The

Girl in the

Clockwork

Collar

Also available from Kady Cross and

The Steampunk Chronicles (in reading order) THE STRANGE CASE OF FINLEY JAYNE (ebook prequel) THE GIRL IN THE STEEL CORSET Visit www.miraink.co.uk for more information or find us on Twitter @MIRAInk

The

Girl in the

Clockwork

Collar

Kady Cross

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Mira Ink is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2012

MIRA Books, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Kady Cross 2012

ISBN 978 1 408 98146 7

47-0612

For Kenzie Mae.

The world’s a little brighter with you in it.

The Girl in the Clockwork Collar
Kady Cross

www.miraink.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Author’s Note

CHAPTER ONE

High above the Atlantic Ocean

July 1897

“What are you doing?”

Finley Jayne smiled in the darkness. She should have known Griffin would come looking for her. Gripping the slender prow with both hands, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing just inside the dirigible’s softly lighted observation deck. The wind blew strands of hair into her face. “Finding out how it feels to fly,” she replied.

“You’re over three thousand feet in the air.” His gravelly voice carried over the sound of the airship’s engines. “Flying might prove fatal.”

Finley laughed. That was his way of scolding her for having ignored the signs that warned passengers not to climb out the windows or over the protective railings. Griffin King was the Duke of Greythorne, and sometimes he carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. That he was worried about her was…sweet.

“We’re going to be landing soon,” he called, trying another tactic. “Why don’t you come in and make sure you have all your things?”

“I’m packed and ready,” she called back. “Why don’t you come out here and see how beautiful New York City is at night?”

She didn’t expect him to take her up on the dare. It wasn’t that he was a coward—he was anything but. However, as a duke and an only child, it would be irresponsible of him to risk his life for no reason but a pretty view, just because she asked. No, Griffin wouldn’t be so foolish, but Jack would.

Finley pushed the thought of the notorious criminal Jack Dandy from her mind. Jack was in London, and it wasn’t fair of her to compare Griffin to him when neither of the young men had an equal.

There was a faint noise behind her, and the next thing she knew, Griffin was there, sitting with her on this narrow shaft. All that was below them was the ship’s figurehead—a robust blonde woman of dubious virtue carved from wood—and thousands of miles of night.

“What are you doing?” Finley demanded, her tone a reflection of what his own had been—only slightly more panicked. She wasn’t that breakable, but Griffin was. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

One of his legs brushed the back of hers. Beneath her striped stocking, her skin prickled. “I know, but I hear it’s the only way to experience the sensation of flying.” She could tell he was smiling without being able to see his handsome face. “It is magnificent, isn’t it? Look, there’s the Statue of Liberty.”

It was magnificent, so much so that Finley couldn’t find words to reply. Spread out before them—just beyond the ship’s lanterns—was a blanket of lights. It looked like stars covered the ground, and set a short distance from it all was the largest lady she’d ever seen, the glow from her torch illuminating from her raised hand to just the top of her crowned head. The lights of the dirigible brought the rest of her into view.

“I asked the pilot to fly by her so we can have a better look,” Griff said.

“Asked or told?” she teased. This was Griffin’s private airship—the Helena, named after his mother. Someone else might fly it for him, but he was the one in charge.

He smiled. “Asked. What do you think of America so far?”

“It’s grand.” It came out a little more exuberant than she’d planned. She had never been outside England—never been outside London—so this was already the adventure of a lifetime for her. Never mind that only a fortnight ago, she’d been battling for the safety of all the world against a madman. That had been terrible and frightening and not really a proper adventure at all. But this—soaring above the vast Atlantic Ocean with the night wind in her hair and Griffin sitting behind her—was amazing.

She felt close to him, enough that it scared her a little. She didn’t even know who she was inside, and he was a duke who could bring down buildings from the inside out by controlling the Aether. There could never be anything but friendship between them, but that didn’t stop her from the occasional daydream. He made her feel like she could do anything she set her mind to—what girl wouldn’t have a bit of a crush?

“Would you like to know how it really feels to fly?” he asked her.

Finley turned her head. Their perch was precarious at best. One wrong move, and one, if not both, of them could tumble to their very death. Part of her was terrified at the thought and another part was thrilled by the danger. Recently, she’d started trying to reconcile the two very distinct halves of herself, and with Griffin’s help she’d made incredible progress. But now she was left trying to ascertain just what sort of girl she was. Was she the sort of girl who truly wanted to know what it felt like to fly?

“I…”

“Oy!” cried a strange voice from behind. “What in the blazes is you two up to? You’re not allowed out there!”

“Caught.” Griffin’s voice held a trace of regret. “Let’s go in before Emily and Sam come looking for us.”

Finley waited until he’d slid away before inching along the polished wood. Griffin was waiting for her on the narrow expanse of deck to give her a hand up. Then he helped her through the window before easing his own body through.

A man in uniform stood on the glossy wood of the viewing gallery floor, a frown on his face. The man glared at her, then turned his attention to the young man beside her, who stood tall and lean in a dark gray suit, his reddish-brown hair mussed by the wind. A lopsided smile curved his lips as his stormy blue gaze settled on the officer. The man paled.

“Your Grace.” His voice was hoarse.

Griffin’s grin broadened. “Apologies, my good man. You were right to scold us. We’ll give you no more worry.” Then he turned to Finley. “Want to watch the landing?”

He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to draw her toward the large glass window next to the one they’d just crawled through. It was so amazing that he owned all of this.

“You know, if you weren’t a duke and this was a public ship, we’d be in a terrible spot of bother right now.”

Griff made a scoffing noise. “If I weren’t a duke and this were public, we wouldn’t have been able to afford passage. Honestly, what they charge for a transatlantic voyage on these contraptions is akin to highway robbery.”

“So you thought buying your own was the more economical choice?” She managed to keep a straight face but not the laughter out of her voice.

He shrugged, but she caught the smile he tried to hide. “They gave me a very good price. Besides, it was the only way I could make Sam fly. He has Emily check the mechanical parts before every voyage.”

“Sam’s a baby,” she remarked, thinking the comparison fit. She didn’t mean any insult—well, not much. Sam Morgan was Griff’s best friend. He was also part machine, moody and the biggest lout she’d ever met. Still, he had a way of growing on a person, like mold on cheese.

She kind of liked knowing he was afraid of air travel. He was even harder to hurt than she was and wasn’t afraid of much.

“Speak of the devil,” Griff murmured, looking over the top of her head.

Finley turned and saw Sam and Emily walking toward them, both dressed for dinner. Sam looked uncomfortable in his black-and-white evening attire, though he looked decent enough with his long dark hair smoothed back. There seemed to be nothing that could be done for his perpetual frown. Emily, on the other hand, was like a ray of sunshine. Ropes of copper hair were wound into a loose bun on the back of her head, and her blue-green eyes were brightened by the russet-colored gown she wore. The four of them looked as though they were going to a ball rather than following a suspected murderer to a strange country.

Their friend Jasper Renn had been accused of murder and taken from Griff’s house by bounty hunters five days earlier. They would have followed immediately after him if they could have, but despite having his own airship, it took Griffin almost a day to make preparations and get everything ready.

“Been sucking lemons again, Sam?” Finley asked when the other couple joined them.

The big lad arched a dark eyebrow at her but didn’t speak. Since she’d saved his life—after him trying to kill her—he had been almost nice to her, which made her try to bait him all the harder.

“We came to watch the landing,” Emily told them in her Irish lilt. “We heard that there were a couple of idiots out on the prow. Did you see them?” A slow smile curved her lips.

Finley and Griff laughed in unison, which made Sam’s scowl deepen. “Idiots indeed,” he said drily.

Emily started to roll her eyes, but then her head whipped toward the window. “Oh! There’s the Statue of Liberty! Isn’t she grand?”

Her excitement was contagious, and the four of them went to the glass to watch the Helena glide by the statue that Griffin had pointed out to her earlier. It was so big. So beautiful. They would set down on the island of Manhattan, on the landing field in Central Park, and from there, on to their hotel. Tomorrow morning they’d begin looking for Jasper. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult, given that he’d been brought back to face criminal charges.

Finley couldn’t believe Jasper would kill anyone—not in cold blood. There had to be some kind of mistake. Griffin was convinced he could fix this, but this wasn’t England, and Americans might not be so impressed by his title and his fortune. And though each of them had their own unique abilities—evolutions, Emily had taken to calling them—they weren’t above the law.

What if they couldn’t save Jasper?

* * *

As far as prisons went, this one wasn’t so bad. Jasper had certainly seen worse—been held in worse.

There were bars on the windows, but his understanding was that those were normally employed to keep folks out rather than in, as the case may be. Still, the bed was big and comfortable—an old four-poster monstrosity—and the room was big enough that he could walk around a bit and exercise.

Dalton—the fella in whose house he was now a “guest”—was an old “friend.” Jasper fell in with his gang almost two years ago, when he was too young and stupid to know better. Dalton was a couple of years older and had spouted the usual romantic nonsense about being an outlaw, which sounded good to penniless boys.

Obviously Dalton had done well for himself, if this house was any indication. It was nice—nicer than anything Jasper had seen during his time in the gang. Did Dalton think of himself as some kind of gentleman now? Was he rubbin’ elbows with the same kind of people from whom he stole? The Bowery neighborhood was close enough to Five Points to give him an in with the criminal set, but removed just enough to have a little respectability.

Respectable, however, Dalton was not. And it was painfully apparent that his old boss hadn’t forgiven him for running off. The tender bruises that covered Jasper from face to hip were proof of that. He had a perfect impression of the sole of someone’s boot on his left side. Must’ve been Little Hank—he was the only varmint in Dalton’s outfit with feet that big.

