The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(83)

Griffin turned back to Finley. “I feel as though I should apologize for all the trouble you’ve had since meeting me.”

Both of her brows shot up as she looked at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I was attracting trouble long before I met you.” She didn’t say it in a self-pitying way, because she didn’t feel the least bit sorry for herself. She felt sorry for the people who tried to harm her.

Sam appeared in the doorway, a man over each shoulder. He looked massive—like a mythical hero—standing there with his mussed long hair and fierce expression. “Oy, Finley. What’s the address of Dalton’s house?”

She told him. “Why?”

He shrugged, lifting each man as though the answer was clear. “I’m going to deliver a present.”

“I’ll come with you,” she announced. “If he’s waiting for them to report, he’ll be watching. He might use the device on you. It will be faster if I come along. The sight of me might throw him off.”

“Be careful,” Griffin urged, but he didn’t try to stop her. She liked that. He knew she could look after herself, and even though he worried about her, he had faith in her and her abilities.

That was something like trust, wasn’t it?

“I will.” And then, out of impulse, she kissed him on the cheek before following after Sam.

Since it was so very late, they had to operate the lift themselves, which was just as well. It also meant that the lobby was deserted, also a blessing. How would they ever explain why Sam had two men trussed up like Christmas geese over his shoulders? They might be able to lie about the men, but they could never, ever come up with a believable explanation of Sam’s incredible strength.

For the same reason that the hotel was so quiet, Finley assumed they would have a difficult time finding a cab. She was wrong. There was one sitting just around the corner. Apparently New York, like London, was a city that rarely, if ever, slept.

Or perhaps the carriage was waiting for the assassins to finish the job and return them to Dalton.

“You waiting for these two?” Finley asked the driver.

The man’s eyes grew wide, the whites clearly visible in the light of the streetlamps. Sam turned his back to the man, so he could see his captives’ faces. The driver nodded. “Yes. They paid me to wait for their return.”

“Well, they’ve returned,” Sam replied glibly and proceeded to toss his burdens into the carriage.

Finley gave the driver Dalton’s address and climbed into the carriage behind Sam. The large young man sat across from her on the opposite side of the coach. The two men were piled on the floor between them. It might have been her imagination, but she was fairly certain the cab leaned to one side—Sam’s.

“How much do you weigh?” she inquired.

He frowned. “Plenty.”

Fair enough. She leaned back against the upholstery and remained silent for the rest of the trip. Obviously Sam had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Huh. One might think that he was the one who was attacked by a hired assassin.

When they pulled up in front of Dalton’s abode, several windows glowed with light despite the late hour. Obviously he was expecting company.

Finley opened the cab door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She pulled one of the men out into the night and tossed him unceremoniously onto the ground. His grunt was the only indication that he had regained consciousness.

Sam tossed the other out of the carriage. He landed with a groan next to his partner, so that both of them lay on the walkway leading to the front steps. Finley jogged toward the house. Her bare feet slapped on the cool ground—she’d have to wash them before she went back to bed.

She climbed the steps and rang the bell—several times— before turning and running back to the cab. “Get in,” she commanded Sam. Then to the driver, “As soon as I give the word, you get us out of here as fast as you can.”

He nodded. “Yes, miss.”

The front door of the house opened just as Finley jumped into the coach. Pivoting on her heel, she turned with a grin. Little Hank bent his head to walk out the door. It didn’t take him long to see the men on the walk.

“Give Dalton my best, will you, ducks?” she called out. The behemoth looked at her in disbelief, and then she had the pleasure of seeing Dalton come to the door. His too handsome face hardened into sheer rage. Finley waggled her fingers at him and then yelled at the driver to drive away. She didn’t want to risk the poor man’s life, and Dalton was sure to have a pistol nearby if not on him.

The steam carriage sped down the street, but no shots were fired. Finley was almost disappointed.

“That was a bit of fun, wasn’t it?” she remarked, feeling as though she’d eaten too much sugar—her insides positively buzzed with energy.

“We could have grabbed him,” Sam replied, his frown slightly deeper than usual.

“And do what with him? We can’t prove he hired those men. We can’t prove he means to steal anything. The only thing we could prove is that he shot at Jasper and myself, and Jasper is still considered a wanted criminal. No, we let him make his move, and then we take him.”

To her surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re starting to sound like Griffin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“By all means, if you reckon sounding arrogant, demanding and overbearing is a good thing.”