The Girl in the Steel Corset

Chapter 8



Finley woke the next morning still in her clothes. What had she done the night before? Where had she gone? No memory came to her as she sat up, mind blank.

She looked down at her boots—no dirt. At her hands—no blood. Surely that was a good sign? Her knuckles were tender and slightly bruised, but that didn’t mean she’d hurt anyone. She could have hit anything. That didn’t stop dread from pooling in her stomach.

This had to stop. She couldn’t go on like this, turning into her own version of Mr. Hyde. Her darker self had taken over completely—something that had never happened before.

Griffin had offered to help her, but in the few days she’d been in this house nothing had happened that made her think there was any cure for this madness. In fact, the “switches” between her two sides seemed to have worsened. What if Griffin couldn’t help her? Was she doomed to lose herself as Jekyll had and end up a monster?

The thought made her stomach roll and tears burn the back of her eyes. Had her father felt this way, helpless and sick?

Well, she wasn’t helpless, not completely. It was obvious that Griffin had some kind of sway over her darker half. Twice now he had calmed her as that chaos had tried to take her. If anyone could figure out how to make this all stop, it was him.

Feeling slightly less sorry for herself and a tad bit optimistic, Finley swung her legs over the side of the bed. She rose and removed her slept-in clothes, bathed and slipped into fresh black-and-white-striped stockings, black skirt, white shirt and a pretty pink corset with black velvet trim. Everything was brand-new, part of the new wardrobe Griffin had bought her.

His generosity still made her uneasy. She wasn’t accustomed to people, especially young men, being nice just to be nice. That was one thing she and her dark nature had in common—there was always a price. Still, she was willing to try trusting him. He’d been genuinely upset to learn that his father had been involved with her father’s downfall. Maybe he felt as though he owed it to her to do what he could to keep her from suffering the same fate.

Dressed, she put her hair up in two messy buns on either side of her head. She squinted and leaned toward the cheval glass. Was that a streak of black in her hair? It was. It began right at the roots and continued down a bit before stopping abruptly. It was as though someone had started to paint this one-inch-wide section of her hair and then thought the better of it. Curious. It looked somewhat nice, she thought, but it would look better if it went all the way to the ends of her nondescript locks.

Finley left her room and hurried down the stairs to the great hall. It was there that she met up with Emily, who was carrying a small metal tray with what looked like medical instruments on it. The smaller girl looked tired and worried, her eyes rimmed with red. Finley slowed her steps.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Emily glanced up, as though she hadn’t even noticed Finley’s approach. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I was just coming to see you.”

Finley arched a brow as the Irish girl fell silent with a small frown, obviously distracted.

“What did you want to see me about?” she asked, noticing that what she thought was a headband was really a pair of strange goggles with interposing lenses on tiny brass arms.

Ropey red hair swung as Emily’s head shook. “Lord, I’m a dunderhead this morning. I need a wee bit of your blood. Griffin wants me to do some tests, see if I can’t figure out what’s going on with these abilities we all seem to have.”

“What’s wrong with you?” It didn’t come out as Finley intended. She didn’t mean to make it sound like Emily had a disease or something. She was just surprised that they had something in common. So surprised that she wasn’t even alarmed that Emily wanted her blood.

Pale cheeks turned light pink. “I can talk to machines.”

“Do they…talk…back?” It was all she could think to ask.

Emily actually laughed. “Not with words, no. But I can sometimes tell what’s wrong with them, how to fix them.”

“How very extraordinary.” Finley smiled. “Much more useful than tossing footmen through doorways.”

“I don’t know about that,” Emily replied. “I’ve often wished I could toss a particular fellow around.”

“Sam. He’s what’s got you so distracted, isn’t he?” Too late she realized it was really none of her business.

Emily blushed again, but she nodded. “Yes. He’s been spending as much time as possible away from here lately.”

Away from her—that was what she didn’t say and didn’t have to. Emily was as easy to read as an open book.