If he had some of Miss Emily’s salve, he’d be set to rights; but he didn’t, and so he had to heal the old-fashioned way instead of letting her “beasties” do it for him.

He thought of his new friends often since he’d been forcibly taken from Griffin’s mansion by men claiming they were going to bring him to America to face murder charges.

Jasper went willingly, almost eager to face his past, maybe clear his name in the process. It wasn’t until he was on the airship, without any chance of escape, that he discovered the men worked for Dalton.

Once they’d landed, he had tried to run. It had been stupid, but he had to try. They caught him, beat him, trussed him up and brought him here, where’d he’d been for more than twenty-four hours.

Finally there came the sound of a key in the lock. Jasper moved to the dresser, a heavy piece of furniture he could dive behind if someone started shooting.

It was Little Hank’s huge form that filled the doorway. Over six and a half feet tall and as wide as a bull through the chest, Little Hank was Dalton’s chief muscle. He was strong and surprisingly fast. Jasper’s only advantage came in being faster, but he didn’t want Dalton to know just how fast he had gotten.

Little Hank ducked his head into the room. “Boss wants to see you.”

“Now’s not a good time for me,” Jasper replied, words as stiff as his jaw. “Come back later.”

The behemoth hesitated, clearly uncertain of what to do. Jasper would have smiled if he thought it wouldn’t hurt so much. Then a scowl settled over Hank’s heavy-boned face and he glared at him. “Still a jackass.”

Jasper shrugged. “Sometimes a fella has to live up to expectations.” He moved stiffly toward the door. Dread twisted in his belly, but he refused to let it show.

Little Hank seized him by the back of the neck, practically dragged him out of the room, along the hall and down the scuffed staircase. From there they took a right turn and ended up in a parlor, where Jasper was finally released. He might not exactly like Griff’s friend Sam Morgan, but he wished the large fellow was there at the moment. He’d teach Little Hank a lesson in manners.

Then again, Morgan was just as likely to sit back and smile while Jasper was pounded senseless. Miss Finley, then. She’d knock Hank on his gigantic backside. Jasper would have no problem letting a girl rescue him, but Finley was in London. They thought he’d been taken in by the law and had no idea that it was just the opposite.

Reno Dalton stood at the window, puffing on a cigarillo. He was a little shorter than Jasper’s height of six feet. Leaner, too. He was what in a woman might be called pretty, with longish dark brown hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit that made him appear a gentleman.

In truth he was more like a sleeping rattlesnake. There was just as much chance that Dalton would leave you alone as there was that he’d kill you—and with very little thought to, either.

“Ah, Jasper.” A cold smile curved Dalton’s lips. He was around twenty, but lines fanned out from his eyes—a sign of time spent out of doors. “Looking none the worse for wear, I see.”

If Jasper had been wearing his hat he would have tipped it. “I look good in black and blue.”

Dalton waved a negligent hand. “The ladies will be back to swooning over you soon enough. Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

The smile vanished. Finally the rattler revealed himself. “Sit.”

Little Hank shoved him into a nearby chair before Jasper could reply. It was spindly and felt as though it might split apart if he sneezed. He jerked free of Hank’s hand—flinching at the pain that followed—and fixed his gaze on the man before him.

“All right, I’m sitting.”

Dalton was back to looking pleasant. “Good.” His voice had a slight Southern accent. Years of living in San Francisco had almost erased all traces of the poor kid from Virginia Territory. “We have business to discuss, you and I.”

Cold—heavy and menacing—settled in Jasper’s stomach. He ignored it. “’Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dalton smiled—without any trace of pleasantness this time. Slowly, he moved around the desk to sit behind the large wooden structure. He plucked a plum from a bowl in front of him. “Let’s not play this game, Jasper. You know where the device is. You stole it from me, and I want it back.”

Jasper yawned. It hurt like blazes, but at least he looked bored. “I stole it when you went back on our deal and tried to kill me rather than pay me for it.”

“I paid you for half the job. The way I see it, you got away with my money and my device.”

“You can see it however you want. I don’t have your money or the machine.” There was no point in lying and no point in arguing that Jasper had taken the money as what was rightfully owed to him.

Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “Who has it?”

Jasper forced a smile. “No one has it. But I know where it is. Seeing as how it’s the only thing keeping you from killing me, I’ll keep the location to myself.”

To his surprise, the gleam in Dalton’s eyes brightened. “I’m disappointed, Jas. You know I’d never kill you.” When Jasper arched a brow, Dalton continued, “I’ll kill someone you care about.” With that, he flicked a small switch on the side of his desk. A door to Jasper’s left swung open.

Jasper’s heart stopped when he saw who stood on the other side of that threshold. She was little and pale, with poker-straight, long black hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore a long turquoise silk dress embroidered with Chinese dragons, and she was even prettier than she had been the last time he saw her—when he had kissed her goodbye. The only thing new was the strange necklace she wore—a snug band of what looked like clockwork pieces all around her throat.

She looked as shocked to see him as he was to see her. Her almond-shaped eyes widened. “Jasper?”

“Mei,” he whispered. He was dizzy, like he’d spun around and around—fast as he could—and then tried to stand still. He started to get up, but Little Hank pushed him back down with a meaty hand on his shoulder.

Dalton’s smile returned. “So you can see, Jasper, you have something I want and I have something you want.” He rose to his feet and crossed the carpet to where Mei stood, guarded by another of the outlaw’s men. He ran the back of his finger along her cheek, causing her to flinch.

Jasper pushed against Little Hank’s hold, but it was as though his posterior was glued to the chair. “If you hurt her…”

Dalton whipped around, coming toward him like a striking rattler. “Hurt her? I don’t think you understand me, son. You owe me. If you don’t do exactly what I want, I’ll damn well kill her.”

CHAPTER TWO

The combined Waldorf and Astoria hotels on 5th Avenue were the height of opulence and elegance. At seventeen stories, the redbrick structure had only recently been completed by John Jacob Astor IV.

As they climbed out of their hired carriage, Griffin was the least impressed with their lodgings, and even he thought it splendid. He held his beaver hat on his head as he glanced up. “Grand, isn’t it? What do you make of it, Finley?”

“It’s bloody marvelous,” she replied, without taking her eyes off the building.

He grinned at her openmouthed wonder. He had made arrangements to stay at this place, specifically hoping that his friends would love it. That Finley would love it.

Top that, Dandy, he thought to himself. He knew it was foolish to think of the criminal as competition, but Dandy appealed to Finley’s dark side. Never mind that the two halves of her personality had already merged; they still fought for dominance, and there was still a part of her that found Dandy fascinating. Griffin had never been one for physical violence, but Finley’s attachment to the older fellow made Griffin want to punch someone—Dandy—in the nose.

A handful of bellmen and young boys eager to make a few cents came forward to carry luggage and belongings. Griffin noticed with a smile that none of them tried to take possession of Emily’s cat—a mechanical life-size panther. They all gasped when she powered it up and it came to life, stretching like the real thing, digging dagger-sharp claws into the sidewalk. It’s reticulated joints were well-oiled and moved silently.

“Don’t fret, gents,” she chirped in her soft Irish brogue. “She’s no danger.” Not unless one of them tried to hurt Emily. Of course, she had Sam for protection, as well. Griffin would rather take on the cat than his best friend.

They filed into the hotel lobby, which was just as grand as the exterior. Griffin spoke to the man at the desk, who was clearly impressed at having a duke as a guest. America might have separated from England over a century earlier, but a title and a fortune were still cause for celebrity. The man gave him keys for four rooms. Certainly it would have been more economical to share, but they had separate rooms in London, so it seemed only right to have them here, as well—especially since it was the only way they could escape each other, if they wanted.

They had to take two lifts to their floor—an operator, the four of them and Emily’s cat in one, their belongings in the other. Being inside the small box, packed tightly with his friends, made Griff feel as though someone sat upon his chest. He clenched his hands and tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to force himself to remain calm. Soon they would be at their floor.

A soft hand curled around his fist, loosening his fingers so they could twine with hers. He lowered his head, opened his eyes and found himself gazing into eyes the color of warm honey, framed by thick, dark lashes.

Finley.

Suddenly, he was breathless for an entirely different reason. She smiled but didn’t speak. She simply stood there beside him, holding his hand as they slowly climbed to their destination. Griffin wanted to reach up and touch the streaks of black in her tawny hair. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her close, lower his head and…

The bell chimed. They had reached their floor.

And just in time, too, because he had started to lean toward her.

The operator opened the sliding doors and bid them good-night. Griffin slipped him a tip for his trouble and was gifted with a grin and doffed hat in return.

After divvying up the keys, each of them went to their room so that their belongings could be taken inside. Griff peeled more notes from his money clip and pressed them into the eager hands of the boys who had brought their luggage.

His room was spacious and as luxurious as he expected, with a plush carpet, large, comfortable-looking bed and heavily draped windows, which afforded a spectacular view of 5th Avenue. He went to one of those windows and gazed out. New York looked like someone had captured the stars and dragged them down to Earth.

It was late, and he wanted to be up early so they could visit the jail and talk to Jasper—or talk to someone about Jasper. He would do whatever he could to help his friend, even buy his freedom, if necessary. There was no way he was going to allow Jasper to hang for a crime Griffin was certain he didn’t commit.

It was that worry hanging over him that kept him standing rather than undressing for bed as he ought. Instead he gave in to his restlessness and turned on his heel. Unpacking would wait.

Griffin closed the door behind him and quickly crossed the corridor to knock on the one opposite. He raked a hand through his hair as he waited, then he heard the sharp clunk of the bolt and the heavy wood opened.

