But part of her wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t enough that Jack Dandy had told her he hadn’t killed Lord Felix, because that part of her knew Dandy was smart enough not to tell her—or anyone else—even if he had.
Chapter 10
The following morning, another delivery arrived for Finley. It was brought to her in the morning as she and the others—even Sam—enjoyed a somewhat amiable breakfast. It seemed that by assisting Griffin she had earned a spot in the good graces of not only Lady Marsden, but the big “mandroid,” as well.
“What is it?” Emily inquired, eyes wide as saucers as Finley took possession of the large pink box, tied with an elegant black-and-pink-striped ribbon.
“I don’t know,” she replied with all sincerity.
Lady Marsden arched a brow. “It’s from Madame Cherie’s. Whatever it is, it is expensive.” When Finley gaped at her, she continued with a smile, “Don’t just stand there, girl. Open it!”
Fingers clumsy with anticipation, Finley did just that, draping the ribbon over the back of the empty chair next to her. She removed the lid and set in on the floor, and then parted the delicate blush-pink tissue paper….
She gasped. Inside was a costume for a fancy dress ball—a fairylike gown of iridescent ebony feathers that glowed with deep violet, rich green and bright blue under the light. A matching mask accompanied it.
“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Emily whispered.
Finley was inclined to agree. Certainly she’d never owned anything so fine before. Why, the bodice was the same green as in the feathers—like a vibrant peacock’s plumage.
Astounded, she glanced up to see Griffin scowling and his aunt smiling coyly. “It seems you have an admirer, Miss Finley. Very bold of him to send you such an extravagant gift.”
“Read the card,” Griffin suggested, sounding as though he spoke through clenched teeth. Finley glanced at him. His jaw was tight indeed. Was he jealous? The notion seemed too fantastic to entertain, and yet he was certainly displeased. Either he was jealous or he thought her loose—it was highly improper for a gentleman to send a girl such a personal present. This was the kind of thing men bought their mistresses.
Suddenly, Finley was afraid to open the card. The beautiful costume had been ruined by the scandalous nature of its deliverance. Everyone was watching her, however, so she had little choice but to pick up the small envelope and withdraw the note inside.
Wear this tonight. I will come for you at nine o’clock.
We’re going to the Pick-a-Dilly Ball.
Jack
“Who’s it from?” Griffin asked in a low voice.
Finley glanced at him, heart pounding hard against her ribs. She cleared her throat. “Jack Dandy.” Still it came out a hoarse whisper.
Griffin said nothing, but she could see how white his knuckles were as he gripped his cup of coffee. His eyes were positively thunderous, his expression as hard as stone.
“You can’t go,” Sam blurted out. “That’s no place for a girl.”
Emily scowled. “Oh, but I suppose t’would be all right for you to go, would it, Samuel Morgan?”
The muscular young man flushed. “It’s dangerous, Em. Men are better equipped to defend themselves.”
“I’m better equipped to defend myself than most men,” Finley reminded him tartly. She didn’t like being told what to do—and there was a part of her that very much wanted to go to this ball. She’d never been to one before—not as a guest. She’d sat in a stupid room with other ladies maids and tapped her foot to the music while sipping warm lemonade, but never had she been one of the dancers or a debutante in a beautiful gown.
“Of course you should do whatever you want,” Griffin said, his voice still that strange, low pitch. “No one would argue that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself should a situation arise.”
Finley stared at him. Did he mean that, or was he just saying it? And why did another part of her want him to demand that she not go? Wanted him to act like a tyrant and command that she return the dress to Dandy and never see him again.
“It might be advantageous,” Lady Marsden remarked casually—a little too much so. “Much of London’s underground attends that ball, along with the upper classes. It would be the perfect spot to gather information on The Machinist and his plans.”
The Machinist—Finley had read about him in the papers. He was the one the Peelers thought responsible for the recent automaton malfunctions. She cast a quick glance at Sam out of the corner of her eye. His face was taut and pale, but otherwise impassive. Surely he wanted to find the man believed to be behind the attack that almost cost him his life? She would be doing him something of a favor then, wouldn’t she? If she went.
But it was Emily who finally convinced her—not stony Griffin or wounded Sam, not even sly Lady Marsden. Little Emily with her ropey hair, trousers and too-short fingernails. She had gotten up from her chair and come around the table to peer inside the pretty box, her pale hand stroking the exquisite bodice.
“You’ll look like a princess,” she murmured, her voice trailing off into a sigh.
Yes, Finley thought. She would. She would probably feel like one, too, and at a ball where the seedier side of London mixed with the aristocracy and everything in between, Jack Dandy would be something of a prince, wouldn’t he?
She met Griffin’s hard gaze with a determined lift of her chin. It wasn’t as though he had asked to take her. Everyone would think her his mistress—a prostitute—if he did. But Jack Dandy, he could take her without such foolishness. Jack Dandy was within her sphere; Griffin King was not.
“You’re right. I should do what I like,” she said, forcing her voice not to tremble. “I’m going to go.”
Griffin had never been one for physical violence. His talents made it so that he rarely had to resort to using his fists. Still, part of being a man of rank meant engaging in some degree of physical exertion. Many young men of his acquaintance preferred boxing or fencing, but he engaged in a precept called jujitsu. It was a way of fighting from Japan in which samurai used their hands and bodies as weapons rather than swords or guns.
Recently Jasper Renn shared his knowledge of an art called kung fu, which he claimed to have learned in San Francisco. They had sparred together, teaching each other various strikes and stances of each method. Griffin liked the physical and mental aspects of each, and one day hoped to travel to China and Japan so that he might learn from true masters.
He was breathing hard and perspiring despite being naked from the waist up. In fact, all he wore were his trousers—even his feet were bare—as he sparred against an invisible partner.
Perhaps he should teach Finley how to fight this way. Perhaps then she’d think him as appealing and dangerous as Jack-swiving-Dandy. Honestly, what was it about those kinds of men that made girls go all weak in the knees and soft in the head?
He’d heard stories about Dandy at school. The criminal was a couple of years older than him and already notorious. Rumor had it that Dandy’s father was an aristocrat—perhaps one of the royal dukes, or at least an earl. Whoever sired the blackguard, he had to be of some means and rank, because he could afford to make certain his illegitimate offspring had the best education England had to offer.
“Hardly fair to fight your shadow, is it not?” came Aunt Cordelia’s humorous voice. “After all, it’s not as though it can defend itself.”
Snatching up his shirt, Griffin used it to mop his face and chest before slipping his arms into the sleeves. “It does all right,” he countered with forced lightness.
She smiled as she walked toward him. “After the other day I’m surprised you have enough energy to lift a finger let alone train.”
Griffin shrugged. “I feel fine.” In fact, he felt bloody great, a condition that went against all his theories about the Aether actually draining his life force. Yet, on other occasions, he had felt as though ten years had been
