Dalton arched a brow. “Blunt little thing, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “In my experience people only want to talk to me when they think I can be useful to them. I’m assuming there’s something you think I can do for you, so let’s not beat around the bush, eh? I’m hungry.” She was, too. Fighting burned a lot of energy.

Dalton walked toward her. The closer he came the more she realized just how utterly beautiful he was. Really, it was a wonder he didn’t leave a trail of swooning women in his wake. Then he smiled, and Finley felt like she was facing a shark—one that smelled blood. Dalton was bad news, and part of her liked it. Not him, but something about him.

“Forgive my manners, Miss Bennet. We tend to do things differently in America than in England. I understand that you must be sore and tired and understandably hungry. Perhaps you would care to meet me for dinner tomorrow night? I have a business opportunity I would like to discuss with you.” His pale gaze traveled over her. “You like money, don’t you?”

Finley took a step toward him and peered up at him with a smirk. “As much as the next girl. When and where?”

“My driver can fetch you.”

“I’ll fetch myself, thanks.” She couldn’t very well tell him to collect her at the Waldorf-bloody-Astoria, could she?

Dalton inclined his head, curiosity lighting his already bright eyes. “Very well.” He withdrew a card from inside his gray coat. There was an address on it. “This is where I’m staying while I’m in the city. Come around seven.”

Finley nodded as she slipped the card inside the top of her corset, between the garment and her shirt. It wasn’t completely risqué, but she could tell Dalton appreciated the action. “Seven it is.” Then she turned to Emily. “Come along, ducks. I’ve a craving for pudding.”

Dalton bid them good-night, and Finley returned the sentiment. She managed to sweep out of the room without directing the barest glance at Jasper. Hopefully he was the stand-up sort she believed him to be and wouldn’t give away her true identity to Dalton.

It would be a shame if she got all dolled up for dinner only to get herself killed.

Chapter 4

“Do you know her?”

Jasper looked up when Dalton spoke to him. “Who?” he asked, playing dumb.

Blue eyes rolled heavenward. “The Queen. Who do you think? The scrappy girl.”

Finley hadn’t even left five minutes ago, and already, Dalton was asking questions. She must have made an impression.

“Uh, England might not be as big as the States or even Texas, but it’s still a country with lots of people living in it. Just ’cause I’ve been there doesn’t mean I met them all. Though I did hear stories about a girl linked to Jack Dandy who was incredibly fast and strong.” If he was right, and Finley was trying to get into Dalton’s gang, she would need the worst reputation she could get. “She was suspected in the death of an aristocrat, but nothing was ever proven.”

Dalton’s expression was all curiosity. “Really? She does sound like an intriguing female.” He paused. “How many more pieces are there to retrieve?”

“Half a dozen,” Jasper replied. “Give or take.”

The other man’s expression turned hard. “You better hope you remember where you hid them all.”

Jasper nodded. “I remember.”

Slapping his thighs, Dalton replied, “Good. You’ll get the second one tomorrow. Now let’s get out of here. This place smells like sweat and blood.”

It did at that, and Jasper wasn’t sorry to leave it. The ride back to Dalton’s rented house was quiet. Not even Mei spoke, though Jasper caught her glaring at Dalton once or twice. The cad only smiled at her in return.

Jasper’s mind whirled. If Finley was trying to infiltrate the gang, then surely she and the others believed in his innocence. He didn’t know whether he loved them for it or wanted to cuff ’em upside their fool heads. He was touched that they came for him but terrified one or more of them would be hurt—or worse—because of him. It seemed he couldn’t get close to anyone without putting them at risk.

At the house, Little Hank practically shoved him all the way to his room and tossed him inside without a word. Jasper kicked off his boots and tossed his hat and coat on a chair before dropping onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. He had only just started ruminating on a way out of this mess when he heard the key turn in the lock.

Mei.

She came into the room in a bright blue silk dressing gown, carrying a medium-size polished oak box, which appeared to be heavy. Jasper got up and took the burden from her.

“Set it on the desk,” she instructed, and he did, noticing that it wasn’t really a box at all, but some kind of auditory device. Set into one side of it was a brass funnel—like one would find on a Victrola.

“What is this contraption?” he asked.

Mei smiled as she opened the lid, revealing a panel of knobs and switches and a place to insert punch cards. “Dalton calls it a portable phonograph. It runs on a power cell made in England.” Jasper didn’t tell her Griffin’s grandfather had discovered the ore that made the power cell possible. It was a modern marvel, but a good part of the world still depended on, or preferred, gaslight or even candles and lamps.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

“I believe Dalton stole it from someone named Edison.”

“Thomas Edison?” Jasper asked, dumbfounded.

Mei nodded. “That’s it.”

Was the machine Jasper had hidden something of Edison’s, as well? If so, no wonder Dalton wanted it back. It could be a terrible thing—after all, Edison was the man who had electrocuted animals to prove electricity could also be used to execute criminals.

She flicked a switch, adjusted two of the knobs and then inserted a punch card. Music wafted from the funnel, clear and sweet. Mei adjusted the volume so that the music would only be heard in that room and then took him by the hand with a gentle smile.

“Come,” she said. “Talk to me.”

They lay down on the bed, where they could be comfortable. Jasper held her in his arms, against his chest, and breathed in the sweet, flowery scent of her. In that moment, he could forget just what a dang mess he’d made of things.

