The Girl with the Iron Touch

Heat flooded her cheeks. Oh, good Lord, she was blushing! Blast him for embarrassing her. She raised her chin. “I’m not mistress of anything. I was just being polite.”

He held her gaze—longer than was proper. It wasn’t what he’d said that bothered her, but rather that he’d said it in front of the others. What she felt for Griffin was…private. Calling attention to it was very un-English of him.

And made her very aware that perhaps Jack’s feelings for her were still much deeper than friendship.

“My mistake,” Jack conceded, his voice soft. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d dropped that awful affectation of his in front of her. Doubtful that the others even heard him, especially Sam and Emily, who were having their own conversation, er…argument.

“Have a seat,” she said, and rang the bell for a fresh pot and another cup.

Finley didn’t speak to him while they waited for the tea, but her silence wasn’t because she didn’t know what to say—it was because Jack had gone straight to Jasper, leaving her standing by herself. Her hearing was exceptional, but she couldn’t eavesdrop on Sam and Emily and his conversation with the cowboy.

For a moment, despite being in this beautiful house as someone who belonged there, Finley was struck by the feelings of being an outsider that had plagued her for most of her life.

She did not like it.

“Oi!” she cried. All eyes turned to her, but her gaze was on Jack. Perhaps she was a little mad—certainly her mind seemed to be scattered lately—but she couldn’t stand to be left out, not just by Griffin, but by everyone else. “You said you had information?”

Jack arched a brow at her bad manners. It took all of her strength not to look away. “Quite,” he said, moving toward the sofa. The others closed in, too, and seated themselves around the room just as fresh tea and sandwiches arrived.

Finley poured Jack a cup, fixed it how he liked it and offered it to him. She did not meet his gaze—the bounder already understood her too well.

“You certain ’is Lordship ain’t available?”

“Decidedly,” Emily replied, setting a strange contraption on the tea table in front of Jack. “Would you mind if I record you, Mr. Dandy?”

“Call me Jack, darling. All the pretty girls call me Jack.”

Finley rolled her eyes.

Emily grinned at him, bright eyes sparkling. “No doubt they call you many things, some of which they might even repeat in polite company.”

“You come here to talk or to flirt?” Sam demanded.

Jack smiled. “Unlike you, mate, I’m able to do two fings at once.” He winked at Emily before turning to Finley. “Somefin strange ’appened Thursday last—somefin I reckon you lot will find very interesting.”

Finley perched on the edge of the sofa near Emily and waited for him to elaborate. Instead, Jack picked up his cup and saucer and took a sip. He didn’t even slurp. Then, he reached out and took a little cucumber sandwich off the tray and proceeded to eat it with better manners than she expected.

When he moved to take another sandwich, she pushed the plate just out of his reach. “Talk first. Eat later, Jack.”

His gaze narrowed, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve become cruel, Treasure. An ’eartless minx what delights in denyin’ a man ’is proper tea. A little suspense is good for the digestion.”

Was everything a joke to him? Yes, she supposed it was. To be Jack Dandy was to treat every day as a novelty and to never take anything—himself included—too seriously.

Still, he had to take some things seriously—he wouldn’t have a reputation as a lord of the criminal underworld without having done something to deserve it.

It was a battle of wills, one she knew she wouldn’t win—not before the others decided to toss her out the window. She pushed the plate toward him. “I would hate to discombobulate your digestion.”

He flashed straight white teeth and snatched another sandwich. “Fanks. So, as I were sayin’, about a fortnight ago I was contacted by a bloke about circumnavigating a transportation dilemma ’e ’ad discovered.”

“I thought you said it was last Thursday?” Sam demanded, stuffing a biscuit in his mouth.

Jack gave him a patently condescending look. “I’m setting the stage, chum. Creatin’ a mood, if you will. Listen carefully and our pretty little ginger will explain the words you don’t understand.” What sort of fellow deliberately baited a creature such as Sam?

Apparently a fellow much like herself.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Jack cut him off. “I’m just ’aving a bit of fun. No need to get all red in the face and cosh me over the ’ead with those meat ’ooks you call ’ands. As I were saying, I was approached by a bloke who offered me enough coin to keep me mouth shut and just do the job.” He plucked another sandwich from the tray.

“Which was?” Finley prodded. Honestly, he was being deliberately difficult.

Jack chewed and swallowed. He hadn’t even gotten any crumbs on himself. He’d been taught proper manners, she’d bet her left arm on it. “Transportin’ a crate from the docks to an underground station on the Metropolitan line.”

“Which station?” Jasper asked. Finley hid her surprise that he was even paying attention. He never used to be so quiet or distant. Granted, she hadn’t known him well prior to going to New York, but he had changed when Mei died, and this was not that same fellow she considered a friend.

“St. Pancras. It were a fairly large crate, weighed at least nine to ten stone. I ’ad to ’elp load it onto the carriage.” He shuddered, as though the thought of manual labor was beneath him, but Finley didn’t buy it.

“Where on the docks?” she asked.

“Not far from where that building collapsed a few months back.” His gaze traveled to each one of them. “I reckon you’re all familiar with it.”

Finley’s blood froze in her veins. He meant the building Griffin had brought down with his power—the building the man known as the Machinist had used as his automaton workshop. The Machinist was a man named Garibaldi, and his corpse hadn’t been found when authorities searched the wreckage.

“The man who hired you, what did he look like?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Emily’s tense expression and knew her friend had the same thought she had.

“Blond and blue-eyed,” Jack responded.

Emily glanced at her, sharing relief that it wasn’t Garibaldi. There was no way he could have survived that building coming down on top of him. Was there?

Jack continued, “Looked almost Albinese. Great big fat ’ead. I didn’t get the feeling ’e was new in town, but I weren’t familiar with ’im. Bit of a Geordie, if my knowledge of dialects is up to snuff.”

Finley didn’t doubt he could identify a person’s regional origin with three miles. “You didn’t ask what the cargo was?”

He looked affronted. “Course not, but somefin about it felt off, right? I’ve survived on luck, intuition and not being a bloody idiot. Every instinct I ’ave told me this weren’t good. So, before I delivered the crate I opened it.”

He’d lost some of his swagger and the sparkle in his eyes. That couldn’t be a good sign. He took a drink of tea and made a face. Perhaps he really wanted something a bit stronger. That didn’t bode well. Dandy was not easily disconcerted.

“What was in the crate, Jack?”

“An automaton. I think.” His accent lost much of its affectation. “Unlike any metal I’ve ever seen.”

The unease pooling at the base of Finley’s spine intensified, but it was Emily who asked, “How so?”

Jack chuckled, but there was little humor in it. “She—and it was definitely a girl—was naked, and she—” he swallowed “—she had bits of skin on her, like she was a patchwork quilt without all its pieces.”

“It must have been a waxwork,” Emily suggested, perhaps a bit condescendingly.

Dark eyes turned to her. “That’s what I told myself—before I touched her. Skin and hair. I fancied I could see lungs beneath her metal ribs. One eye socket was empty, the other had an eyeball in it—it was the color of amber.” He swallowed, and set his cup and saucer on the low table at his knees.