THE DARK DISCOVERY OF JACK DANDY

Steampunk Chronicles 2.5

by

Kady Cross

Chapter 1

Jack Dandy wasn’t his real name. It had been chosen carefully with another man in mind. This man had earned the moniker “the Dandy” by being a fashion plate, a man of style, breeding and grace. He was Jack’s father, though Jack had scarcely laid eyes on the man, other than when he’d received money for schooling. That expensive education had served no other purpose than to rub Jack’s face in the life that could have been his, if only his father’d had the guts to marry his mother instead of using her and tossing her aside.

Oh, and it had taught him how to use people. How to manipulate, charm and rob them blind. It had taught him how to spot weakness, and how to hide his own. That was perhaps the most important lesson, though learning that he would never, ever be more than an unfortunate mistake as far as his father was concerned followed at a close second.

A most unfortunate mistake indeed—one he intended to see the old man pay for. One day.

But for now he was Jack Dandy, prince of the London underworld at barely one and twenty. He had more “associates” than enemies and more enemies than friends.

And he had no family, aside from that stranger of a father, whom he thought of every time he entertained a new criminal venture. Almost everything Jack did was with his father’s ruination and embarrassment in mind.

So when word reached him that Lord Charles Abernathy—Viscount Breckenridge—wished to set up a meeting, Jack let the viscount know he was available the following afternoon.

Abernathy was a friend of his father.

Most likely his father knew little, if not nothing, of Abernathy’s need for a man of Jack’s particular skill set, but word of the meeting would reach the earl, and he would wonder what his friend wanted with his bastard son. That was good enough for Jack.

He went to the heavy armoire in his bedroom and opened the double doors so that the tidy contents were revealed to him all at once. Most of his wardrobe was black—with touches of white, red and gray. It wasn’t that he didn’t like color—in fact he liked it very much—but he’d worked hard to build a reputation for himself and how he dressed was part of it. It was all in the presentation.

He tossed his black brocade dressing gown on the bed, rolled his neck and shoulders, and selected a pair of black trousers. They slid softly over his naked legs, the fabric cool and sleek. Next, a black shirt, perfectly pressed, followed by a black silk cravat and dark gray waistcoat. Black stockings followed, along with highly polished black boots with a squared toe. A long black velvet frock coat that hugged his back and shoulders topped it all off.

Jack ran his fingers through his long, wavy black hair, set a top hat on his head and collected his gloves. He had shaved earlier in the bath, and he smelled of sandalwood. Abernathy probably expected him to reek of brimstone, as the devil ought.

But Jack Dandy wasn’t the devil. He was just the son of one.

He made his way downstairs. He lived alone, but there were usually a few hangers-on lazing about on his sofas, smoking his cigars and drinking his absinthe. He had a little group of blokes who seemed to fancy themselves “Dandy Boys.” They were petty criminals with piercings in their faces and walking sticks in their hands. Mostly bored aristocratic brats. They were tedious at best.

But they supplied the best information when one wanted to know all the scandals of the Mayfair crowd, of which his father was a part.

Griffin King was also part of that crowd, but there was rarely any gossip about the reclusive young man—not that Jack cared to know it. He hadn’t quite decided if the Duke of Greythorne was friend or foe. Come to think of it, though, the fact that he’d won Finley’s favor made King slightly more likable than others of his kind.

Finley Jayne. The thought of her made him smile. For a moment he entertained romantic thoughts of her, but she deserved better than a debauched cretin such as himself. Tough as she was, his Treasure needed someone strong enough to look after her. Jack was strong enough for the task; he just hadn’t the heart for it. Still, she was possibly his best friend—if anyone could claim that title—and he liked to use their relationship to poke at King, who was entirely too easy to make jealous. It was barely even sport.

And, if he admitted it, she was the closest to love he’d ever come. That was reason in itself to leave her be.

“Brought your carriage ‘round, Jack,” called a young man from his parlor.

Jack turned his head and smiled at the lad. This one wasn’t an aristo’s brat. This was Henry, who had been born into circumstances much like Jack’s. Only, Henry had been tossed out of the brothel when the madam had caught him with one of the girls.

A boy after Jack’s own black heart, he was. Thirteen years old, smart and eager. Someday, he’d challenge Jack’s position in Whitechapel, but for now he was one less boy on the streets.

