The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(2)
“Your Grace.” His voice was hoarse.
Griffin’s grin broadened. “Apologies, my good man. You were right to scold us. We’ll give you no more worry.” Then he turned to Finley. “Want to watch the landing?”
He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to draw her toward the large glass window next to the one they’d just crawled through. It was so amazing that he owned all of this.
“You know, if you weren’t a duke and this was a public ship, we’d be in a terrible spot of bother right now.”
Griff made a scoffing noise. “If I weren’t a duke and this were public, we wouldn’t have been able to afford passage. Honestly, what they charge for a transatlantic voyage on these contraptions is akin to highway robbery.”
“So you thought buying your own was the more economical choice?” She managed to keep a straight face but not the laughter out of her voice.
He shrugged, but she caught the smile he tried to hide. “They gave me a very good price. Besides, it was the only way I could make Sam fly. He has Emily check the mechanical parts before every voyage.”
“Sam’s a baby,” she remarked, thinking the comparison fit. She didn’t mean any insult—well, not much. Sam Morgan was Griff ’s best friend. He was also part machine, moody and the biggest lout she’d ever met. Still, he had a way of growing on a person, like mold on cheese.
She kind of liked knowing he was afraid of air travel. He was even harder to hurt than she was and wasn’t afraid of much.
“Speak of the devil,” Griff murmured, looking over the top of her head.
Finley turned and saw Sam and Emily walking toward them, both dressed for dinner. Sam looked uncomfortable in his black-and-white evening attire, though he looked decent enough with his long dark hair smoothed back. There seemed to be nothing that could be done for his perpetual frown. Emily, on the other hand, was like a ray of sunshine. Ropes of copper hair were wound into a loose bun on the back of her head, and her blue-green eyes were brightened by the russet-colored gown she wore. The four of them looked as though they were going to a ball rather than following a suspected murderer to a strange country.
Their friend Jasper Renn had been accused of murder and taken from Griff ’s house by bounty hunters five days earlier. They would have followed immediately after him if they could have, but despite having his own airship, it took Griffin almost a day to make preparations and get everything ready.
“Been sucking lemons again, Sam?” Finley asked when the other couple joined them.
The big lad arched a dark eyebrow at her but didn’t speak. Since she’d saved his life—after him trying to kill her—he had been almost nice to her, which made her try to bait him all the harder.
“We came to watch the landing,” Emily told them in her Irish lilt. “We heard that there were a couple of idiots out on the prow. Did you see them?” A slow smile curved her lips.
Finley and Griff laughed in unison, which made Sam’s scowl deepen. “Idiots indeed,” he said drily.
Emily started to roll her eyes, but then her head whipped toward the window. “Oh! There’s the Statue of Liberty! Isn’t she grand?”
Her excitement was contagious, and the four of them went to the glass to watch the Helena glide by the statue that Griffin had pointed out to her earlier. It was so big. So beautiful. They would set down on the island of Manhattan, on the landing field in Central Park, and from there, on to their hotel. Tomorrow morning they’d begin looking for Jasper. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult, given that he’d been brought back to face criminal charges.
Finley couldn’t believe Jasper would kill anyone—not in cold blood. There had to be some kind of mistake. Griffin was convinced he could fix this, but this wasn’t England, and Americans might not be so impressed by his title and his fortune. And though each of them had their own unique abilities—evolutions, Emily had taken to calling them—they weren’t above the law.
What if they couldn’t save Jasper?
As far as prisons went, this one wasn’t so bad. Jasper had certainly seen worse—been held in worse.
There were bars on the windows, but his understanding was that those were normally employed to keep folks out rather than in, as the case may be. Still, the bed was big and comfortable—an old four-poster monstrosity—and the room was big enough that he could walk around a bit and exercise.
Dalton—the fella in whose house he was now a “guest”— was an old “friend.” Jasper fell in with his gang almost two years ago, when he was too young and stupid to know better. Dalton was a couple of years older and had spouted the usual romantic nonsense about being an outlaw, which sounded good to penniless boys.
Obviously Dalton had done well for himself, if this house was any indication. It was nice—nicer than anything Jasper had seen during his time in the gang. Did Dalton think of himself as some kind of gentleman now? Was he rubbin’ elbows with the same kind of people from whom he stole? The Bowery neighborhood was close enough to Five Points to give him an in with the criminal set, but removed just enough to have a little respectability.
Respectable, however, Dalton was not. And it was painfully apparent that his old boss hadn’t forgiven him for running off. The tender bruises that covered Jasper from face to hip were proof of that. He had a perfect impression of the sole of someone’s boot on his left side. Must’ve been Little Hank—he was the only varmint in Dalton’s outfit with feet that big.