by Kady Cross
“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.
“Oof!” He doubled over. She got him again with another in the jaw, bouncing on the balls of her feet with barely restrained energy.
When he straightened, he had a wary but determined expression on his face. “I see your friend has come out to play.”
It took a second for her to realize what he meant. Her other self had surfaced but without its usual intensity. She felt like she could fight—or dance—all night. But she was still in control.
“I suppose so,” she said.
Jasper smiled. “Good. Now it’s my turn.”
Before she could figure out what he meant, he came at her so fast she barely had time to react. In fact, she took a fist to the shoulder for her inability to react fast enough.
Her darker self had instincts and reflexes much more sharp than her own, so she reached out for that particular talent, ducking and weaving as the American moved faster than any “normal” man could.
He backed her into a corner and she leaped onto the turnbuckle before neatly somersaulting over his head. Behind him, she landed a sharp jab to his kidneys. Her exaltation was short-lived as he swept one leg out and knocked both of hers out from beneath her.
Emily was shouting for her to get up. Sam was yelling out encouragement to Jasper, but neither she nor the cowboy took their eyes off each other.
Out of the corner of her eye—her sight was much more acute when her darker half was in residence, as well—Finley saw the door to the ballroom open and Griffin walked in. She felt that queer fluttering in her stomach, but she wasn’t sure if it was for Griffin or for the dark, almost sinister-looking young man standing beside him. What the devil was Jack Dandy doing here?
She would have asked, but at that second, Jasper took advantage of her dropped guard and struck—fast. He had no way of knowing just how distracted she was, and so his fist connected nicely with her cheek.
Pain shot through her face. Stars danced before her eyes as they rolled back into her head and her knees buckled. Finley fell to the mat. Hard.
Chapter 13
By the time her vision cleared, Finley was surrounded by a sea of concerned faces—the most worried of which belonged to Jasper. Jack Dandy, she noticed, was also in the ring, but didn’t hover like the others. He stood near the ropes, looking grim.
“Are you all right?” Griffin asked, frowning down at her.
Finley nodded. “Except that I might die of embarrassment.” To be honest, however, at that moment she felt as though she was actually part of their group—as though their worry made her one of them.
His scowl turned to a smile. “I didn’t know you and Jasper were sparring. I should have waited or announced myself before barging in.”
She turned her gaze to Jasper. “I should have known better than to take my eye off you.” And then, “I’d like to get up now.”
Griffin offered her his hand as the others drew back. They stood clustered together, apart from their dark guest. It was Dandy who had Finley’s attention as she stood.
“Mr. Dandy,” she said. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Luvly to see you again, Miss Jayne,” the dark, lanky fellow replied in his usual laconic manner. “Apologies for interruptin’ your sport, but I wanted to inquire as to your health after last night.”
All eyes turned to her, turning her cheeks hot. “I am quite well, thank you. I’m terribly sorry for making a spectacle.”
He shrugged. “I likes a bit of spectacle m’self.” He held her gaze a moment longer than was proper before turning to Griffin. “And I wanted to bring His Grace a gift.”
All attention turned from Finley to Griffin, for which Finley was greatly relieved.
“Mr. Dandy informs me that he had a delivery at his Whitechapel address late last night.” Griffin cast a brief glance at his guest. “Someone deposited the missing wax likeness of Queen Victoria on his doorstep.”
“Poor thing was in her drawers,” Dandy added. “I reckon it would have caused quite the stir this mornin’ had I not realized I’d left somefink at the property and returned to fetch it.”
“There was a note attached to the figure,” Griffin told them, opening a folded piece of expensive-looking parchment. “It says: ‘A thank you for ingeniously solving our mutual “problem.” Yours, F.J.’”
Now everyone stared at Finley. She would have done the same were it possible. Her jaw dropped. “You think I stole the queen from Madame Tussaud’s and left her half-naked on Mr. Dandy’s step?” It was ludicrous—and just plausible enough that it made her fearful.
Griffin handed her the note. “It’s written on my personal stationery. See the watermark?”
Finley held the paper up to the light where she saw the image of the Greythorne crest engrained in the weave. “That’s not my writing,” she told him. It wasn’t, either.
“Maybe it’s the writing of your friend,” Sam suggested through clenched teeth.
Of course he would think the worst of her, Finley realized bleakly. He thought the worst of everyone.
“My handwriting stays the same regardless of who I am,” she defended, realizing how preposterous this must all seem to Jack Dandy—and ashamed that she cared what he thought of her.
“Aside from that,” Griffin interjected, “there’s no possible way she could have had enough time to get to the wax museum, steal the figure, take it to Dandy’s and return home. Not without being noticed.”
“Sure she could have,” Sam argued. “You just don’t want to admit bringing her here was a mistake.” Emily put her hand on his arm but he shrugged her off and went to stand in one corner of the ring, his back to the rest of them.
“Excuse me,” Jack Dandy said, drawing their attention once more. “Don’t you agree that it seems a tad bit, I dunno, suspect that someone would leave a likeness of Her Nibs on me doorstep with Miss Finley’s initials on your stationery?”
