He fired off three more shots, each of which ricocheted off equipment. One grazed Finley’s shoulder, drawing blood. She cried out.
“Got you, did I?” came Lord Vincent’s pleased tone. “Come on out, dear girl, and I’ll make your death quick.”
Six. That was it. He was out of bullets.
Before he could reload, Finley lunged to her feet and threw herself at him. He looked up from shoving more bullets into the pistol with a horrified expression.
She hit him hard, sending both of them crashing into the workbench. The tank shuddered. Lady Vincent’s brain bobbed wildly. Suddenly, Finley knew what to do. There was only one way to end this without either she or Lord Vincent dying.
Grabbing him by the coat with one hand, she hauled him close and punched him twice in the face, hard. He fell back with a groan, the pistol falling to the floor.
Finley didn’t waste any time, she grabbed a handful of wires leading into the tank and yanked. There was a squishing sound as they pulled free of the brain, and she winced. Then, she seized the tank with both hands.
“No!” Lord Vincent screamed.
Finley pulled. He grabbed her just as the tank crashed to the floor, splattering its gruesome contents all over the lab.
Everything went eerily quiet—even Lord Vincent. He clung to Finley for a moment, like a child clinging to its mother, before slowly sinking to the floor, sobbing. When he crawled toward the destroyed grayish-pink mass in the middle of all the glass and goo, Finley made her escape. Lord Vincent’s plaintive wails rang in her ears as she ran. “No,” he cried. “Cassanda, no.”
It was heartbreaking—or it would have been had he not tried to kill her, had he not been prepared to kill Phoebe for some mad experiment that probably wouldn’t have worked.
Finley shuddered as she burst through the door of the countess’s bedroom. She hoped it wouldn’t have worked.
She crawled out the window just as servants clamored up the stairs—about time they came to investigate all the shots. When she hit the grass, there was another shot, and she froze. Had Vincent shot one of his servants?
There was screaming from inside the house—lots of it. Lights began to come on in the upstairs windows, and one man shouted for someone to fetch the Watch. That’s when Finley broke into a run. She did not want to be there when the police arrived.
Lady Morton and Phoebe were waiting for her when she returned. The relief on the older woman’s face touched Finley.
“I was so worried when Lord Vincent decided to leave early,” she explained. “I had no way to warn you.”
“She was so distraught I made her tell me what the two of you had been up to,” Phoebe added, with a stern glance at her mother. “Finley, that you would do that for me is humbling, but I would never have forgiven myself if you had been harmed.”
“He tried,” Finley replied. “He had a gun and shot at me, but he wasn’t very good at it.” The spot where he’d grazed her shoulder was already healing, and her dark clothing concealed the blood stain.
“Thank Heaven,” Lady Morton whispered, hand pressed to her chest. Her artificial eye gleamed, as though expressing its own relief.
Finley flopped against the back of the settee. She was exhausted.
“What was he up to anyway?” Phoebe demanded, sitting on a nearby chair. Her posture was much better than Finley’s.
Staring at her, Finley wondered how much to tell. If the police had taken Lord Vincent into custody, how much would be in tomorrow’s papers? Would it be worse for Phoebe to read about it and have people whisper about her? Or would it be better to know the truth?
“He wanted to use you to bring his dead wife back to life,” she explained. In such cases, the truth had to be the best course of action.
Phoebe’s normally smooth brow furrowed. “How did he plan to manage that?”
Finley glanced at Lady Morton, who was suitably horrified, and drew a deep breath. “He was going to put her brain in your head.”
“But that—” All the color drained from Phoebe’s face. She swayed a little on her chair, and Finley moved closer to catch her in case she swooned. “He planned to kill me?”
Grimly, Finley nodded. Phoebe’s reaction to the news was unexpected. She threw herself at Finley and wrapped her arms around her so tight Finley could scarce draw breath. “Thank you, Finley. Thank you so much.”
They were still sitting like that a few minutes later when Lord Morton stumbled in, drunk. He took one look at the embracing girls and his pale wife, and said, “You’ve already heard then.”
“Heard what?” Lady Morton inquired.
The portly earl swayed on his feet, face flushed and his eyes glassy. “About Vincent. Seems shortly after he left here he went home and killed himself.”
A collective gasp rose from his audience. Finley’s heart stopped for a second. The shot she heard before all the screams broke out. That had been Lord Vincent taking his own life. When he realized he would never resurrect his wife, he decided to join her in death. It was almost romantic, in a mad-inventor sort of way.
She looked at Phoebe, who was staring at her, big green eyes filled with tears and shock.
“You’re free,” she whispered to her. Tears streamed down the girl’s face, and Finley hugged her close once more. Lady Morton joined them on the settee and wrapped her arms around them both.
“Women,” Lord Morton muttered. “Well, at least there’s a debt I won’t have to pay back.” With that profoundly sensitive remark, he staggered out of the room, leaving the three of them alone once more.
He wasn’t missed.
Finley stayed on long enough to attend the funeral, as was proper. As Lord Vincent’s fiancée, Phoebe was socially obligated to observe mourning protocols, but she was determined to spend the shortest amount of time possible at it. Since she wasn’t going to be out and about much for the next few months, Finley didn’t see much point in continuing on as her companion.
Besides, every time the girl looked at her, Finley knew she was a reminder of all that had happened. Aside from Lady Morton, Finley alone knew what Vincent had planned to do to her, and that was the last thing the poor girl needed.
“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Lady Morton asked her, pen poised over her checkbook.
Finley nodded. “I’m sure. Thank you, though. And thank you for the letter of reference.”
The lady smiled. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.” A tear glistened on her lashes and she wiped it away. “Here are your wages.”
The check was generous—more than Finley was due, but she took it regardless. It would be an insult to Lady Morton if she argued. “You’re very kind.”
Lady Morton set aside her pen and straightened her spine. “A friend of mine’s daughter is returning from Paris tomorrow and is in need of a lady’s maid. It doesn’t require much in the way of social appearances, but it does pay well and affords more freedom than most domestic posts. I told her about you. Should you like, you can stop by on Wednesday morning for an interview. Here is her address.”
Stunned, Finley took the card she offered. “Lady August-Raynes,” she read aloud.
Lady Morton nodded. “I know nothing of the daughter, but she had a son with a bit of a reputation as a rogue. If you accept the position, you keep an eye out for him. Swat him about a bit if he steps out of line.”
Finley grinned. “I’m sure I can handle him.” She thanked the lady again. Then she went and said goodbye to Phoebe, which was more difficult than she thought it would be.
“I hope it works out with you and Robert,” she said.
