by Kady Cross
“Don’t talk so loose,” he replied. “I’m not leaving you here. I’ll fix this. Trust me.”
Mei lifted her chin, and Jasper found himself staring into the dark brown of her eyes—so dark they were almost black. He felt like he was drowning. He lowered his head, and when he pressed his lips to hers, suddenly, there was only the two of them in the world. It was as though they’d never said goodbye—as though a murder hadn’t driven them apart.
The building referred to as “the Tombs” might have been stately were it not so ... grimy. It was built in the Grecian style with thick pillars out front and shallow steps leading to the front door. But the structure’s purpose showed itself in the sorry state of the stone and the many criminals who darkened its doors.
“You really think Renn’s in there?” Sam asked from where he stood at Griffin’s left.
Griffin glanced at his friend, who was a few inches taller— and many broader—than he. “We’re only a few days behind him. This is where he should have been brought.”
Sam shrugged. “Unless they hanged him already.”
“Eloquent and succinct as always, Samuel,” Griff commented, making a face.
“What?” Sam’s rugged countenance was all innocence. “I don’t wish it on Renn, but if he is a murderer, there’s a chance they’ve done him already.”
“Let’s hope the American judicial system is as slow as our own and that Jasper is alive and here.”
Sam stuffed his hands in his coat pockets as they climbed the worn steps. “I still don’t understand what you hope to do here. It’s not as though they’re going to hand him over to us just because Your Grace doesn’t like people interfering in what you consider your business.”
“I just want to see him,” Griffin replied, pulling open the door. “I want to hear his side of the story.” He ignored the other remark—partly because Sam didn’t know what he was talking about and partly because the lout was right. Jasper was his friend and someone had taken him. Griffin didn’t like that.
“There’s a chance you won’t like what he says.” There was no censure in Sam’s tone, only caution.
Griff nodded, his jaw tight. “I know.” And that was why he had to see his friend. He had to know the truth before he decided whether to come back one evening and use his abilities to blow a hole through the side of the building to get Jasper out. After what happened during their battle with The Machinist, he was certain he could do it, but only if Jasper was innocent.
And he had no doubt his friends would help—even Finley, whom he hadn’t seen since last night’s fiasco in her room. He supposed he owed her an apology for his behavior, but he wasn’t the least bit sorry for any of it—only that he’d noticed the bloody flowers in the first place. But that wasn’t important right now. He pushed all thoughts of Finley aside and concentrated on the matter at hand: Jasper.
The inside of the jail was no more inviting than the outside—less so. It was doubtful that anyone here would be impressed by his title. There were men in shackles or body bonds—bands that clamped both arms tight to a person’s side so they couldn’t move them. They were accompanied by lawmen, some of whom had automaton companions for extra muscle. Griffin noted that Sam—who had been brutally attacked by a machine—didn’t seem overly bothered for once by the metal men.
Griffin approached the counter and the tired-looking man behind it. “I beg your pardon, but I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
The man raised a gray brow and stared at Griff with tired eyes. “And who would that be, Your Highness, the Queen of Sheba?” Then over his shoulder, “Hey, Ernest. You seen the Queen of Sheba?”
A portly man with thick mutton sideburns chuckled as he turned a wheel on the wall, closing a heavy iron gate beyond the counter. “Not recently, George.”
It took all of Griffin’s will not to roll his eyes. Sam, however, was not so amused. “Watch your tongue, troll. Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Sam ... ” Griffin warned.
George’s expression of wary amusement faded, replaced by a scowl Griffin recognized as the offended pride of a little man with too much power. “No, I don’t know, and I don’t care. But you watch your tongue, mister, or I’ll lock you up.”
Hands curled into fists, Sam took a step forward, violence promised in his posture and expression. Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm, his gaze directed at the man behind the counter. “Excuse us.” He pulled Sam aside. “What the devil is the matter with you?”
Sam glared at him. “He can’t talk to you like that.”
