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Falling to one’s death was in no way pleasant, but Finley thought for a moment—of what it would feel like to fall from that great height, to feel the wind through her hair, taste the clouds. Yes, it would be like flying. And she could think of worse ways to die.
He drew her up the shallow stone step to a stone row house. There was nothing special or welcoming about it. The windows were grimy, the paint peeling off the front door, and Finley had to question the intelligence of stepping over the threshold. It could be a trap. He could have men with weapons inside, and trained thugs would be harder to fight than common men.
Still, she wasn’t about to be afraid, not in front of this young man, who was just wolfish enough she reckoned he could smell fear. He was exactly the type to take advantage of a weakness when he found it. It was what she would do. And, honestly—vainly—she was a girl of little weakness.
She entered the dim interior ahead of Dandy. Inside, the house looked nothing like it did on the exterior. The hardwood floor was buffed and polished to a high shine. Paintings hung on the wine-colored foyer walls, and just beyond that she saw an inviting parlor. That was where Dandy took her.
She gave a low, appreciative whistle. “You live here?” she asked, relieved that there wasn’t a thug in sight. Obviously she and Dandy shared an enjoyment of the finer things in life, judging from the rich colors and fabrics that swathed the room.
Dandy chuckled. “Too many people would like to kill me in my sleep, right? So I never sleep where I conduct me business.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she crossed the richly patterned rug that covered most of the parlor floor. “Are you truly that wicked, Mr. Dandy?” she inquired, running her fingers over the plush velvet cushions on the sofa as she watched him from beneath lowered lashes.
Leaning against the door frame, he arched a dark brow at her mildly flirtatious tone. In the brighter light, she could better ascertain his age. She guessed him to be one and twenty at the oldest. Young to have such a reputation. “I can be, Miss Jayne.”
Fingers of ice closed around Finley’s heart. For the first time, her confidence was genuinely shaken, and for a moment, that weak side of her threatened to take over. She sank down onto the sofa. “You … you know my name. How?”
He grinned—a baring of those perfect teeth—and stepped away from the door frame. “Wouldn’t be much of a villainous mystery if I told you that, would I?”
She wasn’t quite sure how to respond, nor could she be confident that her voice wouldn’t shake, so she remained silent. She simply sat there and watched him cross to a polished oak sideboard where an array of crystal bottles sat. A deep breath set her nerves to rights. Dandy was no threat to her. She knew this because she was no threat to him. They were alike, they were. Both predators, both dangerous and both vain. And they each found the other fascinating.
“Care for a little of the Green Fairy, Treasure?”
Absinthe. She’d never had it before, but she’d heard others talk about. Artists drank it. It was something improper people indulged in. That alone was reason enough for Finley—given her current personality—to say yes.
“How do I know you won’t slip laudanum in it?” The medicine didn’t have as much of an effect on her as it did on “normal” people, but it would still make her groggy for a bit—less sharp.
He smiled over his shoulder at her. “I’ve a sneakin’ suspicion you’re much more entertainin’ awake than asleep.”
Now who was being a flirt? Satisfaction curved Finley’s lips, but she watched him like a hawk regardless. They were similar enough that she knew better than to trust him completely. He might not try to hurt her, but he’d take the upper hand however he could.
Slotted silver spoons topped with absinthe-soaked sugar cubes lay across the rim of each small glass. Dandy produced a box of safety matches and struck one, igniting the tip in a strong-smelling blaze, which he then applied to the cubes of sugar. They burned for but a second before he tipped them each into their respective glass. The absinthe went up in a beautiful flame, which Finley thought was sure to set his cuffs ablaze, but Dandy calmly emptied a measure of water into both drinks, dousing the flames. He stirred each, and handed one of the glasses to Finley. She stared at it in wonder.
“Blimey, if you ain’t a rare one,” said Dandy, seating himself on the crimson loveseat opposite her.
“What do you mean?” She raised her glass to her lips and drank. The now milky liquor tasted like licorice, vaguely sweet on her tongue.
“Come in ’ere, bold as brass, but you ain’t got none of the street stink on you. I bet right now your mum’s wonderin’ what you’ve got up to. Wouldn’t she be disappointed to discover you ’aving a drink wiv me?”
“My mother doesn’t know I’m here.” As she said it, guilt tugged at her conscience. She buried it with a coy smile. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”
Her attempt at flirting only seemed to amuse rather than intrigue him. “Why are you ’ere?” he asked, looking like a pale, night-clad creature on that bloodred velvet. He reclined as though he hadn’t a care in the world, long legs splayed. His boots were as perfectly polished as Rich Boy’s. “We don’t get many girls like you in these parts.”
She snorted. “No, I bet you don’t.” There weren’t any other girls like her, were there?
Dandy just sat there, watching her as he took a swallow from his glass. Waiting.
