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What if the machine hadn’t been destroyed? Griff claimed its power supply had been removed, but what if there was something else? He had Emily working on the thing, and even though Griff often worked with her, he wasn’t little and fragile. Griff had his magic to protect him. Emily was brilliant, but she would be as delicate and as easily broken as china in the hands of a machine like the one that had nearly killed him.
Rage. Despair. Joy at still being alive. These emotions and more warred within him, filling him with restless energy, so much that he thought he might explode. He had to get it out. He had to stop thinking.
He smashed what was left of the wall. Bricks exploded as the wall itself actually lifted off its foundation. A slab of stone and mortar flew up and struck him in the face before he could dodge out of the way. It hit hard across his cheekbone. A clanging sound reverberated in his brain as the projectile shattered.
Stunned, Sam lifted his hand—his real hand—to his face. There was some blood—he could feel the warm wetness, but there was little pain. It should have hurt more, even though pain didn’t affect him like it did others.
What if …? No, it couldn’t be. But the idea was already taking hold in his stunned brain as he crossed the room to a wall of mirrors they often used to analyze fighting techniques.
Sam came up to one of the mirrors, putting his face close. He lifted both hands to the wound on his cheek. He ignored the blood as he pried his skin apart, digging his fingers into the bleeding gash. His stomach rolled at the sight, but he kept going, widening the wound, digging until he found the hard ridge beneath. He peered through the blood. Please, let it be bone.
It wasn’t.
He dropped his bloody hands from the gore that was his cheek, stumbling backward as shock overtook him. He trembled, felt as though the world had been ripped out from beneath him.
Pain pierced his chest. What was this feeling? This hollow burning? Betrayal. It fed the rage within him, driving him from the room with great strides. He ran down the great staircase, ignoring the startled servants who gasped in horror at his appearance. He tore down the corridor to the door that led to the cellar, nearly taking it right off its hinges as he yanked it open.
The lift was too bloody slow. It was all he could do not to punch through the floor of it and jump clear to the bottom like the freak he was. Making himself wait for this damn box to take him underground was the only thing keeping him human at the moment.
Emily was alone, as she usually was, blindly believing this was her haven—her safe place. There was barely a foot of empty space anywhere. A clockwork monkey, its gears exposed, sat on a shelf next to a model rocket and a stack of punch cards. On the workbench there were designs for a gun—something for Jasper Renn no doubt. She was always making new weapons for the American, a fact that annoyed Sam. It wasn’t as though Renn was one of them, regardless of how chummy he was with Griffin.
Emily stood at another bench on the opposite side of the room. Electric lights flickered on the walls and from supports hanging from the ceiling, illuminating her workspace. She was working on her pet project—something that had been her goal for almost a year now—her cat. A mechanized beast she could control.
She looked up from her project, lifting the magnifying goggles that allowed her to do delicate work. For a second, her pretty eyes looked as big as silver dollars behind the lenses.
“Oh, my God, Sam!” She slid off the stool with an expression of horror. “What happened?”
He took a step forward before stopping himself, but he couldn’t stop her. She foolishly, trustingly, came toward him, worry etched in her every feature.
“How much?” he demanded as she approached, fists clenching at his sides.
She actually frowned—like she didn’t know what he was talking about. “What do you mean? What did you do to yourself?”
He grabbed the hand she raised to his face. Her wrist felt so tiny inside his fingers. He could snap it so easily, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It didn’t matter what she had done to him. He would never hurt Emily.
Still, she gasped at the pressure of his grasp. He shook her, on the edge of madness. “How much of me is bloody machine?”
She went white—even more than usual—but she was not afraid. He didn’t know if she was stupid, or if she truly knew him better than anyone else, but she wasn’t afraid of him. For him, but never of him.
“Your right arm,” she whispered, blue eyes locked with his. Was that shame he saw there? And relief. She was relieved to finally reveal all to him. Whose idea had it been to lie? Hers or Griff’s? “The left side of your skull and most of your ribs have been reinforced because the bones were severely shattered.”
Sam’s grip on her wrist eased as nausea blossomed in his stomach. He started to step back but her voice stopped him. “Your left shin and your right femur were both grafted and plated. And your right clavicle.”
He stared at her in horror. All of that? The machine had done all of that? How had he survived? And then he looked deep into her eyes and he saw the truth there. He hadn’t.
He hadn’t survived.
“What else, Em?” His voice was a ragged whisper. “What else did you replace?”
She lifted her chin, not the least bit sorry for what she had done to him. “I’d do it again, Sam. I don’t regret savin’ you, no matter how you might hate me for it. I’d do it again.”
“What else did you replace?” His shout reverberated through the room, seeming to shake the very foundations of the house. Emily winced, but she did not cringe. She straightened her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye.
“Your heart,” came the unapologetic reply. “I replaced your heart.”