“He’ll come ’round,” Finley assured her, even though she had no way of knowing for certain. “You just wait. I wager he’ll be home tonight.”

Emily didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t look quite so down in the mouth anymore, either. “Perhaps. I suppose it’s out of my control, so I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be concerned for a friend.”

The red-haired girl smiled at her then, and Finley was struck by how pretty she was when she was happy. “Thank you, Finley. It’s properly pleasant to have another lass in the house. The lads are lovely, but they’re rubbish at trying to make one feel less morose.”

Warmth filled Finley from the inside out. So this was what it was like to have a friend.

“I really should get a sample of your blood,” Emily remarked. “Then you can go on and have your breakfast. I’m sure I’m keeping you.”

Finley protested that she wasn’t doing any such thing, and they went to one of the parlors regardless, where Emily swabbed the crook of her elbow with a strong smelling liquid and then expertly pierced the flesh with a sharp needle. A few seconds later and she was done, placing a bandage on the spot and wrapping it in place. She could have told the little redhead not to bother—her blood clotted fairly quickly—but she liked having the company a little longer.

“I wonder if my blood looks like everyone else’s,” Finley thought aloud. “Or if it looks as different as I feel.”

“Everyone’s pretty much the same under the skin,” the other girl replied, putting her needle away. “Except for Sam, of course.”

“Why, what does he look like?”

Emily blinked, then smiled. “Sorry. I’d forgotten that you’d only been with us a short time. Sam’s what I term a mandroid—part man, part machine.”

Finley’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “How?”

The smaller girl’s smile faded. “I couldn’t let him die. Now he hates me for it.”

What was she supposed to say to that? She couldn’t argue it because she didn’t know Sam, but he had seemed like an angry young man the few times she saw him. If he blamed Emily like she blamed her father for making her what she was, then there was nothing she could say to make the girl feel better.

“I don’t think he hates you,” Finley remarked, thinking back on how Sam had looked at Emily. “But I would think he’s very confused right now. It’s not easy discovering that someone close to you has made you into something…abnormal.”

She and Emily locked gazes. The other girl said nothing, so Finley had no idea if she was upset or not.

“I’ll let you know if your blood looks any different,” Emily said, smiling slightly. She gathered up her gear. “You should go get breakfast.”

Finley stood, feeling like a student being sent away by the headmistress at school. She went to the dining room, hoping she hadn’t offended the girl she looked at as her one chance to have a friend.

The dining room was empty when she walked in, but the serving dishes were still on the sideboard, the top of which was like a radiator, circulating hot steam to keep the food warm. She helped herself to coddled eggs, ham, tomatoes and toast, then poured a cup of coffee and took the mouthwatering bounty back to the table.

She was just finishing her last piece of toast and jam when Mrs. Dodsworth came bustling in, high color in her round cheeks.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but His Grace requests your presence in his study immediately.”

The harried look on the older woman’s face and the nervous twisting of her hands had Finley instantly on her feet. “Did he say why?”

“No, miss. Just that you should come right away.”

Finley stood and followed after the round little woman. She had to hurry to keep up despite the housekeeper’s much shorter legs. When they reached Griffin’s study, Mrs. Dodsworth announced Finley and then walked away, leaving Finley to face the room alone.

Griffin sat behind the massive desk, looking every inch the lord of the manor. His gray-blue gaze flickered briefly to hers, lingering just long enough for her to know that everything was going to be all right.

“Sit down and let Griffin do most of the talking,” whispered a voice in her head. It wasn’t her own, but sounded very much like Lady Marsden, who she noticed was also in the room, along with a tall thin man with thinning brown hair and a pleasant face punctuated by an unfortunate nose.

Obviously it was easier for the lady to put thoughts in her head rather than take them out. Regardless, the man had the look of authority about him, so Finley reckoned she’d take Lady Marsden’s advice, just this once.

“Miss Jayne,” Griffin said, rising to his feet as did the other gentleman. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your breakfast, but Constable Jones would like to speak to you.”