Finley stared at him. For a moment she thought he was pointing a finger at her, as well, until Griffin spoke once more. “Yes, I do. Regardless of anything else, Finley wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave such blatant evidence against herself with the wax figure. No one would.” He directed that piece of logic at a red-faced Sam.
“But, if it wasn’t Finley, who?” Emily stepped forward. “No offense, Finley, but who else could have gotten your stationery, lad?”
Finley wasn’t offended. She wanted to hear the answer, as well.
Griffin flicked a glance at Dandy, and obviously decided the darker fellow could hear whatever it was he was about to say. “Anyone with access to one of my homes could easily sneak into my study and remove paper from my desk or the guestrooms. You all have similar parchment in your own rooms.”
Jasper pushed his hair back from his face. “Someone sure is taking a lot of trouble to make it look like Miss Finley stole the figure, and to make it look as though she’s in league with Dandy.” He glanced at Jack. “No offense.”
Dandy bowed his head. “None taken. And now that I’ve done me duty, I’ll be off. I just wanted to make sure Treasure weren’t in no trouble.”
Finley’s face warmed. She walked across the mat to where the tall, dangerous young man stood. It hadn’t escaped her what a favor Jack had done her by coming there. “Thank you,” she said.
Dandy grinned rakishly. “No fanks, dove. Someday I’ll need a favor and I’ll come to you.” And then to Jasper, “Oy, Yank. Thursday nights I’ve a bare-knuckle affair going on. Miss Finley can give you my direction.”
Finley flushed even hotter. Jasper told Dandy he’d “think about it.” Dandy bid them farewell and gracefully slipped between the ropes to the floor
and sauntered out the door. Finley watched him go with a little sadness. She liked Jack.
When she turned back to the others, they were all staring at her. “Why would someone do this?” Emily asked.
Griffin’s stormy eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but someone has taken pains to cast doubt in her direction, first with Scotland Yard inquiring into the murder of Felix August-Raynes and now this.”
Sam stepped forward. “She was questioned about a murder? Bloody hell, Griffin. Why is she still here?”
Finley didn’t flinch. She wondered the same thing.
Griffin scowled at his friend. “She didn’t commit either crime, Sam. Someone’s trying to make her appear guilty so I’ll toss her out. I think The Machinist wants to cause tension in my house so I’ll leave him alone. And I believe I have proof.”
That stopped conversation. Everyone stared at Griffin, who took a deep breath to calm himself before elaborating. “Earlier, when I spoke to my steward he told me that someone had forced the locks on the entrance to my grandfather’s caverns, where the Organites and ore were originally discovered. It seems too coincidental that a groundskeeper from that estate resigned a few weeks ago. I’m fairly certain this ‘groundskeeper’ stole some of the ore. God knows what else he might have taken. He sent this letter, and he stole the queen’s likeness from the wax museum. I’m convinced it’s The Machinist.”
“To what end?” Jasper asked, bewildered.
“I don’t know,” Griffin replied. “If he’d only broken into the cavern, I’d think he was simply after ore, but obviously there’s more to it. It’s personal. And he wants to us to suspect Finley.”
“She’s done a good job of that herself,” Sam growled. Finley forced herself to meet his angry gaze. She’d done nothing wrong.
Griffin ignored him. “What bothers me is that if it is The Machinist he’s obviously watching us, otherwise how would he know about Finley’s association with Dandy?”
Finley shifted uncomfortably. The idea of someone watching her was unnerving, and almost ludicrous, but the note in Griffin’s hand was overwhelming factual evidence.
“Why keep the figure’s clothes?” Jasper asked, taking some of the attention from her. “Why take the queen’s hairbrush? None of that will fetch him much of a price, and I’ve not heard of anyone trying to sell Victoria’s belongings.”
Finley’s head was beginning to spin. None of this made any sense.
“Have you stopped to consider,” Sam began in a dark tone, “that maybe Finley is in league with The Machinist? You start investigating The Machinist and all of a sudden she shows up, turning your head.”
It was a valid suspicion, Finley had to admit. She didn’t like the implication, but she’d think it if the situation were reversed.
Obviously Emily disagreed. She whirled on him. “Samuel Morgan! If you have nothing useful to contribute to the conversation, kindly keep your mouth closed!”
Sam’s rugged cheeks flushed bright red. “Fine. Obviously no one here wants to see reason. I knew it was a mistake to come back.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of the ring and out of the room.
Finley’s eyes narrowed, but she put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She turned to Griffin. “Sam made a good point. You should distrust me.”
Griffin stared at her—hard. “No, I shouldn’t.” Then, “We need to go to Madame Tussaud’s. Maybe he left a clue behind. Emily, the wax form of the queen is in your laboratory. See what you can find on it.”
Emily chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Griff, if he took some of the Organites along with the ore…”
Griffin’s mouth thinned. “He would still have to decipher the uses for them. Let’s hope he simply thought they were nothing but ooze, and had more interest in the ore instead. That would power his machines for a long time.”
Emily nodded, but Finley could see real worry in her eyes. She knew the Organites could heal—she’d witnessed it firsthand—but there had to be more to it for Emily to look so worried.