“My title is worth very little here, Sam. He doesn’t care who I am, and he can speak to me however he likes. You getting angry is just going to make him all the more obnoxious or, worse, get you locked up, as well.”
“I’d like to see the bounder try.” There was a gleam in Sam’s dark eyes that usually meant trouble.
Exasperated, Griffin let go of the larger boy’s arm. “That would be a great plan if we knew for certain Jasper was here— and that he was innocent. But if you want to get arrested, go ahead. I’ll go back to the hotel and explain it all to Emily.”
That took the fight out of Sam’s expression. “Right. We’ll do it your way, then.”
Griffin clapped him on the back. “Good man.” He turned back toward the desk and discovered that his place had been taken by a man in a long duster coat and a hat much like the one Jasper usually wore. The sight of him made Griffin reluctant to make his presence known to the guard once more. He didn’t think cowboys were much more common in New York than they were in London.
Sam stopped, as well, and the two of them shared a glance before turning their attention to the stranger and what he was saying.
“Excuse me, friend, but I wonder if you might be able to give me some information.”
Griffin watched out of the corner of his eye as the cowboy offered George what appeared to be several dollars.
The guard took the money and gave the man a gap-toothed smile as he tucked the bills in his pocket. “Happy to do what I can, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a young fella by the name of Jasper Renn. Is he here?”
Sam and Griff exchanged another look as George flipped through the sheaths of papers in front of him. After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted his head. “Nothing. Nobody by the name Renn here.”
“You’re certain?” Even though Griffin couldn’t see the man’s face, he knew he was frowning. “I heard he was being transported to New York City from London.”
George shrugged. “He wasn’t brought here.”
Griffin swore under his breath. “This is bloody marvelous,” he muttered, turning so the man wouldn’t hear.
“You think maybe he changed his name?” Sam whispered.
Griffin shook his head. “Jasper Renn’s his real name. That’s the one the men who came after him used—the name that was on the poster.” Maybe it was an alias, but it was the name the men would have used to lock him up.
“Then where the devil is he?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I have no bloody idea.” The cowboy was talking again, so Griffin turned his attention back to him and the helpful George.
A tanned, slightly callused hand thrust a card toward the guard. “Name’s Whip Kirby. I’m a marshal from San Francisco.” His voice was strong, as though he wanted to be heard.
That was where Jasper was from. A marshal. So he was a lawman, then. Had he been sent to pick up Jasper and perhaps take him west? If so, where was Jasper?
“I’m not sure I can offer any further assistance, Marshal.” George’s tone and expression were wary now—as though he thought Kirby might ask a favor.
“Probably not, friend,” the lawman drawled. “But if Renn should happen to show up, perhaps you’d be so kind as to send word to me at this address.” He slid a card across the desk on top of more bills. “I’d be mightily obliged.”
George’s eyes lit up at the prospect of
perhaps relieving the marshal of yet more money. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, sir.”
Kirby tipped his hat. “Thank you.” He turned to leave.
“Say,” George said, stopping him. “What’s this Renn done, anyway?”
The lawman paused. “I want to talk to him about a murder that took place a couple years ago in San Francisco.”
Sam’s elbow struck him hard in the ribs, and Griffin had to swallow his pain rather than voice it aloud. He shot his friend a dirty look, to which Sam managed to look passably apologetic.
“Who was killed?” George asked with obvious interest.
“Businessman. Important fella with a family and friends who want his killer brought to justice.” He rocked back on his heels. “While we’re talking, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a fellow by the name of Reno Dalton?”
George shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. He in cahoots with your guy?”
“Might be,” the marshal replied with a slight smile. He tapped his finger against the card on the desk. “You hear anything about either one of them, you let me know, won’t you? One lawman to another?”
George grinned. “Sure thing, Marshal.”
Kirby turned on his heel. What the still-smiling George couldn’t see was that the tall man’s smile vanished in a blink, replaced by an expression that Griffin could only describe as annoyed distaste.
