The Girl in the Steel Corset

Chapter 13



By the time her vision cleared, Finley was surrounded by a sea of concerned faces—the most worried of which belonged to Jasper. Jack Dandy, she noticed, was also in the ring, but didn’t hover like the others. He stood near the ropes, looking grim.

“Are you all right?” Griffin asked, frowning down at her.

Finley nodded. “Except that I might die of embarrassment.” To be honest, however, at that moment she felt as though she was actually part of their group—as though their worry made her one of them.

His scowl turned to a smile. “I didn’t know you and Jasper were sparring. I should have waited or announced myself before barging in.”

She turned her gaze to Jasper. “I should have known better than to take my eye off you.” And then, “I’d like to get up now.”

Griffin offered her his hand as the others drew back. They stood clustered together, apart from their dark guest. It was Dandy who had Finley’s attention as she stood.

“Mr. Dandy,” she said. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Luvly to see you again, Miss Jayne,” the dark, lanky fellow replied in his usual laconic manner. “Apologies for interruptin’ your sport, but I wanted to inquire as to your health after last night.”

All eyes turned to her, turning her cheeks hot. “I am quite well, thank you. I’m terribly sorry for making a spectacle.”

He shrugged. “I likes a bit of spectacle m’self.” He held her gaze a moment longer than was proper before turning to Griffin. “And I wanted to bring His Grace a gift.”

All attention turned from Finley to Griffin, for which Finley was greatly relieved.

“Mr. Dandy informs me that he had a delivery at his Whitechapel address late last night.” Griffin cast a brief glance at his guest. “Someone deposited the missing wax likeness of Queen Victoria on his doorstep.”

“Poor thing was in her drawers,” Dandy added. “I reckon it would have caused quite the stir this mornin’ had I not realized I’d left somefink at the property and returned to fetch it.”

“There was a note attached to the figure,” Griffin told them, opening a folded piece of expensive-looking parchment. “It says: ‘A thank you for ingeniously solving our mutual “problem.” Yours, F.J.’”

Now everyone stared at Finley. She would have done the same were it possible. Her jaw dropped. “You think I stole the queen from Madame Tussaud’s and left her half-naked on Mr. Dandy’s step?” It was ludicrous—and just plausible enough that it made her fearful.

Griffin handed her the note. “It’s written on my personal stationery. See the watermark?”

Finley held the paper up to the light where she saw the image of the Greythorne crest engrained in the weave. “That’s not my writing,” she told him. It wasn’t, either.

“Maybe it’s the writing of your friend,” Sam suggested through clenched teeth.

Of course he would think the worst of her, Finley realized bleakly. He thought the worst of everyone.

“My handwriting stays the same regardless of who I am,” she defended, realizing how preposterous this must all seem to Jack Dandy—and ashamed that she cared what he thought of her.

“Aside from that,” Griffin interjected, “there’s no possible way she could have had enough time to get to the wax museum, steal the figure, take it to Dandy’s and return home. Not without being noticed.”

“Sure she could have,” Sam argued. “You just don’t want to admit bringing her here was a mistake.” Emily put her hand on his arm but he shrugged her off and went to stand in one corner of the ring, his back to the rest of them.

“Excuse me,” Jack Dandy said, drawing their attention once more. “Don’t you agree that it seems a tad bit, I dunno, suspect that someone would leave a likeness of Her Nibs on me doorstep with Miss Finley’s initials on your stationery?”

Finley stared at him. For a moment she thought he was pointing a finger at her, as well, until Griffin spoke once more. “Yes, I do. Regardless of anything else, Finley wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave such blatant evidence against herself with the wax figure. No one would.” He directed that piece of logic at a red-faced Sam.

“But, if it wasn’t Finley, who?” Emily stepped forward. “No offense, Finley, but who else could have gotten your stationery, lad?”

Finley wasn’t offended. She wanted to hear the answer, as well.

Griffin flicked a glance at Dandy, and obviously decided the darker fellow could hear whatever it was he was about to say. “Anyone with access to one of my homes could easily sneak into my study and remove paper from my desk or the guestrooms. You all have similar parchment in your own rooms.”