“Jasper, you’re with me,” Griff said, climbing out of the ring. “While Em’s in the lab, we’re going to go to Madame Tussaud’s.”
That left Finley lost. “What do you want me to do?”
Griffin’s head turned. His gaze locked with hers. “I think it for the best if you stay here, especially since our friend has taken an interest in you. Assist Emily in the lab.”
He wasn’t trying to brush her aside, but she knew a dismissal when she heard one. He might as well have told her to go sit in her room and try not to get into trouble. She knew he was right, but she felt shut out all the same.
She wasn’t one of them after all.
Sam went to the tavern and found Leon sitting at their usual table.
“My boy,” the older man said as Sam joined him. “Whatever is the matter? You look as though you just lost your best friend.”
“Friends,” Sam corrected him grimly as he signaled the waitress for a pint. “They’re all so enamored with Finley Jayne they can’t see what’s right in front of their noses.”
Leon’s expression was all sympathy as the bar wench set a mug on the table in front of Sam. “The girl you told me about?” he asked. “The one I said sounded like trouble?”
Sam nodded. “She is, with a capital T. Only, Griffin’s taken with her and refuses to admit that she might not be as wonderful as he thinks.”
Leon’s countenance was all concern and understanding. Sam knew he would understand. He understood about Emily and Griff and how he felt about what they’d done to him. He understood what it was like to feel as if he was on the outside looking in. “Tell me what has happened, my friend.”
After a long swallow of his drink, Sam did.
Griffin and Jasper rode velocycles to Madame Tussaud’s waxworks on Marylebone Road. Usually Griffin disliked using the cycles in broad daylight because of the attention they drew. Velocycles were relatively new forms of transportation and were quite costly, hence they immediately singled out the driver as a person of wealth. Not only that, but each cycle in his stable had been customized for the person it was intended for, making them even more eye-catching. People already gossiped about the Duke of Greythorne and the company he kept.
All that aside, however, velocycles were the faster way to get about the city, and that trumped gossip.
They left their cycles behind the long, elegant white building, disabling their engines so they could not produce steam and therefore were useless to anyone who might entertain the idea of stealing one or both of them. Although, unless they had the strength of Finley or Sam, he doubted anyone could successfully make off with one.
“What’s going on with Sam?” Jasper asked.
Griffin tossed a startled glance in his direction. “He’s angry.”
“I got that,” the American replied with a chuckle. “He sure doesn’t seem to like Miss Finley. No more than you like Jack Dandy.”
Griffin didn’t respond to that. There was nothing to say that would make Jasper believe he didn’t care about Finley and Dandy. “Sam’s my best mate,” he said. “And I don’t know him anymore.”
“He’ll come ’round,” Jasper replied as they approached the door.
“You really believe that?”
The American shrugged. “It might take a good boot to the arse first.” He grinned. “I volunteer to do the kickin’.”
Griffin laughed, and when Jasper opened the museum door, he walked in first, still smiling.
The wax museum was no longer owned by the Tussaud family, so Griffin asked to speak to the person in charge, and when the gentleman appeared, introduced himself and Jasper. The gentleman, whose name was Mr. White, was quite beside himself at having a duke in his establishment. When Griffin told him they would like to see where the Victoria figure had been taken from, Mr. White didn’t hesitate. It was one of the advantages to being the highest rank below a prince—one was rarely, if ever, questioned or denied anything.
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br /> The curator led them through the museum to where the “royal” exhibit was. Griffin had been there before and wasn’t captivated by the amazing likenesses of modern and historical figures. Jasper on the other hand had a difficult time keeping his head still; his gaze jumped from statue to statue.
Griffin shot him an amused glance. “We can stop by the Chamber of Horrors before we leave if you want.”
The cowboy merely nodded, his attention already distracted by another lifelike display.
“Obviously we’ve had this exhibit closed since the theft,” Mr. White informed them. “I don’t have to tell you it’s been very inconvenient given that it’s Her Majesty’s diamond jubilee.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed. “I assume it would be very inconvenient given all the tourists visiting the city.”
“Indeed. Fortunately, there are always those who will pay the admission fee simply to see the site where the figure was when it was stolen. Humanity, I’m sure I do not have to tell Your Grace, is a strange animal.”
On that point Griffin couldn’t agree more, and he said as much as Mr. White led them directly to the royal display. Prince Albert’s likeness stood alone, forever frozen as he looked at the time of his death. It would be odd to see this man, who had been in his prime, standing next to the queen as she looked now.
“Did anyone witness the theft?” Griffin asked Mr. White.
“No. We have a night watchman, but the poor man was knocked unconscious by the thieving wretch. Took a nasty blow that split his head open.”
The curator had a strange expression on his face—as though he were working over a puzzle. For a second, Griffin wondered if the watchman had been privy to the theft, but he quickly discarded that theory. Stealing a waxwork figure was hardly worth the loss of a position, and if he’d been paid to let the thief in, it was unlikely he would have sustained such a serious injury, if one at all.
“Was anything else taken?”
“No. That is what led Scotland Yard to believe it was nothing more than a harmless prank.”