“You should have asked who it was,” he cautioned. “I could have been anyone.”

Finley smiled as she pulled the door fully open. She looked as tired as he felt. Still, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. “I knew it was you. I heard you leave your room.”

Of course she had; she had that bloody sensitive hearing of hers. She was more than capable of defending herself, too. He just worried about her. She was far too reckless and confident at times. It would kill him to see her get hurt.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as she stepped back to allow him inside. It was set up much like his own, only with a different view, as her windows overlooked 34th Street.

“I thought maybe you might be interested in taking a walk,” he said, glancing around the room. She had already opened her luggage and begun unpacking. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her underthings, even though they were stacked in an open drawer. He looked away. “Those are lovely flowers.”

Finley glanced at the bouquet of cream tea roses on the dresser. “They were here when I came in. I assumed they were part of the décor.”

“I don’t have any in my room.” He took a closer look. “There’s a card.” He plucked the folded card stock from the blooms and offered it to her.

Frowning, Finley took it. “Perhaps it will tell us who they belong to.” But as soon as she opened the card, Griffin knew the answer. She looked surprised, pleased and perturbed, all at once.

“They’re from Dandy, aren’t they?” He didn’t really need her to respond. Who else would send her flowers? Not him, obviously.

She nodded, clearly bewildered. “How did he even know where to find me?”

Griffin shrugged and tried to look as though he didn’t care. “It would be easy to ascertain that we had left and for where. Then all he had to do was contact hotels.”

“Still, I don’t know why he’d bother wasting the time.”

“Don’t you?” Griff studied her face closely. “Surely you know he has feelings for you.”

Finley blushed. “We’re friends.”

As he ran one of his fingers along the petal of a rose, Griffin’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Perhaps you ought to enlighten Mr. Dandy as to that.”

“Do you believe I’ve led him on?”

He choked on a bark of laughter. “You spent the night at his house. Could you blame him for making assumptions?”

Hands fisted on her hips, Finley glared at him. “And I live with you. What assumptions have you made, Your High and Mightiness?”

He should have stayed in his room. “None. I know better then to assume anything where you are concerned.”

Instead of placating her, it only made her frown deepen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Griffin shrugged. He couldn’t win. “Nothing, Finley. It means nothing. I’m sorry I bothered you. Good night.”

He moved to the exit and had just wrapped his hand around the brass knob when a hand slapped flat against the door. He turned the knob and pulled, but the door refused to budge—she was that strong.

Slowly, Griffin turned his head toward her, his temper and his power rising. The runes tattooed on his neck and shoulders to help him focus his abilities warmed and tingled. Only Finley had the ability to get under his skin like this. She made him think and act like an idiot. “Don’t make me blow this thing off its hinges,” he said, voice low.

Her eyes sparkled with disbelief, taunting him. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Not like I can’t afford to replace it.”

“Where would you expect me to sleep in the meanwhile?”

“I’m sure I can think of someplace.” Yes, he could. As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. Heat crept up his cheeks.

Finley’s lips parted on a soft gasp, and he noted with some pleasure that her cheeks darkened, as well. He also noticed that she did not immediately drop her hand from the door.

Her other hand, however, came up to touch his face. Her fingers were cool against his cheek. It took all of his strength, but he wrapped his hand around hers and pulled it away. “I care about you, Fin. More than I should probably admit, but I’m not going to share you or fight for your affection.” Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he kissed her fingers.

“Good night, Finley.” He opened the door and stepped over the threshold. When the door clicked shut behind him, Griffin tried not to be too disappointed that she hadn’t tried to stop him.

* * *

It was a good thing Dalton’s men had taken his guns, because Jasper would have shot the rat between his eyes without much of a thought—he was that angry. Angry and helpless.

He was still angry hours later, standing alone at one of the windows in his “cell.” It was well past midnight, but if he went to bed, he’d only stare at the ceiling.

Of all the secrets and weapons his former friend could have used against him, why did it have to be Mei? He knew why—because Dalton knew Mei was the best weapon to use against him, his guarantee that Jasper wouldn’t try to escape.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and breathed deep through his nose, but it didn’t make him any less angry. He hadn’t seen Mei since he left San Francisco a year ago. He’d left to protect her. And he had hidden Dalton’s blasted stolen contraption not only to ensure his own life, but to keep Dalton from becoming an even snakier rascal.

He should have known better than to leave her alone.

If he had just washed his hands of the situation, let Dalton have his contraption before escaping to England, he wouldn’t be in this mess and Mei would still be safe. He should have taken her with him. But she hadn’t wanted to leave.

When he thought of all the things that could have happened to her in Dalton’s clutches…

The sound of a key in a lock brought his head up. Slowly, he turned as the hinges creaked and the door eased open.

He expected to see Little Hank, his knuckles wrapped to deliver another beating, but the person who entered was more than a foot shorter than the thug.

“Mei.” To say he was surprised to see her was an understatement. “How… What are you doing here?”

She set a finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet as she closed the door. She was dressed as she had been earlier that evening, and the Western style seemed odd on her, even though the fabric was Chinese. He was so used to seeing her in more traditional clothing. When they were shut in, she locked the door once more from the inside. Gracefully, she moved toward him, her hair shining in the lamplight. “I had to come see you,” she explained.

“How did you escape your quarters to get the key?”

“The key is on a hook outside the door.” Delicate hands went to the collar around her throat but didn’t quite touch it. “This is my prison. I can move about the house however I wish, but if I try to leave, it tightens.”

Jasper reached out to touch it. “Can’t you just take it off?”

She stepped back, avoiding his hand. “Don’t. If anyone else touches it, it sets off the tightening mechanism. It will strangle me, and you will have to ring for Dalton. I do not want him to know I am here.”

Damn Dalton. Jasper’s jaw tightened. “How long has he had you?”

“Only a few months. He found me in Chinatown. I had gone back to the house.”

By “the house,” she meant Ms. Cameron’s. Donaldina Cameron had been helping girls and women brought over from China for more than twenty years. A lot of the females were sold into domestic slavery or prostitution once they arrived in the city, as they were illegal immigrants. Jasper had worked for Ms. Cameron as a rescuer and, on occasion, a protector. That’s how he had first met Mei—when he rescued her from being sold to a merchant.

The same merchant for whose death he was wanted.

Dalton hadn’t liked that Jasper helped the house. He thought Jasper should talk Mei into convincing some of the girls to work for him instead. He referred to it as “diversifying his business practices.” Jasper had never been above helping relieve a few richies of a little pocket change—he had to eat—but he drew the line at profiting from another’s pain.

“He went to Ms. Donaldina’s?” That was ballsy, even for Dalton.

Mei shook her head, her poker-straight hair sliding about her shoulders. “I was trying to rescue another girl. He found me.”

Jasper’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “Did he hurt you?” He’d kill Dalton with his bare hands if he had to.

Dark eyes widened as Mei gazed at him. “No. He didn’t want me for…that. He only took me because he knew he could use me to get to you.”

And he had been right.

“He put that collar on you to keep both of us in line.”

She nodded. “Yes.” And then, “It’s good to see you, Jasper.”

Despite his frustration and anger, Jasper smiled. “It’s good to see you, too.”

She turned away, but not before shooting him a glance that was as coy as it was shy. Mei stood at the dresser and ran her fingers over his old, battered hat. The Brits called it his “cowboy” hat, but he had never worked with cattle in his entire life, though he had once slept in a train car full of them. Like big dogs, only they stank worse than any hound ever could.

“Did you miss me at all?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied with a frown. It wasn’t the sort of question a fella felt comfortable answering. “Did you miss me?”

Mei tossed a satisfied smile over her shoulder at him before gliding to the bed and leaning against one of the tall posters. “I knew you’d ask.”

“You asked first,” he reminded her with a shrug. “Figured since I was being honest, maybe you would, too.”

“Still as prickly as you always were about your feelings. Yes, I missed you. I missed you very much, Jasper Renn. You left me all alone.”

There was just enough bite to her words to get Jasper’s backbone up. “I left so the law would think I was guilty. I left to protect you.”

“And here we are.” She gestured to the collar around her neck. “Maybe I would have been better protected had you stayed.”

Her accent was thickening. It always did when she was riled up. It used to get to the point where he didn’t understand half of what she was saying, her English would get so bad.

“Mei, you and I both know if I had stayed, they would have hanged me for murder. Is that what you wanted?”

“Of course not!” She glared at him. “How can you ask me such an awful question?”

“Because you’re angry at me for protecting you.” He would not shout, no matter how much he wanted to.

“For all the good it did!” She threw her arms out to her sides. “Look at where we are!”

Jasper drew a deep breath. It wasn’t Mei he was angry at; it was Dalton—and himself. “I’m going to get both of us out of this mess. Promise.”

She actually looked surprised. “Us?” She glanced at him as she moved away from the bed, toward the dresser again. “You are going to get Dalton his device?”

Jasper caught sight of himself in the mirror. His light brown hair stood up in all directions. He raked a hand through the mess but it only made it worse. “Yeah—I’m going to get it for him. What other choice do I have?”

She kept her attention fixed on his hat once more, rather than him. “You could try to escape. Run.”

“And leave you with him?” He made a scoffing sound. “Blossom, you know me better than that.”

The old nickname he’d given her brought color surging to her cheeks.

“You do not owe me anything, Jasper. I do not wish to have the responsibility of your life on my hands.”

“Too bad, ’cause I’ve got yours on mine.”

Her full lips thinned, and then she snatched the shaving mug from the top of the dresser and threw it at him. Suddenly, everything around him slowed as Jasper reached out and snatched the mug from the air.

Gone was her frown, replaced by shock. “You’ve gotten faster.”

