The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

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.