“I’ve got a message for Felix August-Raynes,” she told him, finally getting down to business. “He’s one of yours, is he not?”
“One of my what?”
She waved a dismissive hand and took another sip of lovely absinthe. “Followers, lackeys. Disciples.”
Both dark brows went up as teeth flashed again. “Disciples. I likes that one, luv, ’onest to God I do.” The smile gave way to a vaguely mocking frown. “But I fink you’re a tad misguided in your information. I don’t have that kind of power over no one. I has associates and that’s it.”
Obviously it was a familiar spiel he gave to disengage himself from criminal activity committed by his cohorts. Finley rolled her eyes. “Do you know Lord Felix or not?”
He regarded her for a moment and made her wait while he decided to answer. He even went so far as to take another swallow from his glass. She enjoyed watching him as he did so. “I know ’im.”
Finley inched forward on the cushions until she was perched on the edge of her seat. She forced herself to meet his gaze and not look away, not even to blink. “Then perhaps you’d tell him that if he ever tries to force himself upon another girl, I’ll kill him.”
She’d wager Dandy didn’t often look as surprised as he did right at that moment. But it wasn’t for the reason she thought. Her threat of violence bounced right off him. “Did he try to force himself upon you?” His voice was oddly calm—the Cockney he affected absent.
“Yes.”
Watching his expression change was like watching thunderclouds suddenly blot out the entire sky. In that moment, she saw the truly dangerous side of Jack Dandy and it was as glorious as it was terrifying. This was why entitled brats like Lord Felix followed him; because they wanted a little bit of that danger for their own. Only, Dandy didn’t give his power away to anyone.
And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone again. She might have thought she’d imagined it were it not so emblazed upon her memory.
“I’ll pass on the message if I see his lordship, rest assured.”
“Thank you.” She took another sip of absinthe. She liked it, but it wasn’t something she’d want to drink vast quantities of. “I’ll take my leave of you now.”
He didn’t try to talk her out of it. He simply raised his lanky frame from the cushions and followed her to the door.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Dandy.” She wished she could be there the next time Lord Felix came ’round and heard her message. He’d probably suffer an apoplexy.
“My door is always open,” he replied, but his tone was lacking its previous joviality. “You know how to find it.”
Finley arched a brow at him, not liking at all this new seriousness. She had just gotten accustomed to his flippancy, and his tone was just a little too sincere for her to discredit. “That sounds an awful lot like an offer of friendship, sir.”
Jack Dandy reached out the long fingers of his right hand and gently touched her cheek. “Don’t mistake me, Treasure. I can offer you many things, but friendship ain’t one of them. Now, for once in your life, be a sensible girl and run away.”
And surprisingly, Finley did.
By the time his aunt Cordelia arrived, Griff had already had the morning from hell. First, he awoke a few hours before dawn to the sound of a velocycle pulling into the drive. It was Finley. He hadn’t known she was gone. And a note from Emily told him that before Finley left last night she’d been very much unlike the timid sweet girl she’d been earlier that day. She’d seemed almost like a completely different person.
Awake and irritable, he took a shower, wishing he were on his estate in Devon where he might have gone for a swim in the pond instead. Once dressed, he went downstairs for an early breakfast and found a letter waiting for him from Sam’s father, steward of that Devon estate. It was brief, but annoying. It seemed the new groundskeeper had left his post without any warning over a week ago and now Morgan was left trying to hire someone new. Knowing Morgan’s dislike of modern technology, Griff tried not to be too irritated that the man had written rather than telephoned or even telegraphed the information.
There was also a similar missive from the museum curator who had sent on a list of things taken the night of the robbery. Amongst the various innocuous items was a hairbrush on loan from Queen Victoria for an upcoming Jubilee exhibition.
Bloody marvelous, now he’d have to deal with the Buckingham set.
He was just pouring a cup of coffee when a bleary eyed Emily emerged from her workshop/laboratory in the cellar. He avoided the lab if at all possible, riding the lift down there made him feel as though he couldn’t draw a deep enough breath.
“Have you been up all night?” he demanded, incredulous. He’d been the only one in bed the night before, and now he felt foolish for it. He was supposed to be the leader, shouldn’t he have had something to at least keep him up late?
Emily nodded, obviously almost asleep on her feet. Her ropey hair was mussed and her shirt wrinkled and stained beneath her open smock. There was a smudge of something thick and oily on her pale cheek. “I had to replace the velocity control in my cycle and then I wanted to go over two of the automatons we recovered again. I know the explanation for these crimes is in them somewhere.”
Griffin smiled at her and brought his hand up to squeeze her shoulder. “I won’t have you exhausting yourself, you wonderful, foolish girl. Off to bed with you now. Get some rest.”
Nodding wearily, she turned on her heel and walked away as though she were already asleep.
