The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

called women who did that. She was comfortable, however, being his employee and accepting a wage for the work she did with him. He paid very well—more than she’d ever earned at another job, more than her stepfather, Silas, probably made in his shop.

A passing bellman in a spotless, creaseless uniform stopped to inquire whether or not she needed a carriage brought around, and for a moment, she felt very posh indeed. “Actually, I’m in need of a cab,” she told him. “Might you acquire one for me?” She even sounded posh.

The young man replied that he could and headed off to do just that. That left her standing alone, off to one side of the lobby, where she could watch other guests leave for their evening’s entertainment.

A fine figure of a gentleman caught her eye as she studied her surroundings. His back was to her, allowing her to admire the breadth of his shoulders beneath his fine black coat, his impressive height and the way the light brought out red and gold in his hair. Then as though feeling the weight of her gaze upon him, he turned and looked right at her.

Breath deserted her lungs. Griffin.

She had thought him handsome the first time she laid eyes on him, and before that, she’d heard Phoebe, a girl she used to work for, talk about him and how all the young ladies admired him. Perhaps it was the lighting or the danger of the situation she was about to walk into, but she didn’t think he had ever looked as breathtaking as he did at that very moment in his black-and-white evening attire, his thick hair brushed back from his handsome features. Amusement danced in his gray-blue eyes.

Her mouth hung open like an old door off its hinge.

This was the Duke of Greythorne, and it was no wonder young ladies whispered about him. Though Finley would admit that she often found Griffin more attractive when he was slightly scruffy, there was something about the way he was so perfectly dressed—something about how he stood and held his head. He radiated power and authority; confidence but not arrogance.

She realized then what he and Jack had in common. They liked themselves. They knew their own strengths and their weaknesses and had made peace with them both. She envied that. Respected it.

She still didn’t know what her strengths—the nonphysical ones—were, but she was pretty certain her weaknesses outnumbered them. Someday, though ... Someday, she hoped to feel comfortable in her own skin. She already felt better about herself than she had two months ago. Again, she owed some of that to the gorgeous specimen standing across the foyer from her.

So when Griffin smiled at her, she glanced away—embarrassed, scared that he might have somehow divined her thoughts and emotions. She wanted to be more like him. She wanted to like herself. But first, she had to know herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as he left the hotel, and then through the glass, she saw him climb into a fine carriage driven by two gleaming brass automaton horses. Someone had sent a private vehicle for him so he wouldn’t have to take a hack. Nice.

Finley stepped out into the evening air just as Griffin’s vehicle pulled away. She, of course, didn’t have a private carriage waiting on her. It was difficult not to be a little envious of Griffin when she climbed into an interior that smelled of smoke and sweat.

New York, like most modern cities, was humid—the air filled with steam from factories, vehicles and automatons. In the winter, it would make the cold seep into one’s bones. In the warmer months, it would make a body so moist you’d think people had bathed with their clothes on. Thankfully, this night was cool, so she didn’t have to worry about her kit sticking to her skin.

She gave the driver Dalton’s direction and sat back as the carriage rolled into motion. Hers was driven by a real horse, which added to the bouquet of the cab. She stared out the window at the passing city.

New York might be a newer city, perhaps a little more modern, but life was the same here as in London—the wealthy mingled with the poor as little as possible, but often had little choice in the matter. The have-nots would always outnumber the haves, as she had seen the other day in Five Points. It rivaled any London slum.

The lights of a dirigible drifting overhead briefly illuminated 5th Avenue, its engine a low hum over the hustle and bustle of the city. She had heard that the air machines avoided flying over the poorer areas, because they didn’t provide a pleasing view for their passengers. Only the very wealthy could afford air travel. The rest of the world still had to rely on rail and boats to get where they wanted to go.

The dirigible continued north toward the landing port in Central Park, and Finley’s carriage continued south and a little west, inching farther and farther away from the grandeur of the hotel and the party Griffin would enjoy. Not too far, though. She wasn’t headed for the slums tonight.

Dalton was wise to keep his household just on the fringe of Five Points. He didn’t impinge on anyone’s “business” that way and avoided anyone trying to take a piece of his. The gangs didn’t take well to strangers, and if Dalton was from San Francisco the same as Jasper, then he hadn’t been in the city long enough to fully establish himself. He obviously fancied himself above the gangs and their ilk, judging from the way he dressed and spoke. Perhaps that was something she could use to her advantage.

His was a moderately sized, slightly shabby redbrick town house with a freshly swept walk and a weathered brass knocker on the door. It looked like the sort of place where a middle-class merchant might have once lived with his wife and children—not a den of thieves. There were even flowers in the tiny gardens tucked on either side of the steps.

“Are you certain this is where you want to go, miss?” the driver asked as she stepped out. “It’s not the sort of neighborhood a pretty little thing like you should brave alone.”

Finley smiled in appreciation as she dug a few coins out of the pouch concealed beneath the bottom of her corset. If he only knew the damage she could work, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her as a “little thing.” Though, he was still welcome to think her pretty.

“It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m meeting friends here.”

He looked dubious, but he didn’t press the issue as she dropped payment and a generous tip into his palm. “You have a good night, then, miss.”

She bade him good-night and approached the front steps, hoping the cabbie wouldn’t sit there and wait until she went inside to leave—as though he were her father or guardian.

To her relief, the coach pulled away when the front door of the house opened. It was the behemoth who glared down at her. “You’re late.”

She glared back. “So?”

He didn’t seem to know just what to make of that. Clearly he was not a man accustomed to being talked back to. “Mr. Dalton’s waiting for you. Follow me.”

When Finley crossed the threshold, it was as though she’d stepped into another world. At that moment, she realized there was no turning back. Jasper would prove to be either a friend or enemy, and she would either survive this or she wouldn’t. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Dalton would try to kill her if he found out she’d lied to him —it was what any criminal would do. She could only hope she would have backup with her when the time came.

The house was comfortable and clean—much like the home her mother and stepfather owned. She’d grown up surrounded by lemon scent and furniture polish, the slight, sharp tang of vinegar. The smells brought a pang of homesickness to her chest as she followed the silent giant across the foyer through another doorway. He knocked and opened the door to reveal a small green parlor.

Jasper sat on the sofa. He looked up as soon as she walked in. There was absolutely no recognition on his face, but she thought she caught a glimmer of something in his green eyes. The girl was there, too, watching her like a mouse eyes a hawk—or perhaps the other way around. Finley’s own eyes narrowed.

Why were pretty girls always so eager to get all territorial when another girl entered the room? It wasn’t as though Finley was competition or wanted that ugly-arse necklace she was wearing.

Dalton was at the bar, fixing himself a drink. He turned and grinned at her, bright eyes crinkling at the corners. Did he stand at his mirror and practice that smile? Did he know just by how it felt on his face how charming it was? He was almost too perfect to look at—like an angel sent to earth.

Only Dalton was no angel.

“Miss Bennet,” he greeted in a low drawl. “Good evening. Care for a drink?”

Finley shook her head. She needed all her wits about her. “No thanks. My apologies for being late.”

A quick glance at the clock above the mantel, and Dalton frowned. “You’re not late at all.”