short skirt with her corset, undershirt and boots. She would have as much freedom of movement as possible.
Jasper leaned against the turnbuckle, as though he did this kind of thing every day. “They have a wager,” he whispered conspiratorially, pointing at Emily and Sam.
Finley glanced at them. “Really?” Jasper offered his hand to help her step into the ring, which she gratefully accepted. “I thought this was just a friendly training exercise.”
“So did I,” the American agreed. “Seems your friends have other ideas.”
Finley liked the fact that he thought they were her friends, but she wasn’t so naive as to totally believe it. Right now she was little more than a houseguest—a stray Griffin had taken in because he felt responsible for fixing her. She was all right with that for now. She’d rather earn their regard than simply have it handed to her.
Jasper wrapped his hands and then hers with thin strips of gauzy cloth. “It will help protect your knuckles,” he said, tearing a strip of material with his teeth. “And it will absorb any sweat.”
“Or blood,” she added.
Jasper’s gaze lifted, locking with hers. Good-natured amusement shone in the hazel depths. “Or blood,” he agreed. “Let’s hope we don’t spill too much of that.”
Finley shrugged. “I heal quickly.”
Jasper laughed. “I don’t.”
“Emily can fix you.” She nodded at their onlookers.
The cowboy shot a quick, appreciative glance over his shoulder. “I reckon she can do anything she puts her mind to,” he said—with the first amount of real seriousness Finley had heard from him. There was also no mistaking that Emily liked the praise, just as there was no ignoring the darkening of Sam’s face.
A love triangle, Finley thought.
How very dramatic. She blinked. Sarcasm wasn’t something she usually tended toward. Griffin’s experiment must have truly worked. The two sides of her were coming together into one.
Their hands wrapped and ready, Jasper began by teaching Finley the basics of the martial arts. He showed her the proper way to stand and strike. He struck different poses to demonstrate the stances that made one’s attack more efficient. He also taught her how to fight so she didn’t hurt herself more than her opponent, and explained the importance of being quick on one’s feet. That was when he chose to reveal to her that his strange talent was the ability to move very quickly. So fast, in fact, that he was a blur.
Finley wasn’t afraid; she was excited. She wanted to see what Jasper could do. She wanted to see what she could do.
They started out slowly, Jasper alternating between instructing and baiting her as they moved around the ring. When Finley did something right—like a kick that would have struck his jaw—he praised it, and when she did something wrong, he stopped to correct her.
“Keep your guard up,” he ordered. “A dirty fighter will go for the places that will put you down the fastest—your head, stomach and groin.”
As soon as he pointed the places out to her, Finley felt the most devilish impulse come over her. She took a swing at his stomach—she wasn’t so mean as to target his…ahem…nether regions. But Jasper must have sensed her plan, because he moved swiftly—very swiftly—out of her way. He grinned at her, though.
“Exactly,” he said. “You keep those places in mind if a fella ever gives you a rough time, but try not to make your intentions so obvious.” As if to prove his earlier point, he tapped her on the chin with his knuckles. “Could have got you there.”
A few minutes later, both of them were breathing a little harder, but Finley felt she was finally learning the rhythm to this strange art. Her ear stung from a blow she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid, but Jasper’s left cheek was red from one she managed to land.
“C’mon, Finley lass!” Emily cried out, bloodlust thickening her accent. “Take him down!”
Finley grinned at her opponent, who flashed his teeth back at her. He moved on her, but instinctively she ducked and came up with a fist into his hard stomach. They weren’t using the martial art techniques specifically anymore, and a little pugilism made an appearance.