Chapter 4
Finley was tying the sash on the embroidered red-silk kimono a maid had brought her when there was a loud bang and the entire house seemed to quiver. A quick peek out the window showed the big fellow—Sam—stomping across the garden toward the path leading toward the stables. A few moments later as she slipped her feet into matching slippers whilst simultaneously shoving pins into her hair, she heard a loud rumbling. Another glance out the window revealed Sam charging out of the stables on one of those heavy two-wheeled contraptions that he and Griffin had been driving last night.
What had happened to make him so angry? And just how strong was he that he could make a house this size tremble by slamming a door? She wouldn’t stand a chance against him, even if her darker self took over.
The thought made her uneasy. This house, these people and this situation were just too good to be true. In her experience, no one was ever kind for no reason. They always wanted something.
But she couldn’t hide in this room forever. And since someone had absconded with her own clothing, she would have to play along. At least for now. Better she play along and find out what they wanted from her than sit around and wait. Although a naive part of her wanted to think the best of the handsome Rich Boy. Griffin, that was what Emily called him.
He intrigued her, this young man who managed to calm her beast with nothing more than a few words and his heavy-lidded eyes. He had helped her last night and, that she could tell, no liberties had been taken with her person. And the door to her room was unlocked from the outside. Surely that was a good sign?
As she left her room, she was struck by the grandeur of the house, seeing it in the full light of day. He must be very rich indeed.
A small sweeper automaton the size of a toddler cleaned the Axminster carpet that lined the corridor and staircase, its thick brushes scooping up debris and depositing it in the removal dust tray. It was one of the few machines she’d seen since her arrival—not that she had seen much of the house. Still, there seemed to be more human servants employed than mechanical ones—a fact proven by the chambermaids she spied farther down the corridor.
Portraits ranging from centuries ago to present day lined the stairs as she slowly made her way down, trying not to gawk at the white-washed walls and incredibly high ceilings. This place made the August-Rayneses’ house seem a shack.
“May I help you, miss?” asked an older lady, when she reached the bottom. The woman’s black-and-white uniform and mobcap gave her away as the housekeeper. She seemed somewhat … wary.
Someone else who was afraid of her. Lovely. “I’m supposed to go to the library,” she explained.
“Ah, yes,” the housekeeper replied. “His Grace no doubt wants to speak with you. Down the south corridor, second door on the right.”
Finley muttered her thanks and started off in the direction given on rubbery knees. His Grace? Rich Boy’s father was a duke? Bugger it. She was certain he had to know the August-Raynes family. Would he send her back? Or worse, call the Peelers—the police force named after Robert Peel—and have her arrested?
At the thought, that other part of her rose up in defiance. She’d break Rich Boy’s daddy’s pretty neck before she’d let the Peelers carry her off to Newgate or Bedlam.
She shook her head, trying to rid it of the darkness. What was this … this thing inside her? It made her think such horrible things at times. It also kept her from becoming a victim. Made her strong when others thought her weak. She hated it and yet, shamefully, she liked it.
One thing she knew for certain—it wasn’t right.
The library door was open, but she knocked lightly before entering. She wasn’t accustomed to walking about freely in a house like this. Generally she kept to her rooms if she hadn’t work to do. Servants weren’t supposed to flutter about where someone important might see them.
But she wasn’t a servant here. She was a guest. Or perhaps a prisoner.
And what a prison! Finley’s jaw dropped as her gaze fell upon floor-to-ceiling shelves filled wall-to-wall with books. So many books—more than she’d ever seen in one place.
“Hello?” Not so cocky now, she moved cautiously into the room. “Is anyone here?”
“Hello.”
She looked up. There, on the balcony that wrapped around the entire room, was Rich Boy. His forearms rested on the railing as he smiled down at her, thick reddish hair falling over his forehead. He wore black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar open underneath a black leather waistcoat. She watched as he walked around to come down the narrow, curving staircase, his thick-soled boots clomping slightly on the wooden steps. He moved with loose-limbed grace, like someone who knew exactly who he was and didn’t care if anyone liked it or not.
Lucky bugger.
He came right up to her and offered his hand. “Griffin King.”
Finley’s head jerked up. Griffin King. The Duke of Greythorne. She had overheard Lady Alyss discussing him with several of her friends just last week. They said he was handsome, rich beyond understanding and had a nice bottom. At this moment Finley couldn’t give an opinion on the last, but he certainly was lovely to look at and gave the impression of being filthy rich.
No daddy then. Just him. They had something in common it seemed, despite the vast social chasm between them.
Hesitantly, she put her hand into his before slipping into a deep curtsy. “Finley Jayne, Your Grace.” She lowered her gaze.
“Don’t do that,” he replied in a low, stern tone. “We’re equals in this house.”
She glanced at him in surprise, and quickly rose to her feet. “How’s that?” she asked.
His smile was crooked, but it did little to ease the wariness in Finley’s chest. “I’ve seen what you can do, Finley. Would you be surprised if I told you I had some talents of my own?”