Jasper pushed his hair back from his face. “Someone sure is taking a lot of trouble to make it look like Miss Finley stole the figure, and to make it look as though she’s in league with Dandy.” He glanced at Jack. “No offense.”

Dandy bowed his head. “None taken. And now that I’ve done me duty, I’ll be off. I just wanted to make sure Treasure weren’t in no trouble.”

Finley’s face warmed. She walked across the mat to where the tall, dangerous young man stood. It hadn’t escaped her what a favor Jack had done her by coming there. “Thank you,” she said.

Dandy grinned rakishly. “No fanks, dove. Someday I’ll need a favor and I’ll come to you.” And then to Jasper, “Oy, Yank. Thursday nights I’ve a bare-knuckle affair going on. Miss Finley can give you my direction.”

Finley flushed even hotter. Jasper told Dandy he’d “think about it.” Dandy bid them farewell and gracefully slipped between the ropes to the floor and sauntered out the door. Finley watched him go with a little sadness. She liked Jack.

When she turned back to the others, they were all staring at her. “Why would someone do this?” Emily asked.

Griffin’s stormy eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but someone has taken pains to cast doubt in her direction, first with Scotland Yard inquiring into the murder of Felix August-Raynes and now this.”

Sam stepped forward. “She was questioned about a murder? Bloody hell, Griffin. Why is she still here?”

Finley didn’t flinch. She wondered the same thing.

Griffin scowled at his friend. “She didn’t commit either crime, Sam. Someone’s trying to make her appear guilty so I’ll toss her out. I think The Machinist wants to cause tension in my house so I’ll leave him alone. And I believe I have proof.”

That stopped conversation. Everyone stared at Griffin, who took a deep breath to calm himself before elaborating. “Earlier, when I spoke to my steward he told me that someone had forced the locks on the entrance to my grandfather’s caverns, where the Organites and ore were originally discovered. It seems too coincidental that a groundskeeper from that estate resigned a few weeks ago. I’m fairly certain this ‘groundskeeper’ stole some of the ore. God knows what else he might have taken. He sent this letter, and he stole the queen’s likeness from the wax museum. I’m convinced it’s The Machinist.”

“To what end?” Jasper asked, bewildered.

“I don’t know,” Griffin replied. “If he’d only broken into the cavern, I’d think he was simply after ore, but obviously there’s more to it. It’s personal. And he wants to us to suspect Finley.”

“She’s done a good job of that herself,” Sam growled. Finley forced herself to meet his angry gaze. She’d done nothing wrong.

Griffin ignored him. “What bothers me is that if it is The Machinist he’s obviously watching us, otherwise how would he know about Finley’s association with Dandy?”

Finley shifted uncomfortably. The idea of someone watching her was unnerving, and almost ludicrous, but the note in Griffin’s hand was overwhelming factual evidence.

“Why keep the figure’s clothes?” Jasper asked, taking some of the attention from her. “Why take the queen’s hairbrush? None of that will fetch him much of a price, and I’ve not heard of anyone trying to sell Victoria’s belongings.”

Finley’s head was beginning to spin. None of this made any sense.

“Have you stopped to consider,” Sam began in a dark tone, “that maybe Finley is in league with The Machinist? You start investigating The Machinist and all of a sudden she shows up, turning your head.”

It was a valid suspicion, Finley had to admit. She didn’t like the implication, but she’d think it if the situation were reversed.

Obviously Emily disagreed. She whirled on him. “Samuel Morgan! If you have nothing useful to contribute to the conversation, kindly keep your mouth closed!”

Sam’s rugged cheeks flushed bright red. “Fine. Obviously no one here wants to see reason. I knew it was a mistake to come back.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of the ring and out of the room.

Finley’s eyes narrowed, but she put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She turned to Griffin. “Sam made a good point. You should distrust me.”

Griffin stared at her—hard. “No, I shouldn’t.” Then, “We need to go to Madame Tussaud’s. Maybe he left a clue behind. Emily, the wax form of the queen is in your laboratory. See what you can find on it.”