How had he known she was having breakfast? And…constable? Dizziness teased the edges of Finley’s mind and she felt that familiar surge that often precipitated the arrival of her darker side. She pushed it down. The last thing she wanted was to reveal her other nature to Scotland Yard, or worse, throw a police officer across the room.

She moved cautiously closer, enough of her other self coming to the surface that she felt calmer. She even managed a smile for the Peeler. “Good day, Constable Jones. What is it you wish to ask me?”

The officer waited until she’d sat down before returning to his own chair. They sat together in front of Griffin’s desk.

“My apologies, Miss Jayne,” said Constable Jones in a melodic, slightly Liverpudlian accent. “But I understand that you worked for Lord August-Raynes until recently?”

“I did, yes.” She had to bite her tongue not to offer more information.

“You left that household in a bit of a hurry I’m told.”

“Yes.”

“And why was that?”

Do not lie, a voice in her head—her own this time—whispered. More sound advice. Better to omit facts than tell a bold-faced lie. “Because I no longer felt safe under that roof, sir.”

The constable was writing all of this down in a little notebook. He looked up from it now. “Why did you not feel safe?” He asked it in much the same way one might ask a child why they hadn’t eaten all their turnip.

Finley glanced at Griffin, who sat there with a perfectly serene expression on his face. Either he was terribly adept at hiding his feelings, or he simply didn’t care what happened to her. His aunt had said to let him do the talking but so far he hadn’t made much of an effort. “Because Lord Felix August-Raynes made unwanted advances toward me.”

“Advances?”

Finley sighed, part of her wanting to reach out and slap the man for being so dense. “He tried to force himself upon me. Apparently he made quite a habit of it amongst the younger servant girls.”

Constable Jones frowned. “Why did you not report this injury, Miss Jayne?”

She snorted, drawing a censorious look from Lady Marsden. “Begging your pardon, Constable Jones, but you and I both know that the police would have done nothing against a peer of the realm and I would have been turned out without so much as a reference.”

“I doubt very much running away will serve you well, either, miss.”

Finley smiled at him. “It got me here, didn’t it?” Dear God, what was she saying? She felt perfectly normal and yet her other self was awake—and talking.

The constable looked so surprised by her statement that he was momentarily speechless. This was when Griffin finally joined the conversation. And it was about bloody time. “Really, Constable. I respect that you have a job to do, but surely you can see that Miss Jayne has no knowledge of your reason for calling upon her today. A girl her size would be no match for Lord Felix, I’m sure you would agree.”

The officer seemed to mull this as he watched Finley. Finley looked away from him for a moment to stare at Griffin, who now had a strange glint in his eye. She wondered just how far he would go to protect her—and why he would bother. Then she returned her gaze to Jones. “What is your reason for calling upon me, sir?”

Constable Jones sighed. “It will be in all the papers by tomorrow. Lord Felix August-Raynes was found dead this morning. He was murdered.”



Griffin watched as the color drained completely from Finley’s face. For a moment he’d feared that her “other” self might make an appearance given the earlier change in her demeanor, but now she just looked shocked.

“How?” she asked.

Constable Jones didn’t look surprised that she asked, which meant that he didn’t really consider her a suspect—at least he didn’t anymore. There was no faking such terrible surprise as Finley’s. “He was strangled,” the Peeler replied.

Finley pressed a hand to her mouth. It was a good thing she was a girl, and that Jones knew nothing about her past, otherwise he might not be so quick to scratch her—and her bruised knuckles—off his list of possible culprits.

Griffin didn’t know whether to scratch her off his list, either. Oh, he believed her shock, but that didn’t mean she was completely innocent. She might have been so completely taken over by her darker nature that she didn’t remember. She had been out late last night and he had no idea where she’d been or what she’d been doing. He didn’t want to believe her capable of such violence, but the simple truth was that she was not a normal girl and she was very capable of killing a full-grown man should she put her mind to it.

Regardless, he had made up his mind to help her as best he could, and that meant protecting her as he would any of his friends. If she had harmed Lord Felix, it wasn’t her fault.

