The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (Steampunk Chronicles 0.5)(20)

“Not much for society, though,” Phoebe rebuked. “Whoever marries him will have to be content to go to balls alone, or stay at home for the most part. He’s not out and about very much.”

Her mother raised her cup of chocolate to her lips. “He may grow into enjoying society.”

“Well, it hardly matters to me. It’s not as though I’ll have a chance of ever marrying him.” Phoebe’s tone was surprisingly sharp, and drained the color from her mother’s face.

“I don’t have a chance with him, either,” Finley jumped in, hating that guilty look on her employer’s face. “All I’ll ever have is the memory of his backside.”

Phoebe’s smile broke first, then she chuckled. Her mother followed suit, and the tension at their table lessoned. By the time they’d finished their treats—the croissants were to die for—they had been in the shop for more than an hour, talking, laughing and indulging in more chocolate than was wise.

They bought croissants to take home with them for breakfast the next morning. Personally, Finley thought they’d be lucky if the pastries made it to midnight. They were to attend a musicale that evening, and might be in need of a snack when they returned home.

As they left the shop, Finley glanced across the street. The men she’d spied earlier were gone, much to her relief.

They barely made it half a block before an arm snaked out of the alley they were passing and grabbed Lady Morton, snatching her into the narrow space. She cried out, but her abductor slapped a hand over her mouth and pointed a pistol at Finley and Phoebe.

It was the ruffians. She’d been right to be suspicious of them.

Phoebe gasped, and looked as though she was about to scream. The second man pointed a knife at her. “Make a sound and I’ll slit yer mum’s throat.”

The color drained from Phoebe’s face, but Finley was most concerned with Lady Morton. The woman was terrified—to the point where she might pass out.

“What do you want?” Finley asked, a strange calm settling over her. The other part of her had come to call, and she was glad of it.

Both men looked at her. “Yer money and yer valuables,” the larger of the two—the one with the knife—informed her. “You come over here and take off Lady Posh’s glittery bobs.”

Slowly, Finley advanced toward them. How dare they terrify Lady Morton so. How dare they be so brazen as to accost them in broad daylight on Bond Street!

She stopped directly in front of her employer, and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring glance before turning her attention to the man with an arm around her shoulders. He had yet to pull back the hammer, so that gave her a little room to play.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she told both men. “Picking on harmless, defenseless women.”

“Gotta eat, girly,” Lady Morton’s captor replied with a sneer.

Finley’s lips twisted. “That’s going to be difficult for you from now on.”

Before he could ask or utter a sound, her first flew into his mouth with all her strength. Blood and teeth sprayed the air as he screamed in pain. She snatched the pistol from his hand and pointed it at the man with the knife. Then, she gently nudged Lady Morton behind her, pushing her toward Phoebe.

The bully with the blade gaped at her. He barely glanced at his friend, who was laid out cold on the ground, blood dripping from his slack mouth.

“It’s not loaded,” knife man announced just as he lunged for her.

Finley didn’t think; she simply acted. She caught him hard across the jaw with the pistol and dodged out of the way of the knife he swung at her. The tip of the blade sliced through the fine wool of her coat, but did not touch her flesh. She caught his arm before he could swing again, and gave his wrist a sharp twist. He dropped the knife, crying out as his friend had as she snapped the bones in his arm like they were as brittle as matches.

Finley let him go when his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, clutching his wrist, calling her names that she had never heard of before.

“Maybe I am all those things.” She sneered at him, pocketing the knife. “But I’m still the girl that kicked both your arses.”

She turned then, toward the two women near the mouth of the alley. Both of them rushed to her, crushing her in their fierce embrace. Lady Morton might have actually been crying.

“There, there,” Finley consoled them. “Enough of that. Let’s get out of here before we attract attention, shall we?” The last thing she needed was some nosy Peeler—the nickname given to those on the London police force—coming by asking how a girl like her managed to debilitate two very large, full-grown men at least eight stone heavier than her.

She bustled them out of the alley and then down the street to where their carriage and driver waited.

“Home, please,” Finley said as the man helped them inside. She sat on the back-facing bench, giving the two of them the front facing one just in case either of them felt ill.

“You deserve a raise,” Lady Morton murmured, her voice oddly high.

“I’ll settle for a handkerchief,” Finley replied, holding up her bloodstained hand.

Immediately her ladyship pulled a square of linen from her reticule and gave it to her. Finley wiped as much blood away as she could, but some had already dried, and she wasn’t about to spit on herself in front of her companions.