“You really didn’t know those girls tonight?” she asked.

He hesitated. He wanted to tell her who the girls were, that he had friends who would do their best to help Mei and him, but if she didn’t know, then she wouldn’t have to lie to Dalton. She wouldn’t be in danger.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know them. That one with the black in her hair sure is tough, though, ain’t she?”

“Very,” she replied, clearly impressed. “And she knows Eastern fighting techniques.”

“They’re becoming all the rage in London now,” he responded. She’d sounded slightly suspicious. “Especially among the suffragettes.”

“Warrior women,” she mused with a smile. “I like that. I … noticed you looking at the red-haired girl. Do you think she’s pretty?”

Asking if Miss Emily was pretty was sort of like asking if the sun was warm. She brightened any room she was in, as fresh and light as Mei was dark and exotic. There was no way he could compare the two of them, and that’s what she was asking him to do. What she really wanted to know was if he thought Emily was prettier than her.

“She’s all right.” He squeezed her against his chest. “She’s not you, though.” That was the most diplomatic reply he could think of.

Clearly it worked, because Mei smiled and cuddled against him. When she lifted her face for a kiss, Jasper paused again. A soft ticking noise captured his attention—it was coming from her. “That collar. Does it hurt?”

Mei raised slender fingers to the clockwork device around her neck. “It’s a little tight when Dalton winds it, but I’ve gotten so accustomed to it, I barely notice anymore.”

“So he doesn’t tighten it to punish you?”

“He did in the beginning—when I tried to escape. That’s how I know that it actually works. I don’t know how, but he knows when I try to leave. But tonight, at the fight, I was fine.”

Jasper’s jaw clenched. He could kill Dalton. “It probably transmits through the Aether.” He didn’t know much about the “energy” but he had seen machines that could harness the power—it was like they could work without wires or connections. Mei had been fine, because she’d been close to Dalton. “It’s a big risk you’re taking, sneaking in here to see me like this.” If Dalton found her not in her room, he might tighten the collar just to remind her of her place.

She stroked his cheek with her delicate fingers, eyes sparkling up at him. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“What if Dalton finds out?” He couldn’t stand it if she got into any more trouble because of him.

Mei inched closer, bringing her face to his. “I don’t care,” she whispered, resolute.

The second her lips touched his, all of Jasper’s misgivings evaporated, and he realized that—at that precise moment— he didn’t care about Dalton, either.

Chapter 5

Griffin knew the exact moment Finley returned to the hotel. He knew because he was waiting for her in her room. He sat in a chair playing with a little clockwork owl he had bought for her earlier that day—thinking it might help make up for being such a git to her the other night. When wound up, it turned its head, blinked its big eyes and fluttered its delicate brass wings.

Perhaps it would be petulant of him, but he was tempted to crush it beneath his boot.

He was so angry at her. She could have gotten herself seriously hurt. She could have gotten herself killed.

He had lost his parents. He’d almost lost Sam. He would not lose her. Emotion seethed inside him, churning his insides until it felt as though all of his organs had been displaced. Unfortunately, heightened emotion tended to trigger a defense response from his abilities, which was never good.

Griffin was connected to the Aether, which, simply put, was energy. It came from all living matter and made up the realm of the dead. Most people went their entire lives without ever touching it. Some people could harness it to speak to the dead, see ghosts. Griffin could literally cross over into it. He could wield it as power, but sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, the Aether used him. He had runic tattoos, similar to the ones he’d given Finley, that helped him focus and channel his power, but there was only so much symbols could do. Even those made from Organite ink.

That raw power closed around him, thinning the veil between this world and the next, filling him with restless energy. He had to calm down before it was too late.

Slowly, he drew a deep breath and exhaled it. Then again. In his hand, the little owl fluttered, going through its repertoire of motions as he allowed bits of Aetheric energy to flow into it.

Never before had anyone inspired such turbulence within him. Finley Jayne had been trouble from the night he literally ran into her, and yet, he could not bring himself to let her go. He wanted to trust her as deeply as he wanted her to trust him, but at this rate, they would never get there.

When he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, he stilled—and so did the owl. He focused his attention on the door; for a moment, he thought the heavy wood bowed ever so slightly on its hinges, pulling toward him.

Another breath. In. Out. Calm.

The moment she crossed the threshold, his heart punched his ribs as though it was fighting for life—so hard it was painful. Her black-streaked, honey-colored hair was a mess, tendrils escaping from sticks she used to secure the thick knot on the back of her head. Her knuckles and corset sported rusty smears—dried blood. Her pretty face hosted similar blooms of color along with violent-looking bruises, which smeared across her skin.

Smeared?

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. Not bruises—not anymore. The smears were from cosmetics, no doubt employed to keep Dalton from noticing that she had healed faster than she should. To be honest, he would think her healing abilities would only serve to make her more attractive to the criminal. Should he mention that or simply be grateful she hadn’t been eager to give away all her secrets?

Emily was with her, laughing at something Finley said as they entered the room. It was Emily who first noticed him, laughter dying as she saw him. Whatever she saw when her gaze locked with his made the cute little redhead blanch.

“Evening, lad,” she said, voice slightly strained.

Griffin rose to his feet—it was what a gentleman did when ladies entered the room. “Good evening, Em. Finley.”