It was his father’s, and—by primogeniture—his, as well. The reminder drove him to action. He rose to his feet, officially put an end to the interview. “Constable, if you’re done I think Miss Jayne needs time to recover from this terrible news.”

The officer gave Griffin a bland glance, obviously accustomed to being brushed aside by rich and powerful men who rose and dismissed him before he was ready. “Of course, Your Grace.” He tucked his notebook inside his coat and stood.

“Thank you for your time, Your Grace, Lady Marsden, Miss Jayne.” Jones bowed. “I’ll show myself out.”

Griffin remained by the desk for a few minutes, watching Finley, waiting until he knew the three of them were truly alone before crossing the plush rugs to close the study door.

The police had only been in his home twice, once after the death of his parents and now. He didn’t like his home or his people being looked at by Scotland Yard. Not even Sam’s attack had brought the law into this house. Part of him was a little angry at Finley for calling attention to him. People would talk about this. Society would be abuzz, wondering what the Peelers were doing at the Duke of Greythorne’s.

He turned and looked at the girl sitting in front of him. This wasn’t about him. He was a bloody duke and could tell the world to go to the devil if he wanted. In fact, he was above the law in most circles. He had nothing to fear except a few whispers, which would blow over when another scandal erupted.

“Finley,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Isn’t there another question you should ask her?” Aunt Cordelia prompted from the sofa where she’d been sitting quietly up until now. “Such as whether or not she killed that boy?”

Finley’s head lifted. Wide eyes turned to his. “I don’t know what I did last night. I don’t remember anything.”

Bloody hell. Griff ran a hand through his hair. It was as he feared. “Nothing?”

She shook her head, little tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks. Had she always had that bit of black in her hair? “Nothing.”

“Wonderful,” Cordelia muttered.

Griff shot his aunt a sharp look. “She didn’t do it.” He believed it. He had to.

Cordelia returned the expression, mouth tight. “She’s capable of it. You thought so yourself.”

Finley flinched and Griff swore under his breath. “She is physically strong enough to do it. That’s a far cry from having the moral flexibility to snuff out a life. And stay the hell out of my head.”

His aunt rose from the sofa. “Enough of this debate. If you won’t take control of this situation, I will.”

Griff wasn’t sure what she meant until he heard Finley make a low noise. His head whipped around. She was sitting in the chair in front of his desk, her head in her hands, an expression of pain on her face.

“Stop it,” she pleaded. “Please stop.”

His attention jerked to his aunt, who was staring at Finley with such intensity she looked positively frightening. A trickle of blood slowly slipped from her right nostril.

“Cordelia.”

Finley moaned. Her eyes were squeezed shut now as she leaned forward. She was on the edge of the chair, looking as though she might slump to the floor at any moment.

“Delia!” He grabbed his aunt’s arm, but she didn’t seem to notice. She kept her gaze fastened on Finley. Blood trickled from her nose, and slowly ran down her chin to drip on the front of her gown. She was too deep into Finley’s head—determined to get past the girl’s barriers even at the cost of her own well-being.

Any force against Cordelia might do real damage to his aunt’s mind. The connection had to be broken at the focal point, which was Finley, who was on the floor now, kneeling in a silent scream.

Griff swore again. He knelt beside Finley and put his hand around the back of her neck. She didn’t even seem to notice his touch, she simply continued to suffer, in so much distress not even her other nature could overcome this attack. All of her energy was directed at keeping Cordelia out as instinct demanded, when it could all be over so quickly if she just let his aunt in.

“Finley?” he said softly. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

He took a deep breath and focused inward. Summoning up his determination, Griffin concentrated very carefully. He had never done this before, but it was the only solution he could think of with both of them so far beyond his reach in this realm.

