The Girl in the Steel Corset

Chapter 14



Emily’s laboratory was like nothing Finley had ever seen before, or was likely to ever see again.

It was like some kind of macabre toy shop, or a mad inventor’s lair. All around her were parts of automatons, bits of gears and machinery. Tools lay scattered over the bench that ran the entire length of one wall. The air smelled of hot metal and oil mixed with various medicinal odors. On the far wall, beakers and burners waited to be used. High shelves held differently colored liquids stored in clear bottles, while bottles of rich cobalt blue and dark amber glass contained chemicals and concoctions sensitive to light. They looked very pretty set up there—like gems of different shapes and sizes.

In one corner sat a large, gun-metal-gray cat. It looked like engravings she had seen of exotic jungle felines, only made of metal. It was beautiful and slightly…wrong, all at the same time.

On a long table near the center of the room lay a slightly tarnished brass automaton with its front panel removed. It resembled one of those surgical engravings in the medical books Silas sold in his shop, but it was metal instead of human flesh—thankfully. The spindly machine Finley had wrecked at the circus sat on another table. Sam was right to think of her as dangerous, she thought as she saw the damage her own hands had wrought.

The waxwork of Queen Victoria was on the table closest to her, looking so lifelike it sent a chill down Finley’s spine. It looked like a corpse—a poor old woman divested of her clothing, as well as her life. So realistic it was that she felt almost as though she should mourn for it, cover it with a sheet and say a brief prayer over the lifeless form.

But it was little more than a doll, she reminded herself as she came closer. Wax, not flesh, not human at all. Still, her hand hesitated a second over the form before she could actually bring herself to touch it. She poked it in the ribs, the wax was hard and unyielding. She let out a little sigh of relief.

Emily smiled at her from the other side of the table. “Were you thinkin’ she might sit up and bite you?”

Finley chuckled, a little embarrassed, but not so much that she couldn’t laugh at herself. “I didn’t get much past the sitting-up part.”

“She is unsettling. Reminds me a little bit of my nanny O’Brien.”

The fond smile on Emily’s face did more to squelch Finley’s unsettled nerves than the knowledge that she could destroy the figure fairly easily should it do anything odd. She let her gaze roam over the statue, finally seeing it as a harmless thing.

She frowned. The thief had placed enough humanity on the figure to leave it partially dressed—to leave it with some dignity attached. Yet, it had been left in Whitechapel, a place dignity forgot.

“Why did he take the figure’s gown if his only intention was to leave it on Jack’s doorstep?”

“Ooh, Jack, is it?” Emily’s voice was rife with teasing. “Are the two of ye intimate acquaintances now?”

Finley grinned, she couldn’t help it. “You’re a fine one to tease when you have both Sam and that pretty cowboy dancing attendance on you.” Her gaze fell back to the wax figure, and all humor vanished. “Uh, Emily? I think I might know why he took the whole figure.”

The redhead came round the side of the table, and looked where Finley pointed.

“Oh, aye. I noticed those were gone first thing.”

Where the figure’s glass eyes should have been were nothing but empty wax sockets.

“You can see where they were pried out,” Finley said, gesturing along the lash line. God, but it was unsettling to look at. “Now, what would someone want with glass eyes?”

“Any number of things. People wear them, dolls have them. They’re used in sophisticated lifelike automatons, as well.”

Finley’s head whipped toward her. “I’ve heard nasty stories about what those machines are used for.”

Emily made a face. “Don’t believe everything you hear. I know of several machines that are very humanoid that are treated with the greatest respect by their owners.”

“Do you think The Machinist took the figure for its eyes?”

“Possibly—either for his own work or to sell. I’ll send a note ’round to my supplier, ask if he’s heard about anyone trying to sell a pair of Victoria-blue eyes. I would imagine they’d fetch a good price, considering they would have been made to match Her Majesty’s.”

Hand on her hip, Finley gazed at the smaller girl with considerable respect. “You’re a very useful person, Emily O’Brien.”

The Irish girl preened under the praise. “You’re not so shabby yourself. I could never get into a boxing ring with Jasper.”

“Yes, well, I reckon Jasper would have other things in mind if the two of you were in any kind of enclosed space, alone.”