“Fanks, mate. Help yourself to luncheon in the pantry, but keeps your dirty fingers out of me absinthe, or I’ll cuts ’em off, do you forstand?”

The youth nodded, but he grinned. “Aye, Jack. Be there cake?”

Jack rolled his eyes. Other than girls, all the boy seemed to think of was cake. “On the sideboard. Save me a slab. I’ll be back for tea.” Normally he wouldn’t have dropped that last bit of information, but sometimes Henry worried if he was gone too long. That’s what happened when fathers and whores abandoned their sons.

Jack opened the door and stepped out into the overcast afternoon. A warm breeze kept the damp from seeping into a fellow’s bones.

His motor carriage was indeed waiting for him as he stepped down to the curb. It was a beautiful black-lacquered vehicle that gave him a sense of satisfaction every time he saw it. It looked out of place in front of his home. No one would guess that he lived in relative splendor given the condition of the outer shell of the building, but he preferred it that way. He’d once read that a person’s home was a reflection of his own self. Perhaps there was some truth to it, or perhaps it was all bollocks.

He opened the door and slipped into the carriage. The boiler was hot and the engine keen to go. Sometimes he had a hired driver to squire him about, but not today. Today had to be handled correctly. If he arrived in too much style he’d be seen as trying to outshine his “betters” but if he didn’t display enough style and breeding, he’d be dismissed as uncouth.

Normally, he’d chafe at such strict foolishness, but Jack had not amassed a fortune by letting pride get in his way.

London traffic was always a nightmare, and today was no different. The narrow streets, particularly in the East End, were congested with carriages—both horse driven and steam—velocycles zipping in and out, bicycles, omnibuses, pedestrians, livestock. The air was filled with the scents of flowers for sale by young girls, horse excrement, steam and sweat, and the vaguely damp “chamber pot” scent that could only belong to the East End after a rain.

He loved Whitechapel, despite its poverty and violence. Or perhaps he loved it because of those things. There was a desperation to life that didn’t exist in the West End. A desperation and a sharpness that brought everything into clear focus. You lived or you died—those were the only certainties—and the odds of each changed from moment to moment. That was what made life worth living, wasn’t it? The fact that it could end at any second.

Or maybe he simply hadn’t found anything, or anyone, to live for.

Maybe he should start reading Jane Austen novels so he’d know what young ladies really wanted in a man. Bollocks on that. His head was not going down that road. He was only thinking about it because Finley lived in Mayfair—at Griffin King’s fancy mansion. Self-pity and self-inflicted mental anguish was for poets and artists. Jack had neither the time nor the spleen for it.

And he knew himself well enough to know that part of Finley’s appeal was the fact that she was unavailable. A woman was never quite as attractive to him as she was when he knew he couldn’t have her—or would have to work for her favor. It was the conquest, because after that the shine soon wore off.

A horse-drawn cart cut him off at an intersection. Bloody idiot. Jack blasted the horn of his carriage at the driver as he swerved to avoid colliding with the cart and the dirty-faced children and adults in the back of it, who stared at him with a mix of hostility and vacancy.

The rest of the drive happened without incident and at a snail’s pace. He arrived a few seconds early for his appointment, however, which made him punctual but not overeager.

The gravel drive was equipped with a couple of automaton footmen for guests who were gauche or scandalous enough—which one you were obviously depended on the wealth and connection of your family—to drive their own vehicles. Jack steered his shiny pride and joy onto the special track, got out, and took a punch card spit out by the brass clockwork man standing sentry. There was a clunk followed by a grinding noise, and his carriage began to move along the track, guided and pushed by wheels that fit into the notches on the tires. Ingenious—and entirely pompous.

He slipped the punch card into his inside jacket pocket. Then he placed his hat on his head, straightened his coat and cuffs, and swung his walking stick. It was the ebony-handled one with a blade concealed inside. He never went anywhere without a weapon, and Mayfair would be no exception just because its inhabitants were from old, inbred families with more debt than sense.

Slowly, he climbed the steps, an odd fluttering in his gut. Nerves? Impossible. Nothing unsettled him. Nothing. It was merely digestion; he’d eaten several biscuits before leaving the house.