It was like opening a window and letting the wind in. The Aether welcomed him with the spiritual equivalent of open arms. Power rushed to meet him, so potent he could taste it. He resisted the urge to let it fill him completely, closing his eyes and allowing himself to see Finley with his inner sight. On the Aetheric plane she was awash in pain, but the strength of her soul was undeniable. Her power glowed around her in a dual aura—one for each separate side of her personality. Those auras would have to merge into one for her to ever have any peace. At this moment the darker aura was the more powerful, pulsating under the strength of Cordelia’s psychic attack. His aunt was a powerful telepath—and determined. She would not give up until Finley let her in—a moment that very well might come too late for either of them. She wouldn’t give up because she thought Finley was a threat to him, and despite being cocky about her abilities, Aunt Cordelia would give her life to protect him. As much as he loved her for it, it was bloody inconvenient at the moment.

Fortunately, mediums, spiritualists and telepaths like his aunt operated within the Aether. He could see and sense them in the Aether—like the ghosts they sought. Only, they pulsed with life, while ghosts did not.

But ghosts weren’t what he needed to think about right now, and he ignored those who “tugged” at his sleeve in this strange world behind the world.

Griffin turned his attention to the connection between the two women, fixating on the stream of undulating power between his aunt and Finley. It bathed them both in an iridescent light, covering them, joining them. He reached out, concentrating on the Aetheric stream. His free arm went around Finley as he tried to bend the energy to his will. Cordelia’s power didn’t want to let go, and if it was forced, his aunt would be struck by Finley’s. There was only one other solution.

His heart skipped a beat—just one—before he recaptured his calm. If he lost control now there was no telling what the Aether would do to him. Once, it had sucked him in and kept him for a full day. It had taken him three to recover from the experience. And left him with several white hairs, which he’d promptly plucked from his head. That was when he’d learned there was a price to pay for being able to touch the Aether.

He moved the chair so he could kneel beside Finley and wrap both arms around her. She was warm against his chest, trembling as her mind fought against Cordelia’s intrusion. His concentration deepened as he drew the energy pushing against her—and emanating from her—into himself. Slowly, he took control of the Aether, pulling it away from Finley to focus instead on him. Once he had it, all he had to do was hold it. It tried to dance away from him but he held fast. The energy whirled around him, filling him. It was so much.

When Cordelia’s mind seemed to realize the connection between it and Finley had been broken, it stopped pushing. Like an elastic band pulled so taut it snapped, the energy flew into him, hitting him with a force that sent both him and Finley to the floor.

Griffin barely managed to catch the girl, still bombarded by Aetheric energy. With his guard now so lowered, the Aether rushed at him. Spirits—that’s how the strange beings here had always seemed to him—crowded around him, a million voices talking at once. Some were crying, others shouting—some were just whispers.

The energy filled him, like a crashing tide. Cordelia and Finley had exchanged so much energy that it was in constant motion. He had drained the power, but without direction it blew around inside him with hurricane force, trapped in one body rather than cycling between two. To the Aetheric plane he was a doorway, not just a mere window. And it wanted out.

He struggled to his feet, barely aware of the two females lying unconscious on the floor. He had to get out of the house.

French doors at the back of the room led out into the garden and he ran toward them. Power arced from his hands as he reached for the handle, sending the doors flying open without a touch.

He leaped down the shallow stone steps to the garden, the frantic pounding inside him pushing him to run at full speed across the freshly cut grass. He stumbled but kept running, his vision beginning to blur. He could feel his scalp starting to stretch under the pressure.

The Aether was tearing him apart.

There was a pool in the garden—picturesque with statues and perfectly groomed topiaries surrounding it. That was his destination. Just another forty feet—water would fix this.

He almost stumbled again. He was running out of time. His skull felt as though it was about to crack.

Almost there.

His feet ate up the distance. He could see the edge of the pool now, blurred and multiplied. Colors danced before his eyes.

As his boots hit the stone edge, Griffin launched himself. He flew through the air, falling now. God, he hoped he’d calculated correctly. If he hit the ground…

He hit the water, the shock of it hitting him like a cold boot to the chest. His mouth opened, water drowning his shout as the Aether forced its way out. He let it go.

Then everything went black.