Pink filled Emily’s cheeks. “He just likes to tease me. He doesn’t mean it.”

Finley rolled her eyes. “A girl as intelligent as you cannot possibly be that dense. Has he tried to kiss you?”

“No! Of course not.”

Finley leaned her elbow on the table near the wax Victoria’s shoulder and grinned. “How about Sam, then?”

The blush in the other girl’s cheeks deepened. “Nor him.”

She shook her head. “That’s inexcusable. Two handsome fellows vying for your attention and you haven’t kissed either of them. Of course, were I you, I’d slap that Sam for being such a brute. Kiss Jasper. He’s much more charming.”

“Charming with every girl he meets,” Emily replied none too charitably.

Finley arched a brow. “Jealous?”

She shoved a pale hand against Finley’s shoulder with enough force that Finley’s upper body leaned a little. “What about you? Did you kiss Dandy?”

“No.” She straightened. An image of Jack Dandy’s face filled her mind. “Do you suppose he’d be a good kisser?” Before she would have blamed these thoughts on her darker nature, but now she wasn’t so certain.

“I think he’s had enough experience that he’d be a very fine kisser.” A sly light brightened Emily’s eyes. “What about Griffin?”

Finley feigned ignorance and pretended to notice something of interest on her fingernails. “What of him?”

“Has he kissed you?”

“He has not.” She made a face. “Lord, I’m a charity case to him—a female whose life he feels responsible for. Nothing else.”

Emily didn’t look convinced. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and how you look at him. He’s thought about it. Trust me.”

A tiny smile flittered across Finley’s lips. She leaned closer, just in case the machines could hear her, and confided, “I’ve thought about it, too, but I don’t think it would be an intelligent thing to do—not while he’s trying to help me. It would only complicate things.”

“Then you might as well go back to Dandy.” Emily’s tone was heavy with teasing as she studied the figure’s wax left hand. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to let you practice on him. Maybe that will make Griffin realize he wants you for himself.”

“No, thank you. I won’t be practicing on anyone. I can’t juggle two admirers like you can.” But even as she spoke, Finley felt a strange confusion in her chest. She liked Griffin, and thought him very handsome, but she also felt something for Jack Dandy. Oh, the two feelings weren’t nearly the same, but they were similar in the fact that she found both of them attractive in their own different ways.

She had no business thinking that way about either of them. It wasn’t proper and it was just plain wrong to be thinking about kissing when obviously there was someone out there trying to ruin her life by making her look like a criminal.

“What are these?” she asked, pointing to the small grooves she had just noticed in the wax on the side of the figure’s face.

Emily frowned. “I don’t see anything.”

It took Finley a moment to realize she wasn’t imagining things, but rather she saw the “queen” the way her darker nature would see her—with preternaturally sharp eyes. “Look closer. There are marks in the wax.”

Still frowning, Emily slipped her goggles over her eyes and covered both lenses with the attached magnifiers. She turned a small knob on the either side, fiddling with both as she bent slightly to study the figure’s face. Still adjusting the knobs, she studied one side of the head, then the other. “They look like caliper marks. Someone was measuring Her Majesty’s face.”

“Could it have been someone at the museum when they made the figure?”

Emily shook her head as she gently searched the rest of the waxwork for more marks. “These figures are made by taking molds and measurements of the actual person whenever possible. The queen would have sat for all those things before they made her likeness. These, I suspect, were made by our thief.”

“Again I ask, why?” Straightening, Finley folded her arms over her chest. “What is this mad bugger up to?”

“I don’t know,” Emily murmured, clearly as baffled as Finley. She lifted her goggles once more. “But he wanted to blame you for it, so maybe we should ask a different question.”

Her gaze locked with the smaller girl’s, Finley could only nod her head in grim agreement. “Who is he? And how does he know me?”



“She’s trouble and no one else can see it.” Sam was in a decidedly petulant mood as he sat sprawled on the sofa in Leon’s apartments in Russell Street. “Scotland Yard came to the house to talk to her about the murder of the son of her former employer, and everyone’s all ‘poor Finley.’” He said the last bit in a falsetto dripping with disgust and mockery.

His older friend came into the small sitting room from the small kitchen area and handed him a cup of coffee. Sam accepted the cup with thanks, wincing as the hot pottery burned his flesh. Leon’s metal hand hadn’t felt the heat, of course, but Sam’s—even the one with metal underneath—did.

