“None taken, Mr … Morgan, was it?”
Sam nodded, and this time he offered his own hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The gentleman smiled and accepted the handshake. The smooth metal was cool against Sam’s palm, but the fingers were strong. It felt like holding the gauntlet of a suit of armor. Nothing frightening or repulsive about it. Certainly Leon Adamo didn’t seem the least bit ashamed of it.
Sam returned his companion’s smile. “You know, I find I’m in the mood for company after all.”
King House was quiet, still as a church when Finley opened her eyes in the wee hours. The moon cast long shadows through her room, illuminating her bed and part of the wall in fingers of silver.
She felt restless, agitated. It had been brewing all day, ever since her strange conversation with Griffin.
Did he mean her harm or not? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be certain. And then there was that cryptic remark he’d left her with. What did he mean absolute trust would be the least he asked of her? Arrogant toff. What made him think she’d fancy his skinny arse worth saving?
Inside her, that frightened, cautious part of her squealed in protest as it always did. The “good girl” didn’t like conflict, shied away from violence and danger. Poor little mite. She had no idea that confrontation was the basest form of self-protection. She was just doing what was best for both of them. And she wanted to know if Lord Felix’s friend Dandy was a threat to her.
She slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the carpet to the wardrobe. Griffin had made good on his promise of new clothes and she now had a few ready-made items to do her until the rest were made. She slipped into soft black stockings and hooked them onto the new garter belt round her hips. Then she put on the snug, black leather “knicks”—black pants that covered her from her waist to the tops of her thighs—and a soft plum velvet corset. She laced up her tall, sturdy black leather boots and slipped on a long, black velvet frock coat that hung almost to her ankles. Then she coiled her hair into a messy bun and shoved a pencil through it to secure it on the back of her head. Pencils were excellent for hairstyling. They also made very effective weapons if the need arose.
Ready, Finley crept to the window, lifted the latch and pushed out. She sat on the ledge and swung one leg out. Then, holding on to the top of the window, she brought her other leg out, as well. She climbed down the side of the house by digging her fingertips and toes into the shallow crevices between the stones, agile as a spider.
A few feet from the bottom, she let go and dropped silently to the grass. The night smelled of coming rain, freshly dug soil and summer heat. Her eyesight was good, but always so much more acute when this side of her was free. Every sense was heightened, just a little more than human.
A quick glance around ascertained that she was alone, and she sprinted toward the stables where she’d seen Sam go earlier that day. He still hadn’t returned and the little redhead—Emily—was worried about him. Finley had heard her say so to Griffin over dinner. He’d assured her that Sam was fine, but he was worried, too. Finley could tell.
Finley didn’t care where the gargantuan went. This part of her felt safer without him around.
The stables were dimly lit with a soft golden glow. Finley was surprised to see that there were actually horses there along with several strange-looking mechanical contraptions like the one Griff had been driving when their paths happened to cross the night before.
She moved toward the hay-covered wood floor toward a smaller, sleeker machine with thickly notched tires and gently curved steering bars. It looked like one of the modern bicycles, only much heavier, fancier—faster. She ran her hand over the chrome front, enjoying the cool metal beneath her fingers.
“Going out?”
She jerked back and whirled around. Kneeling on the bare floor was Emily. She appeared to be doing some work on one of the smaller machines—a red one that had three wheels instead of two. She had a smear of something dark on her pale cheek and her hair was up in a thick, haphazard bun on top of her head.
“Yes,” Finley replied, lifting her chin.
The other girl looked up from her work, an oily rag in one hand. She seemed surprised that she was still there. She pointed at the machine beside Finley. “Take that one. It’s lighter and easier to handle.”
She wasn’t going to try to stop her? She truly wasn’t a prisoner, then. Didn’t she think Finley might steal the vehicle and never come back?
“Don’t you want to know where I’m going?”
The smaller girl wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge behind. “If that was my business, you’d tell me.”
Finley smiled at that. She was strong enough to seriously hurt this girl, but she acted cool and calm. It made her wonder what secret defense the girl possessed; if Emily had abilities as interesting as Griffin and Sam. It made her wary of the girl.
She respected that.
“What are you doing?” she asked, suddenly not quite so eager to go out.
Emily removed a dull-looking piece of the cycle and replaced it with a shinier, newer-looking one. “Just replacing the velocity control.”
Finley crouched beside her, watching as she secured the device in place. “What does it do?”
The redhead smiled crookedly. “Makes it go fast.”
“Very fast?” Finley asked, returning the smile.
Emily chuckled. “Very fast, yes.”
“How did you learn to do this?” It was fascinating and strange to her, a girl knowing how to fix machines. What wonderful knowledge to have.
“I’ve been interested in how things work since I was but a lass. My father and brothers are all inventors or mechanically inclined. I’m the only girl, and my mother died when I was young, so I grew up watching them. It just seemed to make sense that I start tinkering myself.”
“Fascinating,” Finley murmured, watching the girl’s dirty, nimble fingers move like a virtuoso playing an instrument. Then, “I’m sorry about your mum.”
“Thanks. I don’t remember her.”
“My parents are still alive. Well, my mum is. She lives with my stepfather. My father—my real father—died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
Those simple words surprised Finley, touched her. For a moment she entertained the notion of ignoring her need to get out into the night and staying here. Maybe she could help Emily with her repairs.
But this girl wasn’t her friend, and wasn’t likely to be her friend because Finley couldn’t stay here forever. She didn’t belong in that fancy house with these smart and privileged people. This wasn’t her world.
“Right.” She slapped her palms against her thighs. “I’ll be off then.”
Emily watched her as she stood. “Be careful.”
Finley grinned at her as she swung her leg over the cycle she’d chosen and sat down. “Careful? Where’s the fun in that?”
And then she found the mechanism to make the beast move and she tore out of the stables without a backward glance.
Chapter 5
If the city of London was a body, Whitechapel would be the groin; a great unwashed area that only showed itself under the cover of darkness, and only for the most salacious of entertainments. No one of “proper” birth ever admitted to going there, but they all did at one time or another—or at least they wanted to.