Jack raised his hand to pull the bell. A loud squawk burst from the wall near his ear. Years of Whitechapel noises—screams and the like—had made him almost impossible to frighten.

“Name and business, please” came a shrill voice that could only belong to a housekeeper of a certain age. Chuckling, Jack removed his hat and looked up. There, just about eye level, was a mirror. No doubt it revealed his countenance to the person on the other side of the door. Since that person was a woman, and a pinched-sounding one at that, he put on his most charming smile—not the flirty one, though. No, he used the one that made him look young, slightly self-deprecating and very, very sincere.

“Jack Dandy, missus. Here to see the master of the house.”

“Good gracious, don’t you know anything?” This wasn’t said with much sting; still...it stung. “Use the servants’ entrance around back.”

Jack’s back straightened. By blood, he was this woman’s social superior. It was only that his father had no honor that made Jack a bastard. Had his father been a better man, Jack would have been raised in a house just as old and imposing as this.

Those were things he made himself remember when shame had him wanting to run off with his tail ‘twixt his legs.

“No,” he said, very calmly. He gazed directly into the glass—could almost imagine the woman’s slack jaw. “I will not go around to the servants’ entrance, for I am not a servant. I am an invited guest of your employer, and you can either open this bloody door or explain to him why the meeting he requested was delayed—by you.”

There was a rather pregnant pause. And then a click as the lock on the door was disengaged and the heavy oak swung open.

Jack stepped over the threshold with a bored air. Of course he’d gotten his way. There was no greater threat to the working class than their employer’s wrath. That was why he hadn’t been in any employ other than his own for the past six years.

The woman who greeted him was indeed pinched looking. She was barely five feet tall—he spied the box she had to stand on to inspect visitors on the step—and just shy of being considered “sturdy.” Her gaze was downcast as she bobbed in a slight curtsy before him. “This way, Mr. Dandy, if you please.”

He did indeed. He walked behind her as she led him from the hall to a corridor lined with portraits that dated back several hundreds of years, given the dress of the individuals. The rich hung on to family as if they were currency—unless they were illegitimate like Jack; then they were tossed away—while the poor couldn’t spend theirs fast enough.

The house was decorated at the height of modern fashion, despite the obvious age of its exterior. Floral prints in a dizzying array of colors, shining brass and polished wood. He even saw a maid putting a small sweeper automaton away in its cupboard.

Jack had three of the little devils. Not because he was particularly dirty but because he thought them cute. And also, because he could.

Hmm. There was something familiar about this place, something tugging at the back... Bloody hell. He’d robbed it. Oh, this was a fine kettle, now wasn’t it? Not that Abernathy had any way of knowing who’d filched his silver and jewels that night, but the realization made Jack feel a little dirty all the same. He didn’t often have to look his marks in the eye.

This was Finley’s fault, this sudden attack of conscience. He was going to have to send that girl a bill or something. Or perhaps demand that she give him back his spine. Guilt was not a good look for him—it gave one unsightly lines.

And now he felt bad for being rude to the housekeeper, as well. Damnation. He was going to have to cheat at cards and seduce a married woman just to get his equilibrium back.

The housekeeper stopped at a closed white-washed door, knocked and, when bade, entered. Jack heard her announce him, and then he swept into the room.

Abernathy was older—perhaps in his late forties or even early fifties. He wasn’t very tall, had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes and a nose that could only be described as...British. He was dressed in gray-striped trousers, a puce waistcoat and a dove-gray jacket. His shoes were so polished they were like mirrors—not that the viscount could see his shoes past the prodigious curve of his belly. Jack didn’t think he’d ever met anyone who made him so keenly aware of his own height and slight build.

The viscount’s expression when he saw him was terribly amusing. Either Abernathy hadn’t known of Jack’s parentage or he was a very fine actor, because all the color drained from his face, save for the blue of his eyes.

Jack waited until the housekeeper closed the door, sealing the two of them in the study alone to speak. “I’m a busy man, your lordship—fings to do and peoples to see and all that. To what ‘onor do me boots muddy-up your prett-ee rug?”

The man winced at his atrocious accent. Jack narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he’d laid it on a bit too thick. Of course it was a horrible way of speaking—he’d worked hard to perfect it. Sounding the way he did ingratiated him to the people of Whitechapel, but it also made people from other parts of the city underestimate him. For the most part, he liked being underestimated. People said and did all sorts of things in front of you when they thought you were more thug than brain.