He set the mug on the low table in front of him and glanced down at the welt on his palm. It lingered for a moment, stinging and then gradually began to fade until it was little more than a slightly pink itch and then nothing at all.

“That’s quite amazing,” Leon remarked, seating himself in a chair beside the sofa. He looked every inch the gentleman in his immaculate silk waistcoat and brushed wool jacket. “Have you always healed so quickly?”

During one of their conversations, Sam had confided to Leon his strange strength and healing abilities, which had intensified as of late. “Not quite so quickly, no,” he replied. “Usually it took some of Emily’s salve to make wounds heal completely.”

“Ah, yes.” Leon smiled slightly. “The brilliant but Machiavellian Emily. What did she put in this ‘salve’ you speak of?”

Sam hesitated. It was one thing to tell his secrets, but he had sworn to Griffin that he would never divulge the truth about the Organites. “I’m not sure,” he replied, looking down at his hand again so he didn’t have to lie to his friend’s face. “She never told me.”

There was a moment’s silence as Leon took a drink of the hot, strong coffee. Café-espress he called it. “Tell me more about this Finley person. She sounds quite extraordinary—and dangerous.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed wholeheartedly. “Since Griffin took her in, there’s been nothing but trouble. She comes and goes as she wants, consorts with criminals, is suspected of murder, and now… Now she may be involved in a matter Griff is investigating. Even if she’s not to blame, she’s up to her eyes in it. I know it.”

“The stalwart Duke of Greythorne.” This was said with a hint of mockery. “He is just a boy, Samuel. I dare say he’s infatuated with the girl and refuses to see her as anything but perfect.”

Sam grunted, lifting his cup to his mouth. The coffee burned his tongue but tasted good. “He knows she’s not right,” he remarked. “He’s seen what she’s capable of, but he thinks he can fix her.”

“Some people are beyond fixing.” Leon set his cup on the table. “From all you’ve told me, I would think you would not care if the duke were made a fool of after all he’s done to you.” He meant, of course, what Griffin and Emily had done to him. Made him a freak. “You could simply walk away.”

“They’re still my friends,” Sam admitted. “I don’t want to see anyone injure them.”

“My dear boy, if you are concerned with the safety of your friends, you have to do something about this girl.”

Sam’s scowl gave way to an expression of confusion. “Like what?”

Leon shrugged, making the gesture sophisticated as Sam suspected only people from the continent could. “Make them see her for what she truly is. Force her to show her true colors.”

Brow furrowed, Sam thought about it. “How?”

The older man smiled patiently. “There isn’t a devious bone in your body, is there? How very noble. You push her into a corner. You said this…affliction of hers tends to reveal itself when she feels threatened. Threaten her with the truth, make her tip her hand to your friends. Then they will see that you were right all along.”

Sam thought about it. Leon made it sound so simple. “You’re right.”

“Age does have its benefits,” his friend quipped with a smile.

They talked a little while longer about other things, until Leon finished his coffee and announced that he had to call their visit to an unfortunate halt. “I’m afraid I have an engagement, but we will see each other again soon, no?”

Sam rose to his full height, towering over the other man. Despite his superior size and strength he felt young and foolish next to this worldly man who had accepted the metal part of himself with grace and ease. Maybe someday Sam could do the same and not think of his new arm—of his heart—as something alien and wrong, as a betrayal by those he held so dear.

“Of course,” he replied, accepting the handshake. He didn’t even wince when Leon closed his chromium fingers over his, engulfing Sam’s hand in both of his. The metal was warm where it had cradled the coffee cup but cold everywhere else.

“Thank you,” he said as they walked to the door together. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me and offer advice.”

The older man smiled. “I am here whenever you find yourself in need of a friend. I hope you always know that. You are a good man. You’ll do the right thing where your friends are concerned, and they will thank you for it.”

Sam smiled. How long had it been since he’d felt as though someone understood him so well? “Good day, Leon.”

A brief nod of dark hair. “Samuel.”

Sam left the building, clomping down the winding stairs and out into the fading afternoon. He felt happier than he had for some time. He’d return to Mayfair and he’d make the others see what Finley Jayne really was. Then they’d see that he was right and not an idiot. They’d see the truth and Finley would run straight to Jack Dandy where she belonged.