Emily chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Griff, if he took some of the Organites along with the ore…”

Griffin’s mouth thinned. “He would still have to decipher the uses for them. Let’s hope he simply thought they were nothing but ooze, and had more interest in the ore instead. That would power his machines for a long time.”

Emily nodded, but Finley could see real worry in her eyes. She knew the Organites could heal—she’d witnessed it firsthand—but there had to be more to it for Emily to look so worried.

“Jasper, you’re with me,” Griff said, climbing out of the ring. “While Em’s in the lab, we’re going to go to Madame Tussaud’s.”

That left Finley lost. “What do you want me to do?”

Griffin’s head turned. His gaze locked with hers. “I think it for the best if you stay here, especially since our friend has taken an interest in you. Assist Emily in the lab.”

He wasn’t trying to brush her aside, but she knew a dismissal when she heard one. He might as well have told her to go sit in her room and try not to get into trouble. She knew he was right, but she felt shut out all the same.

She wasn’t one of them after all.



Sam went to the tavern and found Leon sitting at their usual table.

“My boy,” the older man said as Sam joined him. “Whatever is the matter? You look as though you just lost your best friend.”

“Friends,” Sam corrected him grimly as he signaled the waitress for a pint. “They’re all so enamored with Finley Jayne they can’t see what’s right in front of their noses.”

Leon’s expression was all sympathy as the bar wench set a mug on the table in front of Sam. “The girl you told me about?” he asked. “The one I said sounded like trouble?”

Sam nodded. “She is, with a capital T. Only, Griffin’s taken with her and refuses to admit that she might not be as wonderful as he thinks.”

Leon’s countenance was all concern and understanding. Sam knew he would understand. He understood about Emily and Griff and how he felt about what they’d done to him. He understood what it was like to feel as if he was on the outside looking in. “Tell me what has happened, my friend.”

After a long swallow of his drink, Sam did.



Griffin and Jasper rode velocycles to Madame Tussaud’s waxworks on Marylebone Road. Usually Griffin disliked using the cycles in broad daylight because of the attention they drew. Velocycles were relatively new forms of transportation and were quite costly, hence they immediately singled out the driver as a person of wealth. Not only that, but each cycle in his stable had been customized for the person it was intended for, making them even more eye-catching. People already gossiped about the Duke of Greythorne and the company he kept.

All that aside, however, velocycles were the faster way to get about the city, and that trumped gossip.

They left their cycles behind the long, elegant white building, disabling their engines so they could not produce steam and therefore were useless to anyone who might entertain the idea of stealing one or both of them. Although, unless they had the strength of Finley or Sam, he doubted anyone could successfully make off with one.

“What’s going on with Sam?” Jasper asked.

Griffin tossed a startled glance in his direction. “He’s angry.”

“I got that,” the American replied with a chuckle. “He sure doesn’t seem to like Miss Finley. No more than you like Jack Dandy.”

Griffin didn’t respond to that. There was nothing to say that would make Jasper believe he didn’t care about Finley and Dandy. “Sam’s my best mate,” he said. “And I don’t know him anymore.”

“He’ll come ’round,” Jasper replied as they approached the door.

“You really believe that?”

The American shrugged. “It might take a good boot to the arse first.” He grinned. “I volunteer to do the kickin’.”

Griffin laughed, and when Jasper opened the museum door, he walked in first, still smiling.

The wax museum was no longer owned by the Tussaud family, so Griffin asked to speak to the person in charge, and when the gentleman appeared, introduced himself and Jasper. The gentleman, whose name was Mr. White, was quite beside himself at having a duke in his establishment. When Griffin told him they would like to see where the Victoria figure had been taken from, Mr. White didn’t hesitate. It was one of the advantages to being the highest rank below a prince—one was rarely, if ever, questioned or denied anything.

The curator led them through the museum to where the “royal” exhibit was. Griffin had been there before and wasn’t captivated by the amazing likenesses of modern and historical figures. Jasper on the other hand had a difficult time keeping his head still; his gaze jumped from statue to statue.

Griffin shot him an amused glance. “We can stop by the Chamber of Horrors before we leave if you want.”

The cowboy merely nodded, his attention already distracted by another lifelike display.