“And you’ve gotten crazier,” he replied with a grin. “Come here.”

He set the mug aside as she came toward him. When he opened his arms, she stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around him as though she was a human version of the collar she wore.

“Can we do this?” he asked, softly. “The collar…”

Mei shook her head. “As long as you don’t touch it, we are fine. You can touch me.”

Jasper pulled her closer and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

“I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger for me,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I can help you escape—tonight.”

He shook his head, his arms tightening around her. Old feelings came rushing back so hard and fast he felt unsteady on his own feet. He had loved her once, and now he knew he had never stopped.

“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 THREE

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 device 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 snuffbox. 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.”

Dalton stared at him for a moment, his icy gaze searching Jasper’s face for any sign of a lie. But Jasper was a good liar when he needed to be—a trait he’d never been proud of until now. The other man laughed. “No wonder he’s here. I’d hunt you down myself.”

Jasper’s smile was thin. “You already did.”

More laughter. Then Dalton gazed at him with something that looked like respect. “It is good to have you back.”

“Does that mean I get to come and go as I please?”

“Why would you want to do that? When there’s no one in the city you’d call a friend?”

And there it was. Dalton wasn’t calling him a prisoner, but they both knew there was no reason for him to wander about the city unless he planned to visit someone—such as the Duke of Greythorne. One wrong move on Jasper’s part and Mei would be dead faster than he could blink.

Dalton continued, “You’ll collect my device today. Do this and perhaps I’ll liberate Miss Mei.”

“It’s impossible to get it in one day,” Jasper informed him. “It’s not in just one spot.”

Dalton scowled. “You took it apart?”

“In case anyone found it—they wouldn’t know what it was.” Jasper didn’t even know what it was, but he knew it was dangerous, otherwise Dalton wouldn’t want it. He’d also known that breaking the thing down would buy him more time if Dalton ever caught up to him.

Too bad he hadn’t thought that all the way through.

Dalton considered this. “I’m not sure whether I should commend your intelligence or put a bullet in your brainpan.”

As he scooped up yolk with a bite of steak, Jasper shrugged. “At least no one else has gotten their hands on your device.” No one that he knew of, at any rate.

That cold blue gaze pinned him to his chair. “Where is the first piece?”

“O’Dooley’s,” he replied. It was a sporting club on the barest fringe of the underworld—a place where workingmen and fancy gents could enjoy an evening of bloodshed and brute violence.

He could see that Dalton approved of his choice. “There’s a fight tonight. We’ll take in some entertainment, and you’ll collect what’s there. Where’s the rest of it?”

Jasper shook his head. “The only guarantee I have that you won’t hurt Mei is the fact that I’m the only one who knows where the pieces are.”

Dalton leaned forward, all traces of goodwill gone from his features. “I could kill her just for spite.”

The thought made Jasper’s stomach turn over on itself. “You could, but then you’d never get your gadget back.”

“I could make you tell me.”

“No,” Jasper assured him. “You couldn’t.” Because Dalton would be dead if he hurt Mei.

Dalton opened his mouth, but Jasper cut him off. “There’s no negotiating to be done. I get your machine back, and you let me, Mei and my family alone. Give me your word or shoot me now.” His heart punched hard against his ribs as he waited for his former friend, now his enemy, to respond.

“Fine.” Dalton offered his hand. “But for the duration it takes you to get the device, you’re part of my gang and you do whatever I tell you to. Idle hands do the devil’s work, after all. You try to burn me again, and I’ll slit her throat myself.”

Jasper swallowed the rage threatening to send him over the edge and accepted the handshake, sealing the bargain. He could drive a fork into Dalton’s neck before the screw drew his next breath, but then he’d just bring more trouble down on himself. No, he had to do this right if he wanted Dalton out of his life for good.

And now Griffin was in town. The thought both worried him and gave him hope. If Griffin was here, it meant he was still his friend. But he didn’t want to risk Griffin’s safety, especially if Sam, Miss Finley and that pretty little Miss Emily were with him. Then there was the fact that if they tried to help him they might very well get themselves killed. Still, if anyone could help him get out of this mess and save Mei, it was Griffin King and his friends.

“Relax,” he heard himself say as he reached for another biscuit. “You’re in charge here. I’m not going to burn you.”

But if he could find a way to save his loved ones and destroy Reno Dalton, he’d do it. Even if it cost his own life.

* * *

“You know Griffin is going to pitch a fit when he finds out what you’ve done.” Emily chewed on a fingernail as she spoke.

Finley shrugged before taking hold of her friend’s hand and pulling it away from her mouth. “Not if we bring back information on this Dalton fellow, which is exactly what we’re going to do.”

“Did we have to go to the worst part of the city to get it?”

She’d shrug again, but that might seem facetious, as though she didn’t take Emily’s fears to heart. They were in the worst part of town—Five Points was a lot like the slum areas of London, but with a tad more pride—looking for information on a criminal. There were bound to be those who took offense to their snooping about.

Finley was fairly certain she and Emily could look after themselves, and if Griffin was angry that they had taken matters into their own hands, that was his problem. She was still a little angry at him for last night—more because he hadn’t kissed her—and he hadn’t spoken to her since. How was she supposed to react to that? How was she to know when he acted all interested one moment and then walked out on her the next?

It wasn’t her fault Jack had sent her flowers. She hadn’t asked for them. In fact, the prat had probably sent them knowing it would irk Griffin.

It was enough to make a girl wonder if there was something wrong with her—and Finley had had quite enough of that already, thank you. So if Griffin wouldn’t acknowledge her on his own, she’d make him.

People stopped to stare at the two of them as they strolled down the dusty sidewalk, putting Finley on her guard. It was a sunny day with a light breeze, which unfortunately carried the smells of this part of the city on it. Behind run-down buildings, clothing fluttered on battered lines. Some of those items were so grimy they barely looked washed at all.

Someone here had to know how to find this Dalton fellow, who was apparently a friend of Jasper’s. When Griffin had returned from the Tombs that morning, he’d said he’d run into a lawman who’d claimed that Jasper may have returned to his former lawless ways. That Jasper might have been responsible for a man’s death in California. Finley didn’t believe it. Oh, she had no doubt Jasper had his own sense of right and wrong—just as she often did—but he wasn’t a killer. Not without reason. If Griffin was going to give up just because of a murder suspicion, then he should have tossed her out when Scotland Yard believed she killed Lord Felix, a fellow who had attacked her.

Finley and Emily defended Jasper, much to Sam’s chagrin. It was no secret Sam was jealous of how the cowboy flirted with Emily. Couldn’t the brute see how much Emily adored him? Finley didn’t understand it, but it was obvious to everyone but Sam that Emily loved him.

Regardless, when Griffin had said that he and Sam were going to see what they could find out about Dalton, Finley had taken his attitude and the fact that he’d refused to make eye contact with her to heart and decided to do a little detective work of her own. Emily, of course, had refused to let her go alone.

“Do you think the lads are here, as well?” Emily asked, glancing about.

Finley was busy trying to catalog everyone watching them. “Dunno. I’m more concerned with us at the moment, Em.”

Her friend glanced at her, face even paler beneath her freckles. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

“I think we’d be idiots to assume otherwise,” she replied, oddly calm. This was one of the things she had to accept when Griffin began the process of helping her merge the two aspects of her personality. She thought things now, did things that she wouldn’t have before. So being cocky yet anxious in the face of potential danger was new to her—and most inconvenient.

Slowly, she nudged her small friend toward the center of the square. She’d rather be out in the open than risk being hauled into a building or alley. These people weren’t the sort to shoot someone in cold blood; they were fist-and-blade sort of people—the kind that took killing personally. There was more honor in meeting a foe toe-to-toe than picking them off from a distance.

She could respect that. She was also thankful for it.

“You girls don’t belong here” came a thick Irish brogue.

Both Finley and Emily turned toward the voice. It belonged to a young man, not much older than themselves. He was tall and thin, his dark auburn hair glinting in the sun. His shirt and brown trousers had been washed so many times they were both a muddy color and mended in several spots. Still, he stood there like he owned the place.

Cheeky bloke, Finley thought. “We’re looking for someone,” she told him.

His eyebrow jumped at her voice. “There be no one you want here, English,” he informed her in a mocking tone.

Finley smiled coolly. “I haven’t even told you who it is, Irish.” She kept her gaze focused on him, but her peripheral vision was filled with the sight of a crowd gathering around them. Damnation.

“Ye’re not wanted here” came a female voice from behind. “Why don’t ye just go back from where ye come.” It wasn’t a question but a command.

Finley turned. The girl was about her own height—a little heavier built—with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Black Irish, they called it. Behind her was another girl with dusky skin and an exotic prettiness, which was heightened by the emptiness of her lavender, catlike eyes. She was the real danger here, not the mouthpiece in front of her. Still, Finley didn’t reckon they were in any immediate danger from cat-girl.

“Gladly,” she replied. “As soon as someone tells us where I can find Reno Dalton, we’ll be on our way.”

“Dalton?” It was the dark girl—the one with the catlike eyes that asked. Her voice was low and smooth, with no trace of hostility, yet Finley felt it in the base of her spine. “What do you want with him?”

“No offense,” Finley replied, “but that’s personal.” She wasn’t about to give Jasper’s name and have that get back to Dalton.

The girl nodded. “Fair enough.”

“She’s probably knocked up with his brat,” the auburn-haired boy sneered, his gaze raking over Finley like a pair of dirty hands.

The blue-eyed girl stepped forward, flanked by two more who had reddish-brown hair. One of them carried a cricket bat. “We don’t appreciate strangers comin’ into our home, bringin’ their trouble with ’em.”

