Slowly, Finley advanced toward them. How dare they terrify Lady Morton so. How dare they be so brazen as to accost them in broad daylight on Bond Street!
She stopped directly in front of her employer, and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring glance before turning her attention to the man with an arm around her shoulders. He had yet to pull back the hammer, so that gave her a little room to play.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she told both men. “Picking on harmless, defenseless women.”
“Gotta eat, girly,” Lady Morton’s captor replied with a sneer.
Finley’s lips twisted. “That’s going to be difficult for you from now on.”
Before he could ask or utter a sound, her first flew into his mouth with all her strength. Blood and teeth sprayed the air as he screamed in pain. She snatched the pistol from his hand and pointed it at the man with the knife. Then, she gently nudged Lady Morton behind her, pushing her toward Phoebe.
The bully with the blade gaped at her. He barely glanced at his friend, who was laid out cold on the ground, blood dripping from his slack mouth.
“It’s not loaded,” knife man announced just as he lunged for her.
Finley didn’t think; she simply acted. She caught him hard across the jaw with the pistol and dodged out of the way of the knife he swung at her. The tip of the blade sliced through the fine wool of her coat, but did not touch her flesh. She caught his arm before he could swing again, and gave his wrist a sharp twist. He dropped the knife, crying out as his friend had as she snapped the bones in his arm like they were as brittle as matches.
Finley let him go when his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, clutching his wrist, calling her names that she had never heard of before.
“Maybe I am all those things.” She sneered at him, pocketing the knife. “But I’m still the girl that kicked both your arses.”
She turned then, toward the two women near the mouth of the alley. Both of them rushed to her, crushing her in their fierce embrace. Lady Morton might have actually been crying.
“There, there,” Finley consoled them. “Enough of that. Let’s get out of here before we attract attention, shall we?” The last thing she needed was some nosy Peeler—the nickname given to those on the London police force— coming by asking how a girl like her managed to debilitate two very large, full-grown men at least eight stone heavier than her.
She bustled them out of the alley and then down the street to where their carriage and driver waited.
“Home, please,” Finley said as the man helped them inside. She sat on the back-facing bench, giving the two of them the front facing one just in case either of them felt ill.
“You deserve a raise,” Lady Morton murmured, her voice oddly high.
“I’ll settle for a handkerchief,” Finley replied, holding up her bloodstained hand.
Immediately her ladyship pulled a square of linen from her reticule and gave it to her. Finley wiped as much blood away as she could, but some had already dried, and she wasn’t about to spit on herself in front of her companions.
“Can you teach me to do the things you can do?” Phoebe inquired.
Finley’s head snapped up. She frowned. “You don’t want to be like me.”
“Oh, I assure you I do.”
She shrugged. “I suppose I can teach you how to throw a punch, but the other stuff I can do…that’s just me.”
“Extraordinary.” Lady Morton practically sighed the word. “What’s your favorite food, Finley? I’m going to demand Cook make it for you.”
Finley grinned. They didn’t hate her. They liked her. They thought this part of her was wonderful. Wouldn’t her goody-goody half choke on this?
“I’m partial to chocolate croissants,” she replied.
Her companions chuckled, and Phoebe offered her the paper bag that held their purchase from the chocolate shop. She reached in with her clean hand and took one out.
This being extraordinary really worked up an appetite.
Lord Vincent glared at the men who sat across from him in the cab. One had blood all around his mouth and down his front, and the other held his wrist, moaning like an imbecile.
“You mean to tell me that a slip of a girl managed to incapacitate you both?”
“She weren’t no ordinary girl,” the moaner replied. “Slip or not, she weren’t natural. Snapped me wrist like a chicken bone.”
The men nodded and fled the cab as quickly as their bulk would allow. Lord Vincent knocked on the ceiling with his cane and the carriage lurched into motion. He almost groaned. Flesh-and-blood horses were so damn slow.
He drew a deep breath and pushed it out, trying to free himself of this frustration and rage. He never used to be an angry man. Never used to be a violent man. Before Cassandra’s death he never would have dreamed of hiring ruffians to accost a young girl, but he had to know what he was up against. He hadn’t been able to believe what she’d done to his beautiful automaton horses. He’d been too relieved that she saved Phoebe’s life, but afterward, when he’d had time to really examine the damage…well, it had been an astounding revelation.
Finley Bennet was not normal. In fact, the only thing he’d ever seen able to wreak so much damage was an automaton—a large one at that. No, she was not usual, and he’d wager his entire fortune that she was not a cousin to Lady Morton and the lovely Phoebe. He’d seen the way his future mother-in-law looked at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She knew his intentions were not as pure as he pretended. Not that it mattered. Lord Morton had sold the girl and signed a contract. She was his, and he would marry her, whether her mother liked it or not.
And no one was going to stop him now that he was so close to having his hopes and dreams realized, especially not a freakish little girl.
Chapter Eight
Dinner with Lord Vincent was one of the most uncomfortable situations Finley ever found herself in.
First of all, she was wearing one of the gowns that Lady Morton had insisted on buying for her. It was lovely and a gorgeous shade of plum satin, but the little sleeves were snug and didn’t allow for much movement, and Phoebe had laced her into her corset so tightly she thought her lungs might come out her nose.
Secondly, there was the fact that Lord Morton was there, as well, and he was about as pompous and self- important as she could stand. He practically ignored his wife and daughter, and had the table manners of a Newfoundland dog.
Most obviously, there was Lord Vincent himself. Oh, he was all manners and decorum, but Finley caught him looking at her several times with a gaze that was anything but polite. He looked at her like she was an insect he would like to pin to a board and dissect.
“I heard you ladies were set upon by ruffians the other day,” he remarked—rather casually.
Lady Morton’s head snapped up. “Oh? Where did you hear that, pray tell?”
The earl smiled gently. “Lord Morton informed me when he called upon me this morning.”
Finley didn’t miss the flush that crept into Lady Morton’s fair cheeks. It was obvious from the way that she looked at her husband she suspected he had called on Lord Vincent for more money.
“My valet told me,” Lord Morton explained with a sniff. “Damn fine kettle when a man has to hear about his wife being accosted from the servants.”
The most caustic and bitter smile Finley had ever seen curved the lady’s lips. “I knew how you’d worry if I told you.”
