The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

Dalton—the fella in whose house he was now a “guest”—was an old “friend.” Jasper fell in with his gang almost two years ago, when he was too young and stupid to know better. Dalton was a couple of years older and had spouted the usual romantic nonsense about being an outlaw, which sounded good to penniless boys.

Obviously Dalton had done well for himself, if this house was any indication. It was nice—nicer than anything Jasper had seen during his time in the gang. Did Dalton think of himself as some kind of gentleman now? Was he rubbin’ elbows with the same kind of people from whom he stole? The Bowery neighborhood was close enough to Five Points to give him an in with the criminal set, but removed just enough to have a little respectability.

Respectable, however, Dalton was not. And it was painfully apparent that his old boss hadn’t forgiven him for running off. The tender bruises that covered Jasper from face to hip were proof of that. He had a perfect impression of the sole of someone’s boot on his left side. Must’ve been Little Hank—he was the only varmint in Dalton’s outfit with feet that big.

If he had some of Miss Emily’s salve, he’d be set to rights; but he didn’t, and so he had to heal the old-fashioned way instead of letting her “beasties” do it for him.

He thought of his new friends often since he’d been forcibly taken from Griffin’s mansion by men claiming they were going to bring him to America to face murder charges.

Jasper went willingly, almost eager to face his past, maybe clear his name in the process. It wasn’t until he was on the airship, without any chance of escape, that he discovered the men worked for Dalton.

Once they’d landed, he had tried to run. It had been stupid, but he had to try. They caught him, beat him, trussed him up and brought him here, where’d he’d been for more than twenty-four hours.

Finally there came the sound of a key in the lock. Jasper moved to the dresser, a heavy piece of furniture he could dive behind if someone started shooting.

It was Little Hank’s huge form that filled the doorway. Over six and a half feet tall and as wide as a bull through the chest, Little Hank was Dalton’s chief muscle. He was strong and surprisingly fast. Jasper’s only advantage came in being faster, but he didn’t want Dalton to know just how fast he had gotten.

Little Hank ducked his head into the room. “Boss wants to see you.”

“Now’s not a good time for me,” Jasper replied, words as stiff as his jaw. “Come back later.”

The behemoth hesitated, clearly uncertain of what to do. Jasper would have smiled if he thought it wouldn’t hurt so much. Then a scowl settled over Hank’s heavy-boned face and he glared at him. “Still a jackass.”

Jasper shrugged. “Sometimes a fella has to live up to expectations.” He moved stiffly toward the door. Dread twisted in his belly, but he refused to let it show.

Little Hank seized him by the back of the neck, practically dragged him out of the room, along the hall and down the scuffed staircase. From there they took a right turn and ended up in a parlor, where Jasper was finally released. He might not exactly like Griff’s friend Sam Morgan, but he wished the large fellow was there at the moment. He’d teach Little Hank a lesson in manners.

Then again, Morgan was just as likely to sit back and smile while Jasper was pounded senseless. Miss Finley, then. She’d knock Hank on his gigantic backside. Jasper would have no problem letting a girl rescue him, but Finley was in London. They thought he’d been taken in by the law and had no idea that it was just the opposite.

Reno Dalton stood at the window, puffing on a cigarillo. He was a little shorter than Jasper’s height of six feet. Leaner, too. He was what in a woman might be called pretty, with longish dark brown hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit that made him appear a gentleman.

In truth he was more like a sleeping rattlesnake. There was just as much chance that Dalton would leave you alone as there was that he’d kill you—and with very little thought to, either.

“Ah, Jasper.” A cold smile curved Dalton’s lips. He was around twenty, but lines fanned out from his eyes—a sign of time spent out of doors. “Looking none the worse for wear, I see.”

If Jasper had been wearing his hat he would have tipped it. “I look good in black and blue.”

Dalton waved a negligent hand. “The ladies will be back to swooning over you soon enough. Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

The smile vanished. Finally the rattler revealed himself. “Sit.”

Little Hank shoved him into a nearby chair before Jasper could reply. It was spindly and felt as though it might split apart if he sneezed. He jerked free of Hank’s hand—flinching at the pain that followed—and fixed his gaze on the man before him.

“All right, I’m sitting.”

Dalton was back to looking pleasant. “Good.” His voice had a slight Southern accent. Years of living in San Francisco had almost erased all traces of the poor kid from Virginia Territory. “We have business to discuss, you and I.”

Cold—heavy and menacing—settled in Jasper’s stomach. He ignored it. “’Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dalton smiled—without any trace of pleasantness this time. Slowly, he moved around the desk to sit behind the large wooden structure. He plucked a plum from a bowl in front of him. “Let’s not play this game, Jasper. You know where the device is. You stole it from me, and I want it back.”