Finley stood her ground. She turned her face but not her gaze toward Emily. “Get out of here,” she commanded. “Now.”

She didn’t have time to see if her friend listened to her or not. A fist came flying out of nowhere. She dodged it but got smacked with the bat for her trouble. Pain exploded in her skull. It also woke up that part of her that wasn’t used to being welcomed just yet. When the next blow came, she deflected it and countered with one of her own, her fist connecting with a jaw. She struck again and again, but for every one she knocked down, there seemed to be two to take their place. Fast as she was, she couldn’t escape them all, and if they got her to the ground she’d be in serious trouble.

Suddenly, two of her attackers—one of whom had just hit her hard enough in the mouth to make her bleed—jerked back, their bodies spasming as though they were having some sort of fit. Then two more did the same. What was left of the gang around her stopped their assault on her to step back.

Finley shook her head to clear the ringing in it and lifted her hand to her mouth before raising her gaze. What she saw was enough to make her grin—despite her split lip.

Emily stood but a few feet away, hands out from her sides. She wore gloves with metal fingertips, which sparked and crackled in the sudden silence.

“Back off,” she snarled. “Or I’ll give a bit of this to the rest of ye.”

Finley could have hugged her—if she didn’t think she’d end up like the droolers in the street. Plus, Emily looked mad—really mad.

“The lot of ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Her voice was strong and clear, despite a tremor of emotion, her accent strong. “Look at you. You left Ireland to escape the violence and troubles there, and now see what you’ve become—bullies who’d gang up on a girl only looking for information. Cowards who think with their fists rather than the minds God gave ’em. If your ancestors could see what you’ve done to the name and pride of Ireland on this land, they’d weep in their graves.”

A wave of shame washed over Finley, and there wasn’t even a drop of Irish blood in her veins. She glanced around at those who would have beaten her to death just a few moments ago and saw the guilt in their faces.

Emily glared at them; her eyes, which could never seem to decide if they were blue or green, sparkled with anger. “I’ve never been more ashamed than I am right now. You disgrace our homeland.”

Not even the formidable Miss Clarke—a governess Finley had once punched in the mouth—had ever reduced people to such a glum, self-loathing mass as Emily just had, with her impassioned words and sparking fingers.

“Dalton likes to watch the fights at O’Dooley’s,” the dark girl told them, as she stepped forward to stand between the girls and the crowd. She directed her attention at Finley, despite Emily’s laying low of the mob. “There’s one tonight. That’s where you’ll find him. But take care, there’s been a high-and-mighty feller sniffin’ around after him, as well. He’ll be well protected.”

Finley didn’t glance at Emily for fear of tipping anyone off that they were well acquainted with this “high-and-mighty feller.” It had to be Griffin.

Feline eyes raked over her. “Word is Dalton likes rough girls.”

Finley grinned, well aware that there was blood in her mouth. “Then he ought to love me.”

* * *

When they were back at the hotel—having snuck in through the back entrance so Finley didn’t have to walk through the foyer in her ripped and bloodstained clothes—Finley made Emily promise not to breathe a word of what had happened in Five Points to Griffin, if their paths crossed. Especially not about the fight that evening.

“You’ll tell him, right?” the redhead asked once they reached their floor. She followed Finley to her room.

Finley glanced at her out of the corner of her eye as she slipped her key into the lock. “Sure. Nice work with those conductive gloves.”

“People think they can hurt me because I’m small. I’m not going to let anyone hurt me again.” There was something in her eyes that made Finley want to hug her, but think better of it.

“Fair enough.” She knew better than to ask. Emily would share her secrets when and if she was ready.

“When are you going to tell him?” Emily demanded, changing the subject as Finley opened the door.

“Maybe when he barges in here and announces that he and Sam are attending a fight tonight and that it’s no place for girls.” She knew better than to hope that Griffin hadn’t found out about O’Dooley’s.

Emily scowled, wrinkling her little, freckled nose. “But he knows you can look after yourself.”

“Mmm, but he’s miffed at me right now.” Her own ire rose. “Maybe I won’t tell him at all. Won’t that stick a bee in his bonnet if you and I show up and do what he and Sam can’t?” She flashed a grin at the other girl.

Emily raised a brow—a wealth of warning in that simple gesture. “This is about helping Jasper, not you sticking it to Griffin. Why’s he all scurvy with you, anyway?”

Finley gestured toward the dresser and the vase of flowers there. “They’re from Jack.”

“Oh.” Emily’s big eyes widened even more as she studied the arrangement of roses. “They’re beautiful. How did he know where to send them?”

Finley chuckled, even though the situation really wasn’t that funny. “Griffin assumes he went through all manner of trouble tracking me down. Knowing Jack he simply grinned at one of the housemaids. He probably wanted to needle Griff. Regardless, it wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture.”

“They look pretty romantic to me,” Emily replied, slightly awed as she lowered her face to smell the beautiful blooms.

“If Jack Dandy wanted to woo me, that arrangement would have a personality of its own—one that complemented mine. Roses are just his way of saying hello.”

Emily sighed. “I wish someone would say hello to me.”

Finley crossed the carpet to the dresser and plucked the most perfect rose from the bouquet. She offered it to her friend. “Hullo, Em.”

Her friend—it still felt wonderfully odd to call her that—beamed. Pale arms wrapped around Finley’s torso. “Thank you.” Like most Irish, she dropped the h, and it came out “tank.”

Finley gave her a squeeze before releasing her. Smoothing her hands over her violet corset—thankfully none the worse for wear—she turned her mind once again to Jasper, pushing all thoughts of Jack, and especially Griffin, away.

“I’m going to need my steel corset, and we’re going to need to rough you up a bit so you look like you could fit in with the Irish gangs. Though, you certainly made an impression on them today.”

Emily’s spine stiffened. “Don’t you worry about me, Finley Jayne. I’ll look the part. I’ve got the earbuds, so we can communicate with each other. I just wish I had time to graft metal to your knuckles. It would make you hit that much harder.”

The idea of Emily cutting open her hands and brass plating her bones made Finley vaguely queasy—never mind that she had witnessed the girl cracking open Sam’s chest cavity like an oyster.

“I’ll wrap my hands the way Jasper taught me,” she said. A silence fell between them as they both thought of him.

“He’s not a killer,” Emily insisted. “No more than you or I are.”

“Anyone can kill for the right reason,” Finley remarked absently as she picked up the newspaper Emily had brought in with her. A photograph of a man named Nikola Tesla stared up from the page. She’d heard Emily talk about him before. Apparently he had a laboratory here in New York.

“There’s a right reason to kill someone?” The smaller girl’s tone was incredulous at best.

Finley dropped the newspaper onto the dresser once again. “If someone tried to kill you, wouldn’t you fight back?”

“Of course!”

“You might kill him. Saving yourself is a good reason. Saving someone else is an even better one.”

Bright eyes narrowed. “Do ye think Jasper might have been protecting someone, then?”

“Dunno.” Finley leaned her head to one side, sighing as a loud popping noise filled the room. Then she repeated with the other side. “But Jasper’s not the type to kill for no good reason.”

Emily gave a quick, determined nod. “We need to find out the truth about what happened. And stop doing that. It turns my stomach every time some part of you pops and snaps.”

“We’ll find the truth.” Finley’s stomach growled. “Good Lord, I’m starving. I’m going to ring the kitchen for some food. You want something, too, or is your delicate stomach still suffering from my pops and snaps?”

Emily made a face at her, but it was obvious the jest didn’t really bother her. They decided to order tea, sandwiches, fruit and cakes. For once Finley didn’t feel the least bit guilty knowing that Griffin would be paying for their indulgence. He had been perfectly awful to her last night. Worse, he’d hurt her feelings when he told her that he wouldn’t fight for her affection. Why ever not? Isn’t that what heroes did when faced with the notion of losing their heroine?

She’d fight for him. Wouldn’t she? Honestly, she didn’t know. She would never stand by and allow someone to hurt him, but to fight for his affection… Well, once again she needed to remind herself that nothing could come of a relationship between the two of them. She could argue against it until she was blue in the face, but the simple fact remained that she liked him—enough that she had taken to researching for information on couples from different social spheres. Cinderella and her prince didn’t count, but that story had started somewhere and gave hope to every poor little girl who had ever heard it.

So if Griffin King thought he could ignore her—and the fact that he had practically propositioned her—he was wrong. That he treated her like that hurt. It was demeaning, and she didn’t know if she could forgive him for it. Did he think he could talk to her like that just because she didn’t behave as he thought girls should?

A few weeks ago, she never would have dreamed of doing something dangerous just to get a fellow’s attention. In fact, she would have mocked any girl who behaved so stupidly, and yet here she was, hatching a plan that would hopefully help Jasper and stick in Griffin’s craw. Not just to get his attention, but to rub his face in the fact that she was who she was—and he had helped make her this way by setting her on the path to amalgamating the two sides of her personality.

“Are you certain I can’t talk you out of this foolishness?” Emily asked a little later as they sat at the table near the window and ate their splendid meal.

“I am. Word’s now gotten back to Dalton that the Duke of Greythorne is in the city and asking about him. Dalton won’t expect Griff to keep company with a girl like me—not for long, at any rate.”

Emily made a face at her crude talk, but it was true, and Emily knew it just as Finley did. “I still don’t like it. We really don’t know anything about this Dalton character other than what little you and Griffin found out—and all you discovered was that he has a fondness for tough girls.”

Finley took a bite out of a cucumber sandwich. She chewed and swallowed before saying, “That’s all I need to know right now. I’ll find out the rest when I get inside. I’ll have my portable telegraph device if I need to contact you.”

“You will contact me. I want to hear from you every three hours if this fool plan works.”