He only hoped he could get rid of her before she hurt someone.



After the museum, Jasper left to talk to some of his own contacts, agreeing to come by later that evening. Griffin returned to the house to find Emily and Finley in the cellar laboratory with the waxwork Victoria. Their eager faces made the ride down to the cellar in that tiny box of a lift almost worthwhile.

“Did you find anything?” they asked almost in unison.

“I did,” he replied, glancing about the room. “Sam still gone?”

Emily nodded, worry plain in her big eyes. She looked like a waif swathed in her goggles and apron. Her clunky boots seemed too large for her feet, the goggles too big for her head. Even the ropes of her bright copper hair seemed out of proportion. Beside her, Finley looked like an Amazon warrior, with her leather corset, short-sleeved shirt and black knickers. The heels of her black leather boots looked sturdy enough to grind a man’s bones to dust.

“What did you discover?” Emily asked.

Griffin turned to her, ashamed to have taken even a moment to admire Finley when he should have been concentrating on the matter at hand. “It was The Machinist. We found his oil. The night watchman got some of it on his wound and it healed him—much faster than it should have. He has Organites, and he puts them in the oil he uses on his automatons.”

Emily’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know how the wee beasties could possibly benefit a joint lubricant, but I’ll run some tests.”

“Wouldn’t you have found the Organites in the other samples?” Finley asked.

Emily shook her head, ropes of hair swinging around her shoulders. “They have to have something to draw energy from in order to live, plus they imitate whatever they’re attached to. The sample would have to be fresh for me to detect them, otherwise they’re dead and look like the very stuff suspending them.”

Griffin wasn’t entirely certain how much of that Finley understood. Hell, he wasn’t even certain he understood and he’d grown up knowing about Organites and how they worked. “Tests sound like a good idea, Em,” he said.

“Come see what we found,” Emily suggested, gesturing to the wax figure.

Griffin was astounded when they pointed out the missing eyes and the supposed caliper marks. “I doubt very much you’ll find those eyes have been sold. I’d say he’s building an automaton.”

“Of Queen Victoria?” Finley’s tone was so incredulous a slight smile curved Griffin’s lips.

“Yes,” he replied. “He could take it to one of the jubilee celebrations, pretend it’s a novelty, part of the fun and then blow it up.”

“But why?” It was Emily who asked the important question. “What would be his motivation for such random violence?”

Finley shrugged. “His crimes have been pretty random so far.”

“No.” Griffin scowled, a million thoughts racing through his head. “They only seem random because we don’t know what he’s up to.” He wished Cordelia were there. She was always much better at putting together puzzles than he was, but she had gone to Devon to see what, if any, damage had been done to the caverns on his estate—and find out more about this mysterious groundskeeper of his who suddenly vanished. It seemed obvious by now that it must have been The Machinist, but he needed to be certain.

“What about Dandy?” Finley asked. When Griffin looked at her, she seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze. “If this Machinist is such a criminal mastermind, surely Dandy should know something about him.”

For a moment—and just a brief one—Griffin wondered if Sam’s suspicions of Finley were correct. He really knew nothing of her. Didn’t know her at all, and yet…

He couldn’t bring himself to believe her a villain.

“No,” he said firmly, cursing silently this time when he saw her gaze drop to the floor. “I mean…” What did he mean? He cleared his throat. “I sincerely doubt Dandy will tell us anything even if he does know. There’s truth behind the saying ‘honor among thieves.’ It’s very possible the two of them might do business together. He won’t jeopardize his own standing in the underworld. He already took a big risk bringing the waxwork to us.”

Finley crossed her arms over her chest. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Griffin’s clenched his jaw all the same. He didn’t want Finley anywhere near Jack Dandy, not because he was worried about her, but because he was worried Dandy’s “liking” for her was reciprocated.

He swallowed the taste of jealousy building in the back of his throat. “All right,” he acquiesced. “Ask him. But arrange to meet him somewhere. I don’t want you going to his address alone. The Machinist knows who you are, and might still be watching you—or Dandy. I don’t want to give him an opportunity to go after you.”