“What I have is hardly a talent,” she replied. A curse, perhaps. More than likely a demon. What she needed was a good exorcism.
He cocked his head to one side, still holding her hand. His gray-blue gaze narrowed slightly, as though he was looking right into her. “How would you describe it?”
She pulled away, suddenly unsure of herself, but sure enough not to say aloud what she’d thought to herself. “What happened with Sam? The whole house shook when he stormed out.”
“It could be any number of things.” There was that lopsided grin again. “Nice attempt at changing the subject, by the way.” Then he gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Part of her wanted to run, but a stronger part wanted to stay. She wasn’t certain which was the smarter choice, but she crossed the carpet and sat down on the violet brocade sofa. She stiffened when Griffin seated himself on the opposite end, scarcely two feet away.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I doubt I could anyway. I suspect you could trounce me with one hand behind your back.”
As he spoke, some of the rigidity left Finley’s spine. She was indeed relaxing—at his command. “And I suspect you’re not as powerless as you would like me to believe,” she commented, turning so that she could face him directly.
He seemed amused, and she was very much aware that he wasn’t the least bit afraid of her. “You think I pretend weakness?”
She nodded. “Not weakness, but you like to let others think they’re in control, when really it’s you.” What she said was true. Of course she could defeat him physically, but then what? She could run, but she was wearing nothing but a nightgown and a kimono with flimsy slippers. Where could she go that his influence could not reach? She was in enough trouble as it was, there was no need to run into more. Not yet.
“Interesting.” His pale eyes sparkled for a second before becoming serious. “What if I told you I could help you become the one in control?”
She frowned. “In control of what?”
“Of the wildness that overtakes you.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it were nothing more than a cold or a silly notion.
“It only comes on when I’m threatened, or scared,” she heard herself divulge. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should have put her thumb in one of those pretty eyes … Finley pushed that thought back down deep where it belonged.
“Is that why you were in Hyde Park last night? Someone threatened you?”
She glanced away, but nodded.
“Felix August-Raynes?” His voice was soft.
Finley closed her eyes as dread washed over her. Of course he knew. He would have seen the crest on her corset.
“There was nothing in the papers this morning so I assume the blackguard is still very much alive?”
Her chin came up defiantly. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”
Griffin smiled. “Jack the Ripper had a very gentle countenance.”
“But they never caught …” Something in his expression prevented her from completing the protest. “Lord Felix was very much alive the last time I saw him, though I reckon he has a bit of a headache this morning.”
“Rightly earned, no doubt.” Griffin leaned back into the corner of the sofa and brought one booted foot up to rest across his knee. The smooth black leather looked soft and the silver buckles gleamed in the light. “Like the rest of Jack Dandy’s bunch, Lord Felix has an overinflated sense of self.”
“Who?”
He propped his elbow on the back of the sofa and leaned his head against his hand. So open and trusting with her. Even though he knew what she could do, he wasn’t the least bit afraid. It made her wonder what kind of monster lived inside of him.
“The Dandies. They fancy themselves street thugs, but they’re just a bunch of spoiled whelps with metal in their faces. Dandy, on the other hand, is precisely what he claims to be.”
Finley wondered what that was exactly. “What do you want from me?” She was tired of this pointless small talk.
He didn’t look the least bit surprised or offended. “Nothing. Not yet.”
“But you do want something eventually.” Oddly enough, having him live down to her expectations was disappointing, to say the least.
“Eventually, if I’m right and you’re willing, I’d like for you to join us.”
“As what?” For all she knew, Emily was a concubine for the rest of them. They could be getting up to all kinds of perverse things in this house.
Griffin smiled again—it was as though he could read her mind. “Who do you think keeps this country safe so you can sleep at night?”
“I don’t sleep most nights. And to be honest, Your Grace, I don’t feel all that safe.”
He tilted his head. “I can change that.”
And in that instant, Finley believed him. Not only that, but she knew he believed what he said. It made her want to trust him. When was the last time she’d trusted anyone of the male gender?
“First,” he began, abruptly rising to his feet, “we need to get you some new clothes. A seamstress will be here any moment to fit you.”
“But I don’t have any money.”
He looked incredulous at her protest. “You needn’t worry about that. I have enough for both of us, I assure you.” His eyes were twinkling again—laughing at her, but not maliciously.
Slowly, Finley rose from the sofa, tilted her head back and looked him dead in the eye. “I have no desire to be any more in your debt than I already am.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Would it make you more comfortable if I demanded something in return? Would that put you at ease?”
When he put it like that, it made her sound like an awful sort of person for thinking the worst. “It would, yes. At least that would be honest.”
It might have been laughter that came scoffing from his throat, but there was little humor in it. He shook his head, the light reflecting glints of russet in his hair. “I’d like to meet whomever it was who made you so distrusting and pull his teeth out one by one.”
The vehemence in his tone startled her, yet was strangely warming. “’Twas more than just one.”