Griffin went on to the dining room where breakfast waited. He filled a plate and sat down at the head of the table and opened the newspaper sitting there.
As he read, he finished his coddled eggs, sausage and toast and then poured a second cup of coffee before making his way to his study.
With dark paneled walls, huge oak desk and large leather chair, the study was Griff’s refuge from the rest of the world. It looked exactly as it had his entire life, right down to the books on the shelves, though he had added a few of his own. Oh, and of course the Aether engine in the corner.
The room had belonged to his father up until his untimely death three years ago. Edward and Helena King had been killed in a steam-carriage accident. Only, it hadn’t been an accident at all. He knew this because his father told him. Shortly after the event, deep in grief, Griffin had accessed the Aetheric plane and tried to contact his parents. He had wanted only to see them one last time, but when his father appeared he told him that almost everyone involved with their journey to the earth’s center twenty years earlier was dead, as well—quite possibly murdered.
Since then, Griff made it his personal mission to give his parents peace. The fact that he had yet to find the culprit was a deep and private disappointment, but he refused to give up, even when his aunt Cordelia told him she worried about him.
Even Cordelia didn’t know just how deep Griff’s connection with the Aether went. He’d always been able to access it, even as a child. Back then he’d been something of a medium and could contact the dead. Now … it was difficult to explain, especially when no one truly understood what the Aether was. To many, it was the Fifth Element. To others, it had to do with the propagation of light. For some, it was another dimension. And to scholars of the classics, Aether was the anthropomorphic representation of sky, space and even Heaven.
But to Griff, it was much simpler and terribly more complex than any of that. The Aether was the thread that bound everything—humanity, the world and the cosmos—together. It was energy. It was everything—and he was a conduit for it.
If not for the control he cultivated, it would kill him. Man was not meant to know what lurked beyond the veil. The living were not meant to traverse the world of the dead. There was always a price to be paid for tapping that kind of power—a loss of self. And yet, lately he’d felt more at peace with it, even though he knew his connection to the Aether had grown inexplicably. As his connection deepened, so did his understanding and control of it. Still, he had to be careful. It was too easy to become addicted to accessing the plane. Talking to the dead, seeing old friends and relatives—even old pets—was what drove so many to the Aether dens. But the Aetheric was for the dead, and every time a human accessed it, they lost a little of themselves. He had seen it for himself, and had been cautioned by his parents. The more time spent there, the less appeal real life held.
He had tried to use the Aether to find his parents’ killer and found nothing. His parents couldn’t tell him because in life they hadn’t known the answer.
Though, he was not entirely without hope. As he searched for the person responsible for destroying his family, he dedicated himself to hunting down other villains, as well. Eventually, he would find the one he sought.
As always, being in this room made him feel connected to his father, to whom he had been very close, especially as the only child and heir. That bond eased the tension in his shoulders and the pounding that threatened in his skull. When he sat down in front of the Aether engine, he was relaxed but with purpose.
He turned the key on the side of the mahogany box that also housed the auditory speaker. There was a slight thumping noise as the engine came to life, followed by a gentle hum. Next he flipped a small brass lever on the upper casing to illuminate the viewing screen. Those who traversed in the Aether knew that a reflective surface was the best medium for transmission. When the engine wasn’t in use the screen appeared to be nothing more than a simple mirror, but when illuminated from within it became the perfect receptacle for Aetheric images.
Emily had put the monstrosity together using different items she found around the mansion. It was a godsend because it meant he didn’t have to tap into the Aether directly and open himself up to the barrage of spirits and suffocating power.
The machine also doubled as an analytical engine and, like those belonging to governments and police organizations across the globe, was connected through telegraph and telephone lines, sharing important and often coded political information. The information was carefully encrypted to keep people like him from understanding, but Emily’s great big brain had also devised what she called a “cryptex”—a code breaker.
To begin his search, Griffin spoke into the “phonic accelerator” Emily had made from a candlestick phone base. “Lord Felix August-Raynes.”
The engine kicked into motion, filling the room with its gentle chugging. He didn’t expect to find much as August-Raynes was still alive. Only the dead lurked in the Aether.
The engine instantly chugged faster, going from a slow, steady beat to a heart-pounding rhythm in mere seconds. He peered at the screen—nothing but a newspaper article. He slipped a piece of paper into the typewriting machine’s rollers and hit the spacer bar. Immediately the article began to print.
“I do hope you’re using that thing to look at photographs of Moulin Rouge ladies as a young man your age should, and not hunting down another bothersome criminal.”
The sound of aunt Cordelia’s voice was enough to put a grin on Griff’s face. Though she was technically his guardian until he turned one and twenty, she was more a friend to him than an authority figure. They were the only family either of them had left.