“He was much more effective with Georgie Porgie than you were,” Sam commented when Kirby was well out of earshot. “You should have offered the git money.”
“I might have,” Griffin informed him with a scowl, “if you hadn’t slipped several notches down the evolutionary ladder with him. Thump your chest for me, and I could sell you to the zoo I’ve heard they’re building in the Bronx.”
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Griffin didn’t wait for his reply. He turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. “Coming?” he called over his shoulder.
Scowling, Sam followed after him.
Outside, the sun was warming the morning air. It was going to be a hot day. A metal horse—frame oxidized but rust-free—stood just past the steps near the sidewalk. It wasn’t an expensive model—its gears and inner workings were partially exposed—but it was a remarkable likeness that the craftsman must have labored over.
“Wonder if that’s Kirby’s?” Sam asked, examining the metal beast with great interest. “Did you notice if he wore spurs? I didn’t see any.”
Griffin shrugged. He didn’t share his friend’s fascination with the American West. “Sorry, I didn’t look.” He walked toward the hired steam carriage that waited for them just a few feet away.
Sam fell into step beside him. “You still want to look for Jasper? Or are we going home?”
“We came here to find Jasper, and that’s what I intend to do.” Griffin stepped up into the carriage and instructed the driver to take them back to the hotel. The girls would no doubt want to hear what they had learned. “Since we’ve had no luck finding him, and we’re not the only ones looking, I reckon we need to change tactics a bit.”
“What do you have in mind?” his friend inquired, as the carriage jerked into motion, its engine filling the air with moist steam.
Griffin leaned back against the seat and surveyed the bustling city before him. “I think we need to look for this Reno Dalton fellow. I think he’s connected to Jasper.”
“Don’t you think Kirby’s already looked for him?”
“Kirby’s a lawman.” Griffin ran a hand through his hair. “I doubt he’ll have better luck than we will.”
“How’s that? You think a duke will have better luck?”
“No, but I think a chest-thumping lout will,” Griffin informed him.
Sam grinned—and yet somehow managed to maintain a furrowed brow. “Finally. A bit of fun.”
Griffin sighed and shook his head. He had no doubt that he could blugg or bribe his way around Five Points—the logical place for anyone of a criminal ilk to hide. He needed information on Dalton and on Kirby. But more importantly, he needed to know whether or not the man he considered his friend was a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter 3
Jasper woke to the feel of tepid water hitting his face. At least he hoped it was water. He sniffed. Yep. Swearing, he wiped his face with the back of his hand as he sat up. He blinked furiously as the curtains were torn back to reveal the bright morning sun. He never thought he’d miss overcast London, but Mei hadn’t left his room until dawn, and judging from the angle at which the sun glared at him, it couldn’t be much later than nine.
“Dalton wants to see you,” growled Little Hank. “Get dressed.”
Jasper squinted up at him, water dripping from his chin. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
The hulking brute sneered at him and stomped from the room. Jasper never thought he’d miss Sam Morgan, either, but at least he’d make a little conversation between grunts.
Sighing, he tossed back the blankets and crawled out of bed. There was a little water left in the pitcher on the nearby stand—Hank hadn’t dumped all of it on him—so he poured it into the basin and washed up as best he could. Then he dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers—he supposed he had Dalton to thank for those—and pulled on his boots before leaving the room.
Hank was waiting for him in the corridor.
“Walk,” he commanded, pointing toward the staircase that led down to the foyer.
Jasper did. He didn’t bother to ask what this was all about. He knew why he was there, just as he had known this day would come. He just hadn’t thought it would arrive so dang soon.
Little Hank led him to the dining room where Dalton sat at a long, polished table, breakfasting on steak and eggs. The smell of it made Jasper’s stomach growl. Were those ... flapjacks? And there were biscuits, too—not cookies, like the English used the word but proper soft, fluffy biscuits—just begging to be smothered in butter.
