The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(27)

Jasper. Would he be glad to see her, or had he already told Dalton who she really was? Would she be walking straight into a trap? No, she wouldn’t think that of him. Jasper was her friend, and she would do everything she could for him.

She called for the lift and took it all the way down to the main foyer, which was lit in such a manner as to flatter all the ladies—and their glittering jewels. She hadn’t fully realized when they first arrived just how fancy the hotel was. Having been a lady’s maid in two fine houses had made it easy for her to move into Griffin’s house without much fuss. It wasn’t until now, walking across this polished floor with its pristine carpets, that she understood how fortunate she was. She could have just as easily ended up in a place like Whitechapel in London or Five Points if Griffin hadn’t found her.

Thankfully, Dalton chose to live just north and west of the desolation—on Broadway. She knew exactly where, because she’d looked for the street on the map of the city she had found earlier that day.

Griffin had given her ample fare for a cab there and back. Before they left London, the two of them had come to an agreement. Finley wasn’t about to live in his house and let him pay for everything—she knew what society called women who did that. She was comfortable, however, being his employee and accepting a wage for the work she did with him. He paid very well—more than she’d ever earned at another job, more than her stepfather, Silas, probably made in his shop.

A passing bellman in a spotless, creaseless uniform stopped to inquire whether or not she needed a carriage brought around, and for a moment, she felt very posh indeed. “Actually, I’m in need of a cab,” she told him. “Might you acquire one for me?” She even sounded posh.

The young man replied that he could and headed off to do just that. That left her standing alone, off to one side of the lobby, where she could watch other guests leave for their evening’s entertainment.

A fine figure of a gentleman caught her eye as she studied her surroundings. His back was to her, allowing her to admire the breadth of his shoulders beneath his fine black coat, his impressive height and the way the light brought out red and gold in his hair. Then as though feeling the weight of her gaze upon him, he turned and looked right at her.

Breath deserted her lungs. Griffin.

She had thought him handsome the first time she laid eyes on him, and before that, she’d heard Phoebe, a girl she used to work for, talk about him and how all the young ladies admired him. Perhaps it was the lighting or the danger of the situation she was about to walk into, but she didn’t think he had ever looked as breathtaking as he did at that very moment in his black-and-white evening attire, his thick hair brushed back from his handsome features. Amusement danced in his gray-blue eyes.

Her mouth hung open like an old door off its hinge.

This was the Duke of Greythorne, and it was no wonder young ladies whispered about him. Though Finley would admit that she often found Griffin more attractive when he was slightly scruffy, there was something about the way he was so perfectly dressed—something about how he stood and held his head. He radiated power and authority; confidence but not arrogance.

She realized then what he and Jack had in common. They liked themselves. They knew their own strengths and their weaknesses and had made peace with them both. She envied that. Respected it.

She still didn’t know what her strengths—the nonphysical ones—were, but she was pretty certain her weaknesses outnumbered them. Someday, though … Someday, she hoped to feel comfortable in her own skin. She already felt better about herself than she had two months ago. Again, she owed some of that to the gorgeous specimen standing across the foyer from her.

So when Griffin smiled at her, she glanced away—embarrassed, scared that he might have somehow divined her thoughts and emotions. She wanted to be more like him. She wanted to like herself. But first, she had to know herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as he left the hotel, and then through the glass, she saw him climb into a fine carriage driven by two gleaming brass automaton horses. Someone had sent a private vehicle for him so he wouldn’t have to take a hack. Nice.

Finley stepped out into the evening air just as Griffin’s vehicle pulled away. She, of course, didn’t have a private carriage waiting on her. It was difficult not to be a little envious of Griffin when she climbed into an interior that smelled of smoke and sweat.

New York, like most modern cities, was humid—the air filled with steam from factories, vehicles and automatons. In the winter, it would make the cold seep into one’s bones. In the warmer months, it would make a body so moist you’d think people had bathed with their clothes on. Thankfully, this night was cool, so she didn’t have to worry about her kit sticking to her skin.

She gave the driver Dalton’s direction and sat back as the carriage rolled into motion. Hers was driven by a real horse, which added to the bouquet of the cab. She stared out the window at the passing city.

New York might be a newer city, perhaps a little more modern, but life was the same here as in London—the wealthy mingled with the poor as little as possible, but often had little choice in the matter. The have-nots would always outnumber the haves, as she had seen the other day in Five Points. It rivaled any London slum.

The lights of a dirigible drifting overhead briefly illuminated 5th Avenue, its engine a low hum over the hustle and bustle of the city. She had heard that the air machines avoided flying over the poorer areas, because they didn’t provide a pleasing view for their passengers. Only the very wealthy could afford air travel. The rest of the world still had to rely on rail and boats to get where they wanted to go.