She put on her best placating expression. “That might not be possible, Em.”

A pale finger jabbed the air in front of her. “You listen to me, Miss Finley Jayne. You make it possible, or I’m coming to get you.”

Finley couldn’t help but grin. She loved having a friend, especially one that cared so much for her welfare. “All right, fine. But save your worrying for when I catch Dalton’s attention. He won’t bring me into his gang immediately. So why don’t we concentrate on the fight tonight, and you can worry about me being in Dalton’s clutches when the time comes? You do know I can pound most grown men senseless, right? I mean, I can fight.” In fact, she liked it. It had been part of her darker nature before, but now that she had brought the two halves together—though she still had a lot of work to do on sorting herself out—it was simply part of her.

“I just hope Dalton doesn’t have any abilities of his own.” Emily chewed on her thumbnail. “I’d rather we not have any surprises.”

Finley had thought of that herself. “If I think it’s too dangerous, I’ll run. I promise. Now can we talk about tonight? I have to win a fight, and then I have to deal with Griffin’s wrath.” She grinned. “It is a good plan, isn’t it? Dalton’s bound to notice me, and if I can get into his gang, I can get to Jasper. You know Griffin and Sam will hate the fact that we managed to do what they couldn’t.”

It was obvious that Emily tried to fight her smile, even though it was futile. Her pink lips parted, flashing straight white teeth. “They will at that, lass. They will at that.”

* * *

Jasper expected that Dalton might put a watchdog on him when he went to collect the first piece of the disassembled device. What he hadn’t expected was that Mei would be that watchdog.

He was certain Dalton had sent her to taunt him—to taunt them both. They were alone, and in any other circumstances, they could escape to safety. But Dalton could kill her with that damn collar, and there was nothing Jasper could do to help her. Wasn’t as though he could shoot the thing off her, even if he had his guns.

If only he could find Miss Emily. She’d know what to do. But if she’d heard the rumors about him, she was just as likely to tell him to bugger off.

“Exactly what does this device do?” Mei asked as they navigated the darkness, which was the cellar at O’Dooley’s, with only a feeble hand torch to light their way.

“Danged if I know,” he replied, mentally counting out in measured footsteps to the correct spot. “But it’s important enough that Dalton hunted me down to find it.”

Not for the first time, he cursed himself for taking the blasted thing at all. He had deliberately broken it down into components to buy himself time if this sort of situation ever arose, though he really hadn’t thought it through. It was only because Dalton didn’t want to draw attention to himself that he didn’t send Jasper after the entire device in one night. Some of the locations were going to require stealth, as well as unlawful entry. Jasper had to remember exact locations—it wasn’t as though he’d drawn a map. He was relying on memory.

But Dalton wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to sit back and let Jasper be lazy about it, and he wouldn’t put it past the outlaw to punish Mei over every delay.

He counted out the right steps, pivoted on his heel and faced the rough brick wall. As soon as he saw the patch, he knew exactly where to use the mallet and chisel he’d brought with him for this bit of business.

When they’d first stolen the thing, Dalton had been as excited as a kid let loose in a sweetshop. That was how Jasper had known how important the device was.

Obviously he had overestimated his own importance where Dalton was concerned. Dalton hadn’t cared if Jasper bolted or not. What he cared about, apparently, was the device. And now Mei was paying the price for Jasper’s mistake.

If he got them both out of this mess alive it would be a miracle.

“Hold this, please.” He handed the torch to Mei. She took it and immediately held it at exactly the right angle for him to work. But then, it always seemed as though she had a knack for knowing what people needed. He didn’t know if it was a “talent” exactly, but she just seemed to intuit the right thing, all the time.

Crouching, Jasper applied the chisel to a seam between two bricks and gave it a hard tap with the hammer. Bits of mortar crumbled and fell to the dirt floor. When he’d hidden the piece in this wall, he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to put it back exactly the way he found it. He’d patched it up so that it could be easily accessed if he ever needed it but stand up to scrutiny at the same time.

It took a few minutes to chisel a hole big enough to stick his hand in and draw the part out. He had packed it in a small box to protect it from dust and rodents. As he pulled the rough wooden box from the wall, he could hear the dull roar of the crowd above—a bunch of bloodthirsty men and women feeding off each other’s aggression. Were Griffin and Sam there yet? He knew they would come. Would they think the worst of him when they saw him? He knew better than to hope that somehow they wouldn’t notice him.

God, he hoped Emily and Finley weren’t with them. He had a soft spot for each girl—especially Emily—and the idea of being less in their estimation… Well, it hurt.

He opened the box and unwrapped the paper inside. This particular section of the device—which looked like a crown of tuning forks—was exactly as he remembered. In the back of his mind, he realized he’d been hoping to find it destroyed, so Dalton wouldn’t be able to use it.

“Is that it?” Mei asked, leaning over him with the lantern.

She smelled of cherry blossoms, he thought. He could close his eyes—just for a moment—and pretend they were somewhere else. Instead, he nodded, shoved the “crown” back into the box and rose to his feet. “Part of it. Do you have the sack?”

He could feel her confused gaze on him as she gave him the leather pouch. No doubt she wondered why he didn’t look at her, why he was so curt. But if she did have a talent for knowing what people needed, she’d know that right now he needed to put some distance between them, because the last thing he needed was to fall in love again when both their lives hung in the balance. Love was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with.

With their bounty in the sack, Jasper gestured for her to walk in front. There was nothing he could do about the bricks and mortar dust on the floor—that would be someone else’s mess to clean up.

No one was around to see them as they slipped out of the cellar opening. The crowd was louder up here—the fights being held in a nearby room. They exited into the vestibule, where spectators waited like a herd of cattle to be allowed inside. Little Hank was waiting for them by the door and corralled them toward the main hall. Apparently Dalton wanted them to stay for the fight, as well. Tarnation, there went any hope of Griffin not seeing him.

There was a bit of a commotion as the night’s fighters were brought in. These brave—or insane, however you wanted to look at it—scrappers would be put in a ring against each other and machines in a “last man standing” sort of event. Killing your opponent wasn’t encouraged, but it wasn’t against the rules, either. The only rule was that to win, you had to be the only fighter left alive and conscious. It was nasty and brutal and not at all the sort of thing Mei should see—never mind that she had been the one to teach Jasper the Chinese martial arts.

He turned his head to watch the parade of fighters, because it was less painful than looking at Mei’s pale but pretty face. Tonight’s contenders were a hard-looking lot of criminals and thugs…

“Good God!” He exclaimed.

Mei’s head whipped around. “What?”

His heart was beating hard against his ribs, and his breath seemed to have caught in his throat. One of the fighters had looked straight at him and winked.

“Jasper, do you know that girl?” She sounded jealous.

He shook his head, watching in horror as Finley walked into the hall with the rest of the fighters—her opponents. What the tarnation was she up to? She had to be there to get close to Dalton—that was the only explanation.

This night couldn’t get much worse. If he thought Griffin would never look at him the same now, it was going to be even worse if Miss Finley got herself killed.

CHAPTER FOUR

No one had told Finley that this was an ongoing night of continuous fighting, weeding out the opponents until you were the last one left. The first time one of the fighters injured another so badly the results surely had to be fatal, she almost heaved the contents of her stomach all over the rough-hewn floor.

Emily was with her, watching the violence from the sidelines, dressed in a white shirt, vest and striped green trousers with high thick-soled boots. Her ropes of hair were pinned up on the top of her head, and she sported a silver hoop through the right side of her nose. It didn’t really pierce her skin, but clamped on in order to appear as though it did. The hoop and the trousers were gang related. Apparently there was some kind of Irish gang in the city who wore the same jewelry and trousers. They were known as fighters—either being tough themselves or handling fighters who were tougher.

It was a good disguise. Emily wasn’t as tall and muscular as Finley, so the kit provided some protection. No one would mess with a member of the Uisce Beatha gang. Ish-ge Bah-hah, Emily pronounced it. It meant whiskey in Irish.

“Right,” Finley said when another man was carried—groaning in agony—from the ring. “I’m going to knock ’em out as soon as I can, Em. Do as little and take as little damage as I can.”

“A sound notion,” her friend replied in a strained voice. “Just be careful, Finley. I’m not certain this was such a grand idea after all.”

Finley’s smile pulled tight. “It’s not, but it’s the best I have, unless you think me throwing myself at Dalton would be better?”

“He is lovely to look upon, but I reckon that’s not the way to win his trust and respect. Plenty o’ women have been practically swooning over him all evening.”

Emily was right. The criminal was possessed of an uncommonly fine face. They’d spotted him shortly after their arrival, because he had Jasper with him. Dalton was almost too handsome with his silky brown hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones. It bothered her to look at him for too long.

Griffin, on the other hand, was a bit more rugged-looking, not quite so perfectly put together. He wasn’t as overtly chiseled, but she could look at him for days and not get bored.

She glanced at Jasper. From where they stood, they could see him fairly clearly, though she doubted he could see them, shrouded in shadows as they were. Jasper did not look like the carefree, smooth-talking cowboy she’d met in London. He looked weary, guarded and strangely dangerous—as though he was a man on the verge of violence.

“Jasper doesn’t look as though he’s enjoying himself,” she remarked, not taking her attention off of him as Emily wrapped her hands.

“No,” Emily agreed. “I think he must be with Dalton against his will. Who do you suppose the girl is?”

Ah, Finley had wondered when that would come up. “No idea. They appear to know each other quite well.”

“Quite.” There could be no mistaking the jealous tone of Emily’s voice.

“I thought you’d set your cap at Sam.” She turned her head to look at her friend. “Has that changed?”