He met her in the center of the room for a hug. A tall, blonde woman with the same gray eyes as his, she was handsome and dressed in the height of fashion. Delicate strands of six silver chains ran from a piercing on the right side of her nose to one in the same ear—one chain for every year without her husband, the Marquess of Marsden, who had gone missing during a mission. It was a blatant symbol to any man who might approach her that she was not available, no matter what the gossips might say.
“It’s good to have you home,” Griff told her when he finally released her. “What of the mysterious crop circles?”
She shot him a slightly chastising look, but it was softened by her smile. “You know I can’t tell you any of that.”
“Not even if you had a good trip? Found a being from another world?” He was only half teasing. Her work for the Crown was often a sore spot between them.
“The trip was what it was. No Mars men, either,” she replied lightly, stripping off her gloves as she moved toward the analytical engine. “Not Moulin Rouge, but at least it’s a pretty girl. Well done, Goose.”
Griffin rolled his eyes at the unfortunate moniker given to him as a child because of how he waddled when he walked. He had grown out of the waddle but not the name. He glanced at the article, which had a photograph attached. “It’s not like that. She was a servant who worked at the August-Raynes household.” He tore the paper from the rollers so he could better read it. “She disappeared after accusing Lord Felix of rape.”
“I always despised that boy, but what does this have to do with you?”
“I’ve found a girl in Hyde Park two nights ago. She’d been hurt and she had the August-Raynes crest on her corset.”
Cordelia clucked her tongue, still looking at the image. “Taking in strays again? You don’t have to save everyone, you know.”
Griff chuckled. “She can take care of herself. I find her intriguing. It’s as if Finley—Miss Jayne—is two people in one body.”
Cordelia stiffened and suddenly straightened like a marionette with its strings yanked. “What did you say?”
Bewildered, Griff frowned. “I said it was as though Miss Jayne was two people in the same body.”
When his aunt turned to face him, she was pale. “I would like to meet this guest of yours. I think I might know her.”
“Really?” Griffin couldn’t believe the luck! “How extraordinary.”
His aunt clasped him by the shoulder. “Don’t get your hopes up, dearest. In fact, I’ve never hoped to be more mistaken in all my life. If she is who I think she is, then we may all be in very grave danger indeed.”
Chapter 6
Finley was still half-asleep when she was “summoned” to Griffin’s study late that morning. Her memories of the night before were somewhat foggy—as they always were when the darker side of her nature took over. She vaguely remembered Whitechapel and the enigmatic Jack Dandy—the thought of his dark eyes sent a tremor to the base of her spine. What had she been thinking going to such a place to see such a man?
She had to get this under control or someday her other half would get them—her—killed.
So it was with some trepidation that she entered the study, wearing an embroidered silver-silk dress of Oriental design—one of the more sedate clothing selections in her closet. It was sleeveless and had knee-high slits on either side. Over it she wore a cherry-red corset with little silver dragons stitched on. The clothing felt appropriate—like armor for going into battle.
Where had the clothing come from? More hand-me-downs from the absent aunt? Or had the duke actually purchased the items for her? She hoped it was the former. She couldn’t afford to repay the latter.
Had he heard of her adventure and decided to turn her out? She’d been cast into the street before, so there was no need for this sudden chill of fear—except that Griffin had made her think he could help her and she desperately wanted that help.
She didn’t want to live like this—as though something crawled beneath her skin wanting out. It was getting worse. Last night, she’d had no control over herself and she’d walked boldly into very dangerous territory. Fortunately, the “other her” seemed to be right at home with danger and had managed to escape in one piece.
Griffin’s head turned at her arrival. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, dressed in a white shirt, dark plum waistcoat, black trousers and boots. His hair looked mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it. He had a woman beside him. A pretty woman about Finley’s size but older, and much more refined in a silky gray gown in the latest fashion. She had to be family because she and Griff had the same eyes—like a spring sky about to be taken over by storm clouds. When she turned her head, Finley saw the fine chains that ran from her nose to ear. But it wasn’t until those stormy eyes met hers and she felt a strange sensation in her head that Finley knew this woman was anything but ordinary.
The thing inside her reared up like a giant hand and came crashing down on the buzzing in her brain, squashing it like a bug.
The woman flinched.
“I beg your pardon,” Finley said, a little shaken at having been protected by that shadow of herself—at needing to be protected, “but isn’t it a little rude to crawl about in someone’s mind without permission?”
Griffin’s expression was all surprise and censure as he glanced at his companion. “Aunt Delia, you didn’t.”
The woman rubbed two fingers against her temple. “I did, but I was promptly shut out.” She looked at Finley in a manner that was both distrusting and respectful. “Well done.”
Finley didn’t know what to say to that, and since there was no way to explain it, she kept silent. Griffin spoke instead, introducing her to the woman, who was his aunt Cordelia, Lady Marsden, recently returned to London.