Jasper yawned. It hurt like blazes, but at least he looked bored. “I stole it when you went back on our deal and tried to kill me rather than pay me for it.”

“I paid you for half the job. The way I see it, you got away with my money and my device.”

“You can see it however you want. I don’t have your money or the machine.” There was no point in lying and no point in arguing that Jasper had taken the money as what was rightfully owed to him.

Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “Who has it?”

Jasper forced a smile. “No one has it. But I know where it is. Seeing as how it’s the only thing keeping you from killing me, I’ll keep the location to myself.”

To his surprise, the gleam in Dalton’s eyes brightened. “I’m disappointed, Jas. You know I’d never kill you.” When Jasper arched a brow, Dalton continued, “I’ll kill someone you care about.” With that, he flicked a small switch on the side of his desk. A door to Jasper’s left swung open.

Jasper’s heart stopped when he saw who stood on the other side of that threshold. She was little and pale, with poker-straight, long black hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore a long turquoise silk dress embroidered with Chinese dragons, and she was even prettier than she had been the last time he saw her—when he had kissed her goodbye. The only thing new was the strange necklace she wore—a snug band of what looked like clockwork pieces all around her throat.

She looked as shocked to see him as he was to see her. Her almond-shaped eyes widened. “Jasper?”

“Mei,” he whispered. He was dizzy, like he’d spun around and around—fast as he could—and then tried to stand still. He started to get up, but Little Hank pushed him back down with a meaty hand on his shoulder.

Dalton’s smile returned. “So you can see, Jasper, you have something I want and I have something you want.” He rose to his feet and crossed the carpet to where Mei stood, guarded by another of the outlaw’s men. He ran the back of his finger along her cheek, causing her to flinch.

Jasper pushed against Little Hank’s hold, but it was as though his posterior was glued to the chair. “If you hurt her…”

Dalton whipped around, coming toward him like a striking rattler. “Hurt her? I don’t think you understand me, son. You owe me. If you don’t do exactly what I want, I’ll damn well kill her.”

CHAPTER TWO

The combined Waldorf and Astoria hotels on 5th Avenue were the height of opulence and elegance. At seventeen stories, the redbrick structure had only recently been completed by John Jacob Astor IV.

As they climbed out of their hired carriage, Griffin was the least impressed with their lodgings, and even he thought it splendid. He held his beaver hat on his head as he glanced up. “Grand, isn’t it? What do you make of it, Finley?”

“It’s bloody marvelous,” she replied, without taking her eyes off the building.

He grinned at her openmouthed wonder. He had made arrangements to stay at this place, specifically hoping that his friends would love it. That Finley would love it.

Top that, Dandy, he thought to himself. He knew it was foolish to think of the criminal as competition, but Dandy appealed to Finley’s dark side. Never mind that the two halves of her personality had already merged; they still fought for dominance, and there was still a part of her that found Dandy fascinating. Griffin had never been one for physical violence, but Finley’s attachment to the older fellow made Griffin want to punch someone—Dandy—in the nose.

A handful of bellmen and young boys eager to make a few cents came forward to carry luggage and belongings. Griffin noticed with a smile that none of them tried to take possession of Emily’s cat—a mechanical life-size panther. They all gasped when she powered it up and it came to life, stretching like the real thing, digging dagger-sharp claws into the sidewalk. It’s reticulated joints were well-oiled and moved silently.

“Don’t fret, gents,” she chirped in her soft Irish brogue. “She’s no danger.” Not unless one of them tried to hurt Emily. Of course, she had Sam for protection, as well. Griffin would rather take on the cat than his best friend.

They filed into the hotel lobby, which was just as grand as the exterior. Griffin spoke to the man at the desk, who was clearly impressed at having a duke as a guest. America might have separated from England over a century earlier, but a title and a fortune were still cause for celebrity. The man gave him keys for four rooms. Certainly it would have been more economical to share, but they had separate rooms in London, so it seemed only right to have them here, as well—especially since it was the only way they could escape each other, if they wanted.

They had to take two lifts to their floor—an operator, the four of them and Emily’s cat in one, their belongings in the other. Being inside the small box, packed tightly with his friends, made Griff feel as though someone sat upon his chest. He clenched his hands and tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to force himself to remain calm. Soon they would be at their floor.

A soft hand curled around his fist, loosening his fingers so they could twine with hers. He lowered his head, opened his eyes and found himself gazing into eyes the color of warm honey, framed by thick, dark lashes.