The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (Steampunk Chronicles 0.5)(11)

“Phoebe,” Robert murmured as they crossed the threshold. “I…”

She barely turned her head to look at him. “I think it’s better if we don’t speak again, Robert.” Her voice was so cold, Finley thought she might get frost-bite. “It will be better for both of us that way. Goodbye.”

Robert’s face drained of all color. Finley was glad no one paid them any attention, because if they did they would all see the exact moment that Phoebe broke his heart, and that would entertain a few gossips just as much as if they had been caught kissing.

“Come along, Finley,” Phoebe instructed and began to walk away. Finley shrugged—in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner—to Robert, who in her mind was now not nearly as poncey as she first thought, and hurried after Phoebe. Her opinion of the girl had dropped a little right then. There was no need to be mean, and yet, another part of her—the dark part that sometimes seemed smarter than her or rather possessed of a better sense of intuition—wondered if perhaps Phoebe hadn’t broken her own heart at the same time.



Finley didn’t see much of Phoebe for the remainder of the evening. Lord Vincent took up much of her time—especially after the announcement of their engagement was officially made.

Maybe she was naive in her thinking that love was more important than honor and family and all that nonsense, but any envy she might have felt toward Phoebe and other girls of her class was greatly diminished.

Wasn’t living your life based around what people thought and expected of you a little…well, stupid?

Hypocrite, a voice whispered inside her head. You always worry about what people think of you.

But that wasn’t quite the same thing, Finley told herself firmly, and that was the end of the conversation, because everyone knew only mad girls talked to themselves.

She danced another two times before the evening finally came to an end. She couldn’t remember the young men’s names, but they had been pleasant and polite enough. She was fairly certain they only danced with her because they thought she was Phoebe’s cousin and their mothers told them to.

“Did you have a good time tonight, Finley?” Lady Morton asked in the carriage on the way home. She had removed her spectacles and her ‘odd’ eye glowed a little in the dim light—like a cat’s.

Finley stifled a yawn. “Yes, my lady.” She could hardly admit that her feet hurt and that she’d spent the last hour of the party praying for it to end.

Lady Morton seemed pleased. “Excellent. The Duke of Greythorne was in attendance. Did either of you happen to notice him?”

Finley shook her head. Phoebe yawned delicately behind her gloved hand. “I did not. I’m sure it was because His Grace was surrounded by frenzied young ladies vying for his attention.”

One of Finley’s brows rose. “Is he that handsome?”

Phoebe grinned. “And that rich. He’s only a little older than us, so I doubt he’ll be eager to marry anytime soon. They’re wasting their energies trying to catch him.”

This was an odd concept to Finley, girls trying to “catch” a husband. Her mother always made it sound as though it was the man’s duty to woo the lady. Perhaps it was something introduced by the Suffrage movement.

She was about to ask how old Robert was, but caught her tongue just in time. That was not something to discuss in front of Lady Morton. Besides, Phoebe had laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, almost instantly falling asleep.

Lady Morton shot Finley an amused glance. “She’s been able to do that since she was a baby. It seems you and I are left to amuse each other as we contend with the crush of traffic, Finley.”

And what traffic! The carriage would roll a few feet and then stop, caught up in the steady throng departing the party, clogging the narrow street.

“Lord Vincent has a very lovely home,” Finley offered awkwardly. At least it was safe conversation.

“Yes,” her ladyship agreed. “All the modern conveniences, as well. The earl is a very interested in progress. He’s always supported the scientific arts.”

“What happened to his leg?”

Lady Morton’s expression sobered. “A carriage accident. He and his wife were on their way back from holiday in Scotland. His leg was destroyed and she was killed.”

“That’s terrible.” Finley felt awful for asking.

“Yes. He made himself an automaton limb—one that moves and behaves just as a proper limb would. Is that not amazing?”

Finley murmured in agreement. “I saw a portrait of his wife earlier this evening.”

“You did?” A wrinkle appeared between Lady Morton’s brows. “How did you happen to see that?”

“I had a headache and needed quiet. I slipped into an empty room and saw it hanging on the wall.” She had said this much, she might as well press on, “She looks like Phoebe.”

“Yes.” The older woman clasped her hands in her lap—tightly, as though to keep from fidgeting. “Cassandra and I were cousins.”

So that meant that Lord Vincent intended to marry his wife’s cousin. There was something…icky about that.

One glance at her ladyship and Finley suspected she shared the feeling. She also looked like she dared Finley to cast judgment in a strangely fragile manner.