Crimson splotches bloomed on pale cheeks. “No. Although, I’m not sure what it says about me that, even though I prefer Sam’s attentions to Jasper’s, I still do not like Jasper turning that attention elsewhere.”

Finley chuckled at her honesty. “I don’t know a girl who would.” She paused. “You saw that Sam is here?” She hadn’t been surprised to see the big lad at the fight, but she had been surprised to see he was a contender. She should have known Griffin would come up with a similar plan, blast it all.

“Yes,” Emily replied, expression grim. “Don’t you hurt him.”

The warning in her friend’s tone startled her, but she heeded it all the same. Emily’s bad side was not a place she wanted to be. “I won’t.”

“Up next,” boomed the announcer’s voice, “Harpy O’Malley versus Finley Bennet.”

Her stomach felt as though it had dropped between her ankles. She’d given them an alias she had used before, in case anyone started asking questions—no way to link her name to Griffin’s. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“Harpy’s not intimidating,” Emily informed her, giving her a gentle shove. “Bird woman. You can defeat a bird woman. Off with ye now, before we attract even more attention. And be careful.”

There was no turning back. One look at Jasper, and Finley knew she couldn’t walk away. Besides, she wasn’t a coward. She simply wasn’t used to walking into a fight without aggression already driving her. She wasn’t going up against an enemy, just another person.

Another person willing to kill her to win. That realization drove the importance of the evening home. Calm settled over her. Calm determination. She had not come here to lose.

She stepped out of the shadows and walked the short distance to the raised platform where the ring sat. Slipping between the ropes, she forced herself to think of one thing and one thing only: survival.

“Harpy” turned out to be a strapping woman of Irish descent. She had long ginger hair, which she wore in thick braids on either side of her head, and arms the size of Finley’s legs. Some might have called her heavy or sturdy but there wasn’t an inch that wasn’t muscle. She wouldn’t go down easy, but when she did, she’d stay there.

Finley smiled and flexed her wrapped hands. She almost regretted the fact that she wouldn’t be able to cut her knuckles on Harpy’s teeth. Oh, yes. Her fighting side had shown up in full force. The runes Griff had tattooed on her back tingled so slightly it might have been her imagination.

The Irishwoman came at her fast and furious, swinging her meat-hook-like hands with such force they created a breeze. Finley avoided one swipe but took another on the chin. It felt as though her teeth had been driven up into her brain, it hurt so bad. But as she’d learned in the past, pain was often a trigger for her particular “talents,” and this was no different. She managed to avoid another couple of swings by dodging out of the way. Once her head cleared, she could concentrate on the anger that being hit brought out in her—and the single-minded determination to not feel that pain again.

Harpy was already panting, having exhausted herself with all that constant exertion. Her movements had slowed, and that was all the enticement Finley needed. She whirled around in a move Jasper had shown her, pivoted her body down toward her left leg and brought her right up, connecting with her opponent’s head with a solid kick. She was right—Harpy went down hard.

As the woman’s unconscious body was lugged out of the ring, Finley caught Dalton’s appreciative gaze. She’d grabbed his interest; now to see if she could keep it. She waggled her fingers at him in a way she hoped made her appear flirtatious, rather than deranged, and was rewarded with a lopsided grin.

“Get out of the ring” came a stern male voice from behind her. “We got another fight comin’.”

Finley did as she was told. Her victory guaranteed that she’d be back in the ring later, so she could continue to work on Dalton then.

As she approached the shadows where Emily stood waiting for her, grinning like an idiot, Finley glanced out into the audience. Her gaze locked with another—one the color of a stormy sky and every bit as volatile.

It was Griffin. And he wasn’t nearly as impressed with her as Emily was.

* * *

Finley’s last fight was against Sam.

It was ironic that her former nemesis be her final fight. She wasn’t surprised that it had come down to the two of them. If she had to fight all comers till the end of the world, it would still end up just her and Sam, squared off.

“What are you doing here?” he growled as they stood face-to-face.

“Same thing you are—trying to fight my way into Dalton’s gang.”

“You’re mad.”

“And you’ve been seen with the Duke of Greythorne.” That drew him up straight. “Sam, Dalton’s already noticed me. He likes girls that fight. Stay with Griffin and Emily. Protect them. Let me have Dalton.”

“What are you waitin’ for?” A voice from the crowd shouted. “Fight!”

A roar rose up in the crowded room, reverberating off the walls, trembling through the floorboards.

Sam raised his fists. “Let’s do this.”

Finley adopted a fighting stance. “Are you going to take a fall?”

He nodded, jaw clenched. It would be a blow to his pride, she knew it. “But I’m going to make you work for it.”

And she did work for it. By the time Sam finally hit the floor, she had the bruised—at least she hoped they were only bruised—ribs, sore jaw, split lip and assorted other injuries to prove just how he’d made her work. She stood in the center of the ring, battered and bloody, exhausted and exhilarated, and reveled in the roar of the frenzied crowd.

She hadn’t seriously injured anyone, and she was proud of herself for that, because other fighters hadn’t been nearly so considerate. She’d taken pleasure in knocking out those who had such little regard for human life. In fact, she’d toyed with them like a cat with a mouse—taking her time in putting them down. Perhaps that didn’t say much for her character, but in the moment, she hadn’t cared.

She had achieved what she wanted: she had Dalton’s attention. He tipped his hat to her when her gaze settled on him, and she smiled in return before looking away. It wouldn’t be good to appear too eager.

With her one good eye—the other was swollen shut—she turned so that she could see Griffin. She didn’t make direct eye contact with him, because she knew Dalton was watching her, but she had to look.

Griffin stood now, as did all the other spectators, only they cheered for her—or booed her. The Duke of Greythorne just stood there, stoic and expressionless. Then he said something to Sam and turned away. Sam flashed her a quick, almost apologetic glance and followed after him. The crowd swallowed them wholly and quickly.

Finley looked away, refusing to hunt him down with her gaze. The sudden ache in her chest rivaled any of the injuries she’d suffered at the hands of her opponents. She knew he couldn’t come to her, couldn’t show any emotion because of Dalton, but she would have liked to see a little anger in his gaze, perhaps a little pride. She’d done good.

She pushed thoughts of Griffin aside as Emily joined her, supporting her physically and emotionally as Finley acknowledged the crowd with a cocky grin. Together, they made their way to the place where all the fighters had waited for their turn. Emily had to hold the ropes as far apart as she could for Finley to slip through. As it was, her ribs cried out in protest.

Bloody hell, she needed a hot bath and bed. And maybe some laudanum for the discomfort until the Organites did their work. She didn’t care if people noticed how fast she healed. She wasn’t allowing this pain to linger. The little “beasties” from far below the earth—supposedly the ooze from which life began—would fix her up in no time.

Those dreams were dashed when a behemoth of a man stepped in front of them. Finley looked up—way up. The man was bigger than Sam. A giant. Emily stiffened at the sight of him.

“Mr. Dalton wants to meet you,” he said in a voice that sounded as though it came from his toes.

Finley scowled at him. This is what she had hoped to achieve, and now that she had, she was annoyed. “Mr. Dalton can wait.”

The man straightened, making himself even taller. “Mr. Dalton doesn’t wait.”

A sharp glare wrinkled Emily’s brow. “Look, you…gargantuan, she’s hurt, and she’s not running off to meet your master until I’ve addressed her injuries. Is that understood?”

Surprise lit his large face. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait here.”

As they walked away, Finley turned her head to look at her friend, admiration taking the sting out of her wounds. “You’re a fierce one, Emily O’Brien.”

“I don’t like being ordered about or bullied” was all the explanation she offered. For the second time that day, Finley had violent feelings toward whoever had hurt her friend in the past.

“I’ll clean your wounds and apply some cosmetics so no one notices that you heal faster than regular folk, but I’m going to inject beasties into your ribs to mend them—and remedy any chance of internal injury.”

Finley assumed her insides would heal just like everything else, but serious internal injuries could kill her faster than she could repair herself. She knew this because she had once injured Sam and almost killed him. She nodded in acquiescence.

They found a bench toward the back of the hall, and Finley gingerly sat down. Emily rummaged through her bag and removed a metal syringe, which she filled with an earthy-smelling substance Finley recognized as Organites. Griffin’s grandfather had discovered it on his property years ago. It was also believed to be the cause of these “evolutions” she and the others had gone through. Her father had experimented with the stuff, and so she had been born with her abilities, but Emily, Sam and Griffin had developed theirs over the years. Sam was part machine and wickedly strong. Griffin could harness the Aether—a dimensional energy unnoticed by most of the living. And Emily could talk to machines.

Organites were everywhere—part of the earth. Who knew who else had been affected around the world? Jasper had developed abilities while living in California, though they’d increased after using some of Emily’s healing salve.

“This may hurt,” Emily warned as she positioned the needle between the plates of Finley’s steel corset. The sharp point went through her shirt to pierce her skin. Finley hissed as it struck one of her abused ribs, but she remained still. The last thing she needed was for Emily to puncture her lung.

“Sorry,” her friend whispered. “There, done.” The needle slid out.

Almost instantly, Finley felt the Organites go to work. There was a tingling sensation, almost like a tickle, and then the pain in her torso began to ease. It would take a little while to heal completely, but at least it didn’t hurt so much.

Then Emily cleaned the blood from her face while Finley unwrapped the damp and soiled bandages from around her hands. She flexed her fingers. Her knuckles were sore, but none were broken.

“Ready?” Emily asked when she was done.

Finley nodded. “Em, maybe you should go back to the hotel with Sam and Griffin.”

A dark flush rose in the other girl’s cheeks at the suggestion. “And leave you to face that giant and Dalton alone? I don’t think so, lass.”

