The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(19)

Organites were everywhere—part of the earth. Who knew who else had been affected around the world? Jasper had developed abilities while living in California, though they’d increased after using some of Emily’s healing salve.

“This may hurt,” Emily warned as she positioned the needle between the plates of Finley’s steel corset. The sharp point went through her shirt to pierce her skin. Finley hissed as it struck one of her abused ribs, but she remained still. The last thing she needed was for Emily to puncture her lung.

“Sorry,” her friend whispered. “There, done.” The needle slid out.

Almost instantly, Finley felt the Organites go to work. There was a tingling sensation, almost like a tickle, and then the pain in her torso began to ease. It would take a little while to heal completely, but at least it didn’t hurt so much.

Then Emily cleaned the blood from her face while Finley unwrapped the damp and soiled bandages from around her hands. She flexed her fingers. Her knuckles were sore, but none were broken.

“Ready?” Emily asked when she was done.

Finley nodded. “Em, maybe you should go back to the hotel with Sam and Griffin.”

A dark flush rose in the other girl’s cheeks at the suggestion. “And leave you to face that giant and Dalton alone? I don’t think so, lass.”

Perhaps not, but all Finley could think of at that moment was how badly hurt Emily had been when they went up against The Machinist and his automatons. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to her friend while she was with her.

“Em … ”

“You just shut your mouth. I am not letting you do this alone, so you can either let me go with you, or I can march out there and tell that mountain of a man that you’re the Duke of Greythorne’s girlfriend.”

Finley’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Movements stiff, Emily crammed her supplies back into her satchel. “Don’t push me. I’m all for bravery, but there’s a fine line between that and buffoonery. You’re quickly siding on the latter.” She hoisted the bag, face impassive, and jerked her head toward the entrance. “Let’s go.”

Gingerly, Finley rose to her feet. It didn’t hurt as much as she expected. She was able to walk by herself as they made their way to where their “escort” waited.

“Right, then,” Finley said to the giant as they approached. “Lead on.”

He pointed at Emily. “Not her.”

Emily opened her mouth, but Finley cut her off. “Sorry, mate. She goes where I go.” She had to stop herself from putting on an accent as atrocious as Jack’s butchered English. She wanted to sound a little lower class than she actually was, but not so much that Dalton felt too superior.

The big man didn’t like this change of plans, but he didn’t argue with her. “Fine. Follow me.”

Finley had to walk faster than she wanted, to match his long stride. Poor Emily practically jogged beside her. Somehow they managed to keep up as he led them from the fighting area to a small parlor—for lack of a better term—just off the main vestibule.

The room was sparse and in need of fresh paint and paper. The furniture was aged but sturdy. Dalton sat on a small blue sofa, while Jasper and the Chinese girl were seated to his left on a red love seat. Three armed men, looking as though they’d just stepped off the cover of a cowboy dime novel, stood behind Dalton.

Finley stopped in the center of the room, trying not to look at Jasper, who had been a gentleman and stood when they came in. He was supposed to be a stranger, after all. Hopefully Emily remembered that, as well.

“Hello,” Dalton said. He stood, too. “I’m Reno Dalton. And you are Finley … Bennet, is it?”

She almost snorted. She’d wager ten quid he knew exactly what her name was—or rather what she pretended it was. Instead, she smiled. “That’s right. Your man said you wanted to see me, so what do you want?”

Emily shot her a startled glance at her abrupt tone, but Finley ignored it. She’d known entirely too many young men like Dalton, and she’d knocked out over half of them. She knew just how to get their interest—by being disinterested in them.

Dalton arched a brow. “Blunt little thing, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “In my experience people only want to talk to me when they think I can be useful to them. I’m assuming there’s something you think I can do for you, so let’s not beat around the bush, eh? I’m hungry.” She was, too. Fighting burned a lot of energy.

Dalton walked toward her. The closer he came the more she realized just how utterly beautiful he was. Really, it was a wonder he didn’t leave a trail of swooning women in his wake. Then he smiled, and Finley felt like she was facing a shark—one that smelled blood. Dalton was bad news, and part of her liked it. Not him, but something about him.

“Forgive my manners, Miss Bennet. We tend to do things differently in America than in England. I understand that you must be sore and tired and understandably hungry. Perhaps you would care to meet me for dinner tomorrow night? I have a business opportunity I would like to discuss with you.” His pale gaze traveled over her. “You like money, don’t you?”

Finley took a step toward him and peered up at him with a smirk. “As much as the next girl. When and where?”