Dalton glanced up at his arrival. “Ah, Jasper. There you are. Come, eat.”
At that moment, it wouldn’t have mattered if Dalton held Jasper’s own mother prisoner—pride did not fill a belly. Dalton sat at the head of the table, so he took the chair at his right and began piling a plate full of hot, delicious-smelling food.
“Did you sleep well?” Dalton asked, not bothering to look at him as he sliced into his steak.
Jasper didn’t pause as he slathered butter on a warm biscuit. “All right.”
“Really? I thought you were up rather late.”
Now he froze, slowly turning his head to meet the other man’s gaze. “Oh?”
His former friend grinned. Jasper reckoned even Satan never looked so diabolical. Those bright, clear blue eyes of his were unsettling. “Don’t look so suspicious. I have no problem with you and Mei renewing your ... acquaintance, so long as I get what’s mine.”
No. He wouldn’t have a problem at all. In fact, Jasper wouldn’t be surprised if last night had happened exactly as Dalton hoped—planned, even. He had to know Mei would want to talk to Jasper, and that Jasper would do whatever Dalton demanded.
He nodded—slowly. “You’ll get it.” What choice did he have?
“Excellent. I know I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you cross me, but just in case the thought trickled through that block you like to call a brain, Mei’s not my only insurance. It would be a real sin if your brother Nate broke his pistol hand and had to leave the Regulators.”
Jasper stilled. The biscuit tasted like dirt in his mouth, but he chewed and swallowed regardless. His oldest brother had a good career ahead of him in the law. The Regulators took their name from the Lincoln County War, which had happened years ago. The only thing they had in common with that band of deputized outlaws was their name. They were a posse that provided protection—the lawful kind—to towns and individuals who couldn’t protect themselves. Nate had wanted to be one since he was ten years old.
He’d been stupid. Jasper knew that now. He thought taking the d
evice and hiding it would protect himself, Mei and his family. What he was just realizing was that he had crossed the wrong man. And now the people he cared about were the ones at risk. One telegram from Dalton, and Nate could get ambushed. Or his younger brother, Adam, could have an “accident.” God only knew what might happen to his older sister, Ellen.
“You can stand down, Dalton,” he said quietly, reaching for his cup of coffee to wash down the biscuit stuck in his throat. “I hear you.”
The other fellow smiled and gestured with his knife. “Try the maple syrup. It’s from Vermont.”
This was quite possibly the most surreal experience Jasper had ever had—the threat of violence delivered in such a friendly manner. Still, he wasn’t lily-livered nor was he stupid, so he ate Dalton’s food and drank Dalton’s coffee and waited.
Once Dalton had finished his own food, he set his silverware on the plate and leaned back in his chair, his fingers lazily curled around his cup of coffee.
“My men found you at the Duke of Greythorne’s home.” Jasper shrugged. “So?”
A sharp, dark brow arched. “Would you say you and he are ... friends?”
He forced a bark of disbelieving laughter from his throat. The last thing he wanted was to involve Griffin in this mess. “Me and a duke, all friendly-like? Those Limeys would lynch you for suggesting such a thing. Naw, I took care of a delicate situation for him, that’s all.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that His Grace has come to town?”
The bottom of Jasper’s stomach fell, but he kept his poker face—and his breakfast. “Reckon so. I can’t imagine that arrogant dandy coming all this way for a fellow he wouldn’t let enter his house through the front door.” That was a lie, of course, and he felt dirty saying it, even though it was to protect Griff.
Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying to me, Jasper. The duke was at the Tombs earlier this morning.”
Tarnation. He shrugged. “Could be he noticed a knickknack or two that might have been liberated from his household.”
“Such as?”
He seized the first things that came to mind. “Couple of silver candlesticks. A gold snuff box. I reckon it’s the ring he’s after, though. Coulda saved him the trouble of coming all this way. I pawned it in Whitechapel.”