“Obviously we’ve had this exhibit closed since the theft,” Mr. White informed them. “I don’t have to tell you it’s been very inconvenient given that it’s Her Majesty’s diamond jubilee.”

“Yes,” Griffin agreed. “I assume it would be very inconvenient given all the tourists visiting the city.”

“Indeed. Fortunately, there are always those who will pay the admission fee simply to see the site where the figure was when it was stolen. Humanity, I’m sure I do not have to tell Your Grace, is a strange animal.”

On that point Griffin couldn’t agree more, and he said as much as Mr. White led them directly to the royal display. Prince Albert’s likeness stood alone, forever frozen as he looked at the time of his death. It would be odd to see this man, who had been in his prime, standing next to the queen as she looked now.

“Did anyone witness the theft?” Griffin asked Mr. White.

“No. We have a night watchman, but the poor man was knocked unconscious by the thieving wretch. Took a nasty blow that split his head open.”

The curator had a strange expression on his face—as though he were working over a puzzle. For a second, Griffin wondered if the watchman had been privy to the theft, but he quickly discarded that theory. Stealing a waxwork figure was hardly worth the loss of a position, and if he’d been paid to let the thief in, it was unlikely he would have sustained such a serious injury, if one at all.

“Was anything else taken?”

“No. That is what led Scotland Yard to believe it was nothing more than a harmless prank.”

“I doubt your watchman would agree with that assumption,” Griffin remarked. “Could you give us his direction? I’d like to speak to him when we’re done.”

Another benefit of dukedom was rarely being questioned or told no. Mr. White was obviously curious as to why Griff would want to speak to the man—what Griff’s interest was in this whole debacle—but he kept his questions to himself.

“Of course, Your Grace. I will get that for you directly.”

The curator didn’t hang about once he’d shown them where they wanted to go. He had to man the front, of course, and copy the watchman’s address, but he asked Griffin to summon him should he require anything—anything at all. Then he bowed and took his leave.

Jasper waited until the man was gone before asking, “You ever get tired of folks puckerin’ up to your backside?”

Griffin faced him with mock gravity. “Yes. It is deuced tiring, people doing whatever I wish. Makes my life so very disagreeable.”

With an arched brow and wry smile, Jasper shook his head. “I sure do feel sorry for you.”

“Indeed, and for your information, I don’t enjoy having people trip all over themselves to please me.” Griffin frowned. “They usually want something in return. It makes it very difficult to know who my real friends are.”

“You live with them,” Jasper reminded him.

That was true, but there was no need of him to say that since Jasper knew it, as well. Griffin ducked under the velvet rope that surrounded the display and crouched beside the spot where the queen’s likeness had once stood.

Who would do this? And for what purpose? He scanned the area, seeing nothing, not a hair nor scrap of clothing nor…

There was something. He took glass slides and a small blade from his inside coat pocket.

“Jas, come look at this.”

His friend drew closer. “What is it?”

“Oil.” He scraped the blade through the globule, taking care not to scratch the floor. He smelled it. “The same texture and scent as that found at the automaton crime sites.”

Jasper bent over his shoulder for a better look. “The Machinist?”

Griffin smiled slightly. He had no reason to feel pleased at being correct in his assumptions, but he did. It felt as though they were closing in on the criminal even though they still had no idea where or who he was. “Indeed. Our devious friend has been busy as of late.”

“Why the heck would he want to steal a wax dummy when he obviously prefers metal?”

“I don’t know.” Griffin sandwiched the oil between two glass slides. He’d take it to Emily for further analysis.

Jasper scowled at him. “If you don’t know, why do you look so pleased with yourself?”

Griffin flashed a lopsided grin. “Because we’re going to find out.”

Mr. White returned at that moment with the watchman’s direction. Griffin thanked the curator and then he and Jasper swiftly took their leave, returning to their cycles and setting off to the watchman’s neighborhood.

A short time later, after weaving in and out of traffic at the highest speed they could obtain and still avoid pedestrians and horses, they knocked on the door of a small, but clean and cozy little house in Shoreditch.

“Long way to travel for work,” Jasper commented as they waited on the step.

