The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(35)

“You have had too much coffee,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Let’s go for a bit of a walk. Get rid of some of that energy.”

She protested, but it was weak, and Sam managed to drag her from the room without much fuss. The door clicked shut behind them.

Griffin ran his hand through his hair—it must be a mess by now. No doubt it stuck up in all directions, making him look like a hedgehog. “My jaw really hurts, and this plan of yours had better work, because by tomorrow morning, I’m going to be the laughingstock of Manhattan Island.”

She winced. “I’m sorry for that, but Dalton has to believe I’m on his side. He took me there to fight anyone who got in our way. He was there when you came in. If I hadn’t hit you, he’d be suspicious.”

“I know. He would be even more suspicious once he found out it was the Duke of Greythorne who stumbled upon you. Doesn’t make my jaw ache any less.”

Finley moved toward him, a sorry expression on her pretty face. She tossed the silk gown on the bed and lifted her hand to his face. He tried not to flinch, but part of him actually expected her to haul off and cosh him again.

She noticed that he pulled away. Her mouth tightened, but she went ahead and placed her palm against his cheek. Her skin was cool; her touch seemed to ease the ache.

“Part of me likes to hit people,” she informed him as she looked him dead in the eye. “But not you. I want you to know that. I did what I thought I had to do.”

He believed her. “Did you like it?” he asked. “Stealing the plans, I mean?”

This time she withdrew from him. She dropped her hand. The ache in his jaw tripled.

“I did.” It came out as a whisper. “I didn’t want to, but I did.”

Griffin’s stomach clenched at her honesty. How was he supposed to feel about her candor? He appreciated that she’d told him the truth, but what did he do with it?

“What did you like about it?”

“The excitement. The danger.” Her eyes and cheeks seemed to brighten. “It was like when I was out on the bow of the airship, or like when we went up against The Machinist. I knew there was a chance it could go bad, but it didn’t.”

“Adrenaline,” he told her. “A perfectly normal reaction.” “You think so?”

She looked so hopeful it was hard to breathe. Griffin forced a smile. “Of course. I’ve felt the same way myself.” That was true, but not when committing a crime. Then again, he had never committed a crime, so he didn’t know if it was the same or not. It could be that Finley simply liked being … bad.

Her shoulders sagged in relief, and when she put her arms around him, he put his around her, as well.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she hugged him. “Thank you for being my friend.”

Griffin swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I’ll always be your friend.” He meant it, and that was what made it so difficult. He would do anything for her, but if Finley gave in to the darkness inside her, he would have no choice but to stop her—even if it meant losing her forever.





Chapter 8


Jasper wasn’t really surprised to see Finley walk into Dalton’s house at five minutes to eleven the next morning. He was, however, surprised to see that she had shabby luggage and dust on her boots. Dirt was easy enough to find around these parts, especially the closer a body got to Five Points, where the grimy automaton street sweepers would be stripped down for their parts, but the Duke of Greythorne was the type of fella to share his wealth with his friends.

So he was left to reason that Griffin—or Finley—was as smart as he assumed and picked up the obviously worn items to protect the ruse that Finley was a girl looking to make a little blunt on the wrong side of the law.

Didn’t she look the part, as well, standing there in kneelength gray trousers, heavy-soled boots and a leather corset over a linen shirt.

He was plumb touched at the amount of effort that had already gone into trying to help his sorry hide. Guilty, too. She shouldn’t be involved in his mess.

“Can I help you with those, miss?” he asked as he walked toward her. He knew full well she could easily carry both bags, but showing her to her room would give them a chance to talk.

She eyed him warily. Either she was a good actress or she truly didn’t trust him any further than she could throw a buffalo. “All right.” She handed him the lighter of the two pieces. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” she said sweetly. There was a sparkle in her eye that made it impossible not to grin in response.

He tapped the brim of his hat. “Much obliged. Follow me.”

They made it perhaps two or three steps before Dalton arrived. He strutted into the foyer like a banty rooster on a spring morning, all decked out in head-to-toe gunmetalgray.

“I admire punctuality in a woman,” Dalton remarked as he joined them, his pale eyes glinting at Finley. And didn’t she look at Dalton as though he was the prettiest thing she ever saw. She wasn’t really infatuated with him, was she?

“My papa—” she said it the English way, pah-pah “—used to believe that tardiness was a sin. It only takes a few blows from a strap to knock that out of a person.”

Dalton inclined his head. “A very efficient man, your father.”