She didn’t look half as afraid of that idea as she would have when she first arrived at his house, but it was obvious that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and that it scared her. “I will.”

Emily’s head suddenly jerked, as though an idea had literally slapped her in the face. “I know someone who might be able to tell us something.”

“Who?” the other two chorused.

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “We found The Machinist’s oil at other crime sites. In fact, we found it in the automaton that attacked Sam.”

Griffin nodded. “That’s how we theorized The Machinist was behind the metal’s malfunction. But you said you didn’t know what he’d done to the machine,” Griffin reminded her, keeping his tone gentle so she wouldn’t mistake his words for spite.

“That was before I’d realized I developed the ability to speak machine.” With that, she stomped across the lab, boot soles hitting the floor with determined slaps as she headed toward the large iron vault in the top corner of the laboratory.

Griffin filled with unease. “Em, what are you doing?”

“Something I should have done long before this, but I was too much a coward.” She unlocked the vault, spinning the wheel to open it. There was a hiss—the venting of steam as the gears of the vault’s mechanism turned—and then a loud click. Emily pulled the door open.

Inside was the automaton that had attacked Sam. Seeing it almost froze Griffin’s heart in his chest. It stood like a great iron man with a box-shaped body, one long arm with a large scoop of a hand, heavily treaded wheels and a small navigation dome where a head would be.

“Emily.” Finley stepped forward, obviously not wanting the little Irish girl to get any closer to the abomination. It took all of Griffin’s resolve to stop her instead of going after Emily himself.

“Be ready,” he whispered close to Finley’s ear. “Just in case.”

She nodded.

“I’m going to power it up,” Emily told them. “Stand clear, just in case. If anything happens, do not attack until I say so. I need a little time to make contact.”

Griffin personally thought it too great a risk, but it was one he would take himself and therefore he didn’t try to dissuade her. He merely stood there, silent and terrified as his wee Irish lass reached up and stuck a notched brass rod into the ignition port on the automaton’s front. Every metal laborer in the city had a similar port. It was to prevent accidental power outages or ignitions, but still simple enough that a machine could be shut down quickly if necessary.

Emily turned the rod. The notches made sharp clicking sounds as they found the tumblers and moved them into the proper position. There was a hollow sounding clunk, followed almost immediately by a whirring noise and the rotation of gears. The engine began to hum, preparing to run startup procedures. The automaton shuddered as the power source—made from the ore Griffin’s grandfather had discovered—worked its magic, followed by a noise that sounded like the whoosh of a heavy bellows.

The creature was coming to life.

Emily stood before it, the top of her head not even reaching three-quarters of the thing’s height. Her hands looked tiny against its scarred and dirty front panel—her left had a smear of something black across the back of it.

From where he stood, Griffin could watch her as she closed her eyes, face set with determination. However she “spoke” to the metal, it wasn’t with sound. If the thing were alive, he’d say it was telepathy. As it was, he had no word to describe it.

The automaton rumbled steadily, not making any movement whatsoever. Still, Griffin didn’t relax and neither did Finley. He was prepared to bring the entire house down on it if he had to.

Emily’s face paled with concentration, her freckles standing out against her skin. Her forehead creased, and her mouth tightened as she continued to press her hands against the metal, as though she possessed the strength to hold it at bay. How long this went on, Griffin wasn’t sure, but suddenly he noticed that Emily was trembling—and that it wasn’t simply the machine’s vibrations running through her.

“Em?” He took a step forward. Finley glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t move. The two of them waited, holding their breath.

Locks of thick, twisted red hair fell forward as her head bowed. That moaning sound—was it from her or the machine? He couldn’t be certain. He took another step. “Emily?”

He saw the blood at the same time Finley did. It ran from Emily’s nose and down her face to drip on her dirty apron and the floor. Drops of it splattered on the floorboards between her boots.

Emily’s knees began to buckle. Her hands left moisture prints on the grimy brass as they slid down the panel.

“Shut it down,” Griffin commanded, launching forward. Finley leaped into action, as well. It was she who caught Emily as she collapsed. Griffin grabbed the ignition rod just as the automaton began to raise its one arm—parts of the other having been used to reconstruct Sam’s. The whirring and rumbling whined and choked to a stop. The arm fell with a loud clunk and then everything went silent.