Griffin shrugged. “The underground makes it much easier for Londoners to commute these days.”

Jasper made a face at his mention of the subterranean railway. The cowboy didn’t like tight spaces any more than Griffin did.

“No,” Griff remarked with a small smile. “I don’t like it, either.”

The door was opened by a stocky man, shorter than Griff but easily twice as broad. Griffin consulted the card Mr. White had given him. “Mr. Angus MacFarlane?”

“Aye,” the man replied, appraising Griffin’s fine clothes and the pistol partially concealed by Jasper’s duster. Ginger brows lowered over sharp, blue eyes. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

Griffin offered his hand. “Griffin King, Duke of Greythorne. This is my associate, Jasper Renn. We would like to talk to you about the Tussaud’s robbery.”

MacFarlane didn’t look impressed. In fact, he looked downright wary. “Mind if I ask to see some identification, Your Grace?”

Jasper tried unsuccessfully to hide a chuckle. Griffin shot him a wry look as he produced one of his calling cards for the man.

The big Scot looked at the card, finely printed on the best stock and obviously decided it—and Griff—was the real deal. He stepped back from the door. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Griff crossed the threshold first, followed by Jasper.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I haven’t anything the likes of what you’d be used to.” MacFarlane made it sound as though Griff was the one at fault. This was nothing new. With the knowledge that being a duke would open many doors for him, also came the knowledge that not everyone would like him for it.

“We have no desire to abuse your hospitality, Mr. MacFarlane,” he said, all charm and smiles. “In fact, we will take as little of your time as possible. Mr. White said you did not see your attacker. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Snuck up behind me, the bounder did, and coshed me brainbox but good. Woke up covered in me own blood.”

Griffin frowned at the man, who had no bandage, bruising or even swelling anywhere to be seen on his nearly bald skull. “You seem to have recovered remarkably well.”

MacFarlane shifted uncomfortably. “That’s just it, Your Grace. A little too remarkably. ’Tis the damndest thing, pardon my French.”

Still frowning, Griff asked, “Might I see where you were struck, sir?”

The Scotsman shrugged, obviously chalking this entire encounter up to aristocratic eccentricity, and turned so that Griffin had a good view of the side of his head. He could see the man’s scalp through the thinning, short expanse of orange hair.

The light in the room was good, and they were near a window. Griffin took a magnifying glass from his pocket and raised it so it hovered over MacFarlane’s large skull. There, just above the man’s slightly cauliflowered ear. “Were you a boxer, Mr. MacFarlane?”

“Aye, Your Grace. When I was a young man. Never made much of a career of it, and all I have to show for it is me bashed-up ear. You see what you’re lookin’ for? Just above there.”

Griffin did see it. A thin, pink line of newly healed skin just above that battered ear. It made his heart go cold. “I see it, yes.”

“Now you understand why I’ll be wearing a bandage when next I go to work.”

Yes, he did. Anyone who saw this would think MacFarlane was either abnormal, or that he hadn’t been injured at all. Griffin was surprised the man even showed him the spot.

“Were there any strange substances near the wound?” he asked, tucking the glass back into his pocket. “I realize it might have been difficult to tell with all the blood.”

MacFarlane looked at him, then at Jasper and back to Griff again, as though trying to decide how much to tell them. Griffin didn’t blame him, the man’s story was already damn near impossible to believe. “There was oil, Your Grace. Like the kind we use to keep the museum’s automatons moving smoothlike. I thought it would get into me head and make a mess of the wound, but it…it healed.”

Griff schooled his features as a slow panic rose within him. “And a good thing for you, too, sir. I think you are wise to wear the bandage, and I assure you that your secret is safe with me.” He smiled. “We’ve trespassed long enough on your hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out. Good day, Mr. MacFarlane. You may keep the card, and feel free to contact me if you remember anything else.”

Once they were safely outside, beneath darkening clouds that threatened rain, Jasper turned to Griffin. “That man’s wound healed just like the one I had that Miss Emily put her special salve on, the stuff your grandpa found.”

Griffin nodded, his mood grim as he swung his leg over the bulk of his velocycle. “The Machinist has Organites, and he’s figured out a way to use them.”