Perhaps not, but all Finley could think of at that moment was how badly hurt Emily had been when they went up against The Machinist and his automatons. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to her friend while she was with her.

“Em…”

“You just shut your mouth. I am not letting you do this alone, so you can either let me go with you, or I can march out there and tell that mountain of a man that you’re the Duke of Greythorne’s girlfriend.”

Finley’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Movements stiff, Emily crammed her supplies back into her satchel. “Don’t push me. I’m all for bravery, but there’s a fine line between that and buffoonery. You’re quickly siding on the latter.” She hoisted the bag, face impassive, and jerked her head toward the entrance. “Let’s go.”

Gingerly, Finley rose to her feet. It didn’t hurt as much as she expected. She was able to walk by herself as they made their way to where their “escort” waited.

“Right, then,” Finley said to the giant as they approached. “Lead on.”

He pointed at Emily. “Not her.”

Emily opened her mouth, but Finley cut her off. “Sorry, mate. She goes where I go.” She had to stop herself from putting on an accent as atrocious as Jack’s butchered English. She wanted to sound a little lower class than she actually was, but not so much that Dalton felt too superior.

The big man didn’t like this change of plans, but he didn’t argue with her. “Fine. Follow me.”

Finley had to walk faster than she wanted, to match his long stride. Poor Emily practically jogged beside her. Somehow they managed to keep up as he led them from the fighting area to a small parlor—for lack of a better term—just off the main vestibule.

The room was sparse and in need of fresh paint and paper. The furniture was aged but sturdy. Dalton sat on a small blue sofa, while Jasper and the Chinese girl were seated to his left on a red love seat. Three armed men, looking as though they’d just stepped off the cover of a cowboy dime novel, stood behind Dalton.

Finley stopped in the center of the room, trying not to look at Jasper, who had been a gentleman and stood when they came in. He was supposed to be a stranger, after all. Hopefully Emily remembered that, as well.

“Hello,” Dalton said. He stood, too. “I’m Reno Dalton. And you are Finley…Bennet, is it?”

She almost snorted. She’d wager ten quid he knew exactly what her name was—or rather what she pretended it was. Instead, she smiled. “That’s right. Your man said you wanted to see me, so what do you want?”

Emily shot her a startled glance at her abrupt tone, but Finley ignored it. She’d known entirely too many young men like Dalton, and she’d knocked out over half of them. She knew just how to get their interest—by being disinterested in them.

Dalton arched a brow. “Blunt little thing, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “In my experience people only want to talk to me when they think I can be useful to them. I’m assuming there’s something you think I can do for you, so let’s not beat around the bush, eh? I’m hungry.” She was, too. Fighting burned a lot of energy.

Dalton walked toward her. The closer he came the more she realized just how utterly beautiful he was. Really, it was a wonder he didn’t leave a trail of swooning women in his wake. Then he smiled, and Finley felt like she was facing a shark—one that smelled blood. Dalton was bad news, and part of her liked it. Not him, but something about him.

“Forgive my manners, Miss Bennet. We tend to do things differently in America than in England. I understand that you must be sore and tired and understandably hungry. Perhaps you would care to meet me for dinner tomorrow night? I have a business opportunity I would like to discuss with you.” His pale gaze traveled over her. “You like money, don’t you?”

Finley took a step toward him and peered up at him with a smirk. “As much as the next girl. When and where?”

“My driver can fetch you.”

“I’ll fetch myself, thanks.” She couldn’t very well tell him to collect her at the Waldorf-bloody-Astoria, could she?

Dalton inclined his head, curiosity lighting his already bright eyes. “Very well.” He withdrew a card from inside his gray coat. There was an address on it. “This is where I’m staying while I’m in the city. Come around seven.”

Finley nodded as she slipped the card inside the top of her corset, between the garment and her shirt. It wasn’t completely risqué, but she could tell Dalton appreciated the action. “Seven it is.” Then she turned to Emily. “Come along, ducks. I’ve a craving for pudding.”

Dalton bid them good-night, and Finley returned the sentiment. She managed to sweep out of the room without directing the barest glance at Jasper. Hopefully he was the stand-up sort she believed him to be and wouldn’t give away her true identity to Dalton.

It would be a shame if she got all dolled up for dinner only to get herself killed.

* * *

“Do you know her?”

Jasper looked up when Dalton spoke to him. “Who?” he asked, playing dumb.

Blue eyes rolled heavenward. “The Queen. Who do you think? The scrappy girl.”

Finley hadn’t even left five minutes ago, and already, Dalton was asking questions. She must have made an impression.

“Uh, England might not be as big as the States or even Texas, but it’s still a country with lots of people living in it. Just ’cause I’ve been there doesn’t mean I met them all. Though I did hear stories about a girl linked to Jack Dandy who was incredibly fast and strong.” If he was right, and Finley was trying to get into Dalton’s gang, she would need the worst reputation she could get. “She was suspected in the death of an aristocrat, but nothing was ever proven.”

Dalton’s expression was all curiosity. “Really? She does sound like an intriguing female.” He paused. “How many more pieces are there to retrieve?”

“Half a dozen,” Jasper replied. “Give or take.”

The other man’s expression turned hard. “You better hope you remember where you hid them all.”

Jasper nodded. “I remember.”

Slapping his thighs, Dalton replied, “Good. You’ll get the second one tomorrow. Now let’s get out of here. This place smells like sweat and blood.”

It did at that, and Jasper wasn’t sorry to leave it. The ride back to Dalton’s rented house was quiet. Not even Mei spoke, though Jasper caught her glaring at Dalton once or twice. The cad only smiled at her in return.

Jasper’s mind whirled. If Finley was trying to infiltrate the gang, then surely she and the others believed in his innocence. He didn’t know whether he loved them for it or wanted to cuff ’em upside their fool heads. He was touched that they came for him but terrified one or more of them would be hurt—or worse—because of him. It seemed he couldn’t get close to anyone without putting them at risk.

At the house, Little Hank practically shoved him all the way to his room and tossed him inside without a word. Jasper kicked off his boots and tossed his hat and coat on a chair before dropping onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. He had only just started ruminating on a way out of this mess when he heard the key turn in the lock.

Mei.

She came into the room in a bright blue silk dressing gown, carrying a medium-size polished oak box, which appeared to be heavy. Jasper got up and took the burden from her.

“Set it on the desk,” she instructed, and he did, noticing that it wasn’t really a box at all, but some kind of auditory device. Set into one side of it was a brass funnel—like one would find on a Victrola.

“What is this contraption?” he asked.

Mei smiled as she opened the lid, revealing a panel of knobs and switches and a place to insert punch cards. “Dalton calls it a portable phonograph. It runs on a power cell made in England.” Jasper didn’t tell her Griffin’s grandfather had discovered the ore that made the power cell possible. It was a modern marvel, but a good part of the world still depended on, or preferred, gaslight or even candles and lamps.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

“I believe Dalton stole it from someone named Edison.”

“Thomas Edison?” Jasper asked, dumbfounded.

Mei nodded. “That’s it.”

Was the machine Jasper had hidden something of Edison’s, as well? If so, no wonder Dalton wanted it back. It could be a terrible thing—after all, Edison was the man who had electrocuted animals to prove electricity could also be used to execute criminals.

She flicked a switch, adjusted two of the knobs and then inserted a punch card. Music wafted from the funnel, clear and sweet. Mei adjusted the volume so that the music would only be heard in that room and then took him by the hand with a gentle smile.

“Come,” she said. “Talk to me.”

They lay down on the bed, where they could be comfortable. Jasper held her in his arms, against his chest, and breathed in the sweet, flowery scent of her. In that moment, he could forget just what a dang mess he’d made of things.

“You really didn’t know those girls tonight?” she asked.

He hesitated. He wanted to tell her who the girls were, that he had friends who would do their best to help Mei and him, but if she didn’t know, then she wouldn’t have to lie to Dalton. She wouldn’t be in danger.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know them. That one with the black in her hair sure is tough, though, ain’t she?”

“Very,” she replied, clearly impressed. “And she knows Eastern fighting techniques.”

“They’re becoming all the rage in London now,” he responded. She’d sounded slightly suspicious. “Especially among the suffragettes.”

“Warrior women,” she mused with a smile. “I like that. I…noticed you looking at the red-haired girl. Do you think she’s pretty?”

Asking if Miss Emily was pretty was sort of like asking if the sun was warm. She brightened any room she was in, as fresh and light as Mei was dark and exotic. There was no way he could compare the two of them, and that’s what she was asking him to do. What she really wanted to know was if he thought Emily was prettier than her.

“She’s all right.” He squeezed her against his chest. “She’s not you, though.” That was the most diplomatic reply he could think of.

Clearly it worked, because Mei smiled and cuddled against him. When she lifted her face for a kiss, Jasper paused again. A soft ticking noise captured his attention—it was coming from her. “That collar. Does it hurt?”

Mei raised slender fingers to the clockwork device around her neck. “It’s a little tight when Dalton winds it, but I’ve gotten so accustomed to it, I barely notice anymore.”

“So he doesn’t tighten it to punish you?”

“He did in the beginning—when I tried to escape. That’s how I know that it actually works. I don’t know how, but he knows when I try to leave. But tonight, at the fight, I was fine.”

Jasper’s jaw clenched. He could kill Dalton. “It probably transmits through the Aether.” He didn’t know much about the “energy” but he had seen machines that could harness the power—it was like they could work without wires or connections. Mei had been fine, because she’d been close to Dalton. “It’s a big risk you’re taking, sneaking in here to see me like this.” If Dalton found her not in her room, he might tighten the collar just to remind her of her place.

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