Viscount Abernathy, however, would do well not to underestimate him. Did the older man think himself better just because he had a big house and a lofty title? The aristocracy wasn’t what it used to be, and Jack reckoned his fortune was as large, if not larger, than the viscount’s.

Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? Next thing he knew he’d suggest a pissing contest just to see which of them had the longest reach.

“Would it give less offense, my lord, if I spoke to you in a manner of conversation to which you are more accustomed?”

The older man’s eyes widened. Perhaps he noted the change in Jack’s demeanor as well as his speech, or perhaps Jack resembled his estranged pater in more ways than his good looks. “You may speak in whatever manner you choose, Mr. Dandy.”

Jack shrugged. “You, as well, my lord.” He glanced at a black leather wingback chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Abernathy gave his head a shake. “Yes, of course. Please, do. Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee, if you have it.”

The man blinked. “Coffee?”

Jack nodded as he set his hat on a small table and propped his walking stick nearby—within reach, of course. “Yes, please. I never imbibe when I’m discussing business. It’s bad...for business.”

“Yes, I see how it would be.” It was obvious, however, that he didn’t “see” it at all. Judging from the gin blossoms on the man’s beak, Jack would wager the man spent most of his time half-pickled.

The viscount pressed a switch on a little box on his desk. A second later the housekeeper’s voice came out of the box. “Yes, Lord Breckenridge?”

“Coffee, please, Mrs. Dean. And some sandwiches. And some of those little cakes you make that are so delicious.”

Good God. Was Abernathy flirting with his housekeeper?

“Of course, my lord.” And she was being all coy in return.

Jack eyed his walking stick and wondered if jabbing the blade up his nose and into his brainpan might take away the image of the two of them trying to put their parts together around their notable middles. Instead of testing the theory, he sat down in the chair—it was as comfortable as it looked.

When Abernathy was done cooing to Mrs. Dean, he came and sat down in the chair opposite Jack’s. “First of all, I want to thank you for responding to my request for a meeting so quickly.”

“You have impeccable timing. This is my only free afternoon for some time.” It wasn’t, of course. His business happened mostly at night, in the dark and shadows, but Abernathy didn’t need to know that his afternoons were open for at least the next three to four days.

“Oh, very good. I suppose you are wondering why I requested a meeting as we’ve never been introduced.”

“I rarely wonder at anything, my lord. And it’s not as though we’re totally ignorant of one another, is it?”

The viscount had to be a lousy card player. His cheeks flared red, and his left eyelid twitched.

All the ladies must find him so very attractive.

“Yes, quite right.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left as his hands dangled over the leather armrests. He was rather enjoying himself. “You are a friend of my father, are you not?”

If Abernathy flushed any redder, Jack could sell him to a freak show as “The Incredible Tomato Man.” “We are well acquainted, yes.”

“I wager it wasn’t he who pointed you in my direction, though, was it?”

Make that “The Incredible Lobster Man.” “Indeed not. I was given your direction by—”

“Don’t.” Jack held up his hand. “Who hardly matters. I’m more concerned with why.”

It was at that moment that Mrs. Dean arrived with refreshment. She set a silver tray laden with food and a large pot of coffee that smelled strong and rich on the table between them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,” Abernathy said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

She curtsied—ignoring Jack—and bustled out of the room like an engine with a furnace full of burning coal.

“I think you intimidate her.”

Jack poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have that effect.” He took a plate and placed three little sandwiches on it before leaning back in his chair. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but why am I here, my lord?”

Abernathy, who was fixing his own cup of coffee, cleared his throat. “I understand that you occasionally avail yourself to the transportation industry.”

Jack wouldn’t necessarily call it an industry, or say that he availed himself to much of anything. He got involved in schemes and opportunities that promised to pay him extremely well for the amount of risk he had to take. “Do you have something that requires transportation?”

The viscount’s cheeks flushed. The man was hopeless. “Yes. Something that requires a certain amount of...discretion.”

Men like Abernathy only used that word when they knew they were doing something they oughtn’t. “I realize your circle considers it gauche to discuss remuneration, but I do not put my reputation or personal freedom on the line for cheap, sir.”

The man’s lips curled briefly, as though he’d bitten into something bad. Jack’s first thought was to poke him in the throat—hard. “Of course. What is your price? I suppose you’ll want it up front?”

He made it sound as though Jack had asked for a kiss on top of it all. “Half to seal the deal and half upon completion would be the gentlemanly agreement.”

“There’s nothing gentlemanly about this, sir.”

“No,” Jack replied quietly, locking his gaze with the viscount’s. “On either side, else I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Let the arrogant nob chew on that for a moment.

Abernathy’s chin lifted defiantly. “Name your price, Dandy.”

“Before I know what I’m getting into?” He chuckled. “I am not a fool, my lord. I went to Eton, you know.”

“Of course I know. You were in class with my eldest. That’s how I came to know of you. Fenton Hardwick.”

It was a surname that made the boy in him want to snort with laughter, but Jack resisted temptation. He remembered Hardwick—annoying little prig, but always up for a bit of trouble. They hadn’t been friends, though. Very few boys wanted to align themselves with a bastard.

“Ah, yes. How is he?”

“He’s on the Continent with friends.” Where Jack would probably be had his parents married.

Jack’s smile was false. “Good for him.” He took another drink of coffee. “What am I to transport, my lord?”

“A crate.” The viscount gave him a narrow glance. “Though I’m tempted to tell you to go to the very devil and find someone else.”

“As you wish, but I’ve been to the devil, my lord. He sent me back.” He made to rise.

“Wait.”

Jack hid his smile as he sat once more. He knew the old man wouldn’t let him leave. Honestly, if he needed a reason to leave this should have been it. Abernathy’s desperation should have warned him off. Desperate men were not good employers.

But Jack didn’t leave. “Yes?”

The viscount squirmed. In his mind, Jack had the bounder pinned like an insect on a display board. “I will give you one thousand pounds to deliver a crate to St. Pancras station.”

One thousand, eh? Desperate indeed. “Two thousand.”

“What?” Abernathy’s face was purple. Was Jack about to witness a human head exploding? “That’s preposterous!”

Jack shrugged. “Find someone else then. I’m sure someone out there would do it for a thousand.”

The older man’s jaw clenched. “You are no gentleman, sir.”

“We already established that, I believe.” Jack crossed his legs and reclaimed the delicious coffee he was not yet ready to abandon. “Now, my lord, do we have a deal?”

Chapter 2

Two thousand pounds to pick up a crate on the docks and transport it to St. Pancras and then walk away. It sounded too good to be true. But it was true, because Jack had the first of the payments inside his coat pocket.

Logic demanded then that the situation was far from anything remotely resembling good. That realization floated around in his head, taking some of the shine off his latest influx of wealth. He was going to make the delivery—he kept his word, no matter what a bastard like Abernathy thought of him. He’d have to be extra cautious, use his best men, but he’d get the job done and be all the richer for it.

As he steered his carriage through the streets meandering toward Whitechapel, Jack wondered if Abernathy would tell his father that they’d met. Most likely not, because his father might ask for details and the viscount wouldn’t want to give himself away. Still, Jack could pretend.

Damnation. He’d thought more of his father today than he had in the past two years. This anger and bitterness were of no benefit other than to keep pushing him. Someday he was going to be one of the richest men in England, and when that happened, he was going to rub his old man’s face in it. He would never be his father’s social equal, but he could better him financially. If he could cripple him in the process that would just be buttercream on the cake.

When he finally reached home, Jack drove the carriage around behind the house, and after pausing at the small podium to use the punch card key, into the small shack there. After disengaging the engine he stepped out, closed the carriage door and inserted a key into the wall next to him. The platform beneath the carriage began to lower, taking the vehicle with it. It would deposit it underground with several other modes of transportation, and then the lift would return, looking like the scuffed floor of an old shack, with no hint of what was beneath. The vehicles would have all been stolen by now if not for this precaution. His reputation was fearsome, but the money from selling just one of his machines would feed a family for a long time, and children were a far greater motivator than fear.

He lowered a panel over the lock in the wall so that it was completely camouflaged and placed the key in its special pocket in the lining of his jacket. Then he left the shack and closed the door and bolted it.

The backyard of his house wasn’t large by any stretch, but there was a little garden and a place to sit and read if he so desired. The alley between his building and the next was just wide enough to drive his carriage through, so when he spotted the two young gents waiting for him in that narrow space he knew there was going to be trouble.

“Good day, lads,” he greeted as he approached. How long had they been watching for his return.

“You think so, Dandy?” the taller of the two demanded. He was a ginger, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and a sneer on his lips. The other was a blond with green eyes and a pretty face. Both of them were shorter than Jack, and heavier. Anger rolled off them in waves, along with a healthy dose of arrogance. They thought they could intimidate him. They thought two against one would work in their favor.

Idiots. “I reckon a day is unable to ‘ave any concept of good or evil, so saying it’s a “good” day is somefin of a fallacy, ain’t it? Suppose I ought to ‘ave said that it is a pleasant day, or a fine day. Does that satisfy your philosophic nature, or shall I expound furver?”

The ginger scowled. “What the hell are you jawing on about? I don’t care if a day can be evil or not.”

Jack shrugged. “Fair ‘nough. What do you care about?”

The blond straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height and sticking out his chest. A good punch to the solar plexus or throat would take care of him. “A friend of ours was murdered a few months back. Popular theory is that you did it.”

Setting the tip of his walking stick between the brace of his feet, Jack placed both hands on the top, ready to pull the saber free at a second’s notice. “You’re goin’ to ‘ave to be a tad more explicit, mate. I gets blamed for lots of fings.”

The ginger glared. “Felix August-Raynes.”

“August-Raynes?” As though he didn’t remember. “Oh, the bloke who liked to ‘urt girls. I remember ‘im.”

“I would hope you remember the people you kill, you cretin.”

Cretin? If only he had a quid for every time he’d been called that. Oh, right. He did. “Tell me, boys, did you see me murder your friend?”

“No.” The ginger’s petulant tone was beginning to grate. “We would have stopped you.”

Of course they would have. And they would have been big heroes too. “So you didn’t see nuffin’, but you believe I did it, regardless.”

“Everyone knows you did it, Dandy,” the blond retorted.

Jack arched a brow. “Oh? Such as?”

“As if we would give you their names.”

“If I done it, then why am I standin’ ‘ere, jawing with the two of you when I should be trussed up in Newgate, eh? No one saw nuffin’ ’cause were nothing to see.” They wouldn’t believe him, of course. Couldn’t blame them, really. He wouldn’t believe himself either.

The ginger clenched his fists. “You did it, and now you’re going to pay for it.”

Finally! Jack removed his hat and hung it on his walking stick, which he then leaned against the outside wall of his house. Then he removed his coat and draped it over the rickety rail of the back step. He rolled up his sleeves.

The younger men stared at him. This time Jack raised both brows. “I assume payment is to be in blood, yeah?”

Blondie started stripping off his own outerwear. “Indeed, you bastard.”

That word. Jack really, honestly and truly despised that word. He lashed out while the other fellow was still struggling to remove his coat—arms bent behind his back. A solid right to the gut, followed by a knee to the face when he doubled over. Jack entwined his fingers and bought the double fist down on his opponent’s back like a club, and as he fell to the ground, Jack stomped on the outside of his knee. It made an awful sound, and Blondie screamed.

Jack took two steps back and turned to the ginger, whose mouth was agape. It was difficult not to feel a little pride at having caused that expression. The whole altercation had been over in a matter of seconds.

“That wasn’t fair,” the redhead said. “That wasn’t sporting or gentlemanly at all.”

Jack shrugged. “I ain’t any of those fings, mate. Neever is life.” It was with that safe pronouncement that he pounced—right jab, left hook, solid slam to the solar plexus, a kick to the wedding tackle and, finally, a dislocated shoulder.

At his feet, the two moaned in pain, clutching the parts he had damaged the most. They’d recover from the beating, of course, but they’d always have a little reminder of what tangling with Jack Dandy meant.

He crouched over them. “Next time, I won’t be as gentle,” he assured them. “And in the future, when makin’ accusations, you may want to ‘ave some evidence to back ’em up, otherwise someone might take offense.”

He stood and collected his belongings. Then he stepped over the mewling pair. “Oh, and if you’re not off me property in five minutes, I’m going to demonstrate what ‘appens when someone really pisses me off.”

Jack placed his hat on his head as he left the alley and climbed the front steps to his house. He whistled a little tune as he crossed the threshold.

He hadn’t felt this good since he met Finley.

* * *

The two blokes had crawled off hours ago, and since a constable hadn’t come by yet to arrest him, Jack assumed one wouldn’t come calling at all, which was good because he had a delivery to make.

It was well past midnight, but that wasn’t terribly late for these parts—not the disrespectable ones. There was something comforting about night and all its shadows. They closed around him, protecting him, taking him into them and warming him like a soft blanket.

Night was really his preferred time. He knew he looked like a nocturnal creature, and he did nothing to discredit that. He always wore black—sometimes with a splash of color, but not often. His hair was almost black, as were his eyes. His own mother had told him he looked like Lucifer himself—a beautiful angel forever denied the embrace of Heaven.

But Mum had been so drunk she could barely stand when she’d slurred it at him, so he hadn’t given it any more thought than a seven-year-old boy ought. She’d meant it as a compliment; she always called him her angel. Certainly she had never meant to make him feel as though he were damned, or somehow inherently evil.

Though good people weren’t often suspected of murder, were they? Even Finley had asked him if he’d killed August-Raynes, the rat bastard who’d dared lay hands on her. She’d thought maybe she had murdered him herself during one of her “episodes”—as if his Treasure could ever be so cold-blooded. She’d never be able to live with the guilt.

The fate of Felix August-Raynes didn’t make Jack feel anything at all.

He took his walking stick, of course, and slipped on a pair of thick-soled boots and a long black leather coat that flared out around his legs, fitting his upper body like a second skin over the solid black of his shirt and waistcoat. A small pistol with a dull finish so it wouldn’t glint in the light was strapped to his right thigh. The size of the thing was laughable, but he was secure enough in his manhood to carry it. Besides, it shot Aether blasts, not bullets, so size really didn’t matter. He had a dagger sheathed in either boot, and a garrote wire hidden up one sleeve. Oh, and a straight razor in his pocket—and brass knuckle casings sewn into his leather clothes.

It was rare that he had to resort to violence. Normally, he could charm his way out of most situations, but sometimes his talent failed him, or wasn’t enough, and he had to fall back on his fists and feet. He was a good fighter—not as strong as the remarkable Finley or her mate Sam, but he was extremely quick, agile and not afraid to fight dirty.

For tonight’s job, he’d asked Toby and Philippe to come with. He’d known the two of them for years, and though they bickered and tortured one another as only an Englishman and Frenchman could, they were dependable and loyal. He’d trust them in any situation.

Jack paid them both up front—two hundred each for the evening. It was a small fortune in Whitechapel, more than enough to make certain his faith in their loyalty wasn’t mistaken.

Philippe was the driver. He had a sleek carriage that he’d augmented himself with various gadgets and weapons. Instead of having a steam engine, it was driven by two mechanical horses. They were real beauties—engraved and sculpted. They looked as if they belonged in a museum or at the front of a king’s vehicle.

“Little flashy, ain’t it, monsieur?” Jack asked. He trusted them, but not enough to drop the accent. “I were thinkin’ maybe we’d be less conspicuous in somefing a little less identifiable.”

“Mon frère Jacques,” the Frenchman began, as though Jack had just told him a joke. “Do you take me for a fool?” He pulled a lever up by his seat outside the carriage. The backs of both horses opened and darkness billowed out. It took Jack a moment to realize it was fabric—fabric that, in the dark, made the horses look real.

“Fancy dress for metal ‘orses.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “I oughtn’t ‘ave questioned you, mate.”

“Yes, but you are excused this time.” Philippe’s jovial gaze slid past Jack, and his dark mustache twitched. “Poisson! Are you coming, or are you going to flop about all night like you on a hook, eh?”

Toby glared at him. The lanky Northerner did look somewhat fishlike as he performed what he called his “exercises.” To their effectiveness, Jack couldn’t attest, but Toby had never been caught, so if he wanted to stretch and do a little dance before heading out, Jack wasn’t going to question it.

“Your mum want you home before you turn into a pumpkin, princess? That what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Philippe swore in French, but there was no real offense to it. This was just something the two of them did.

“Right,” Jack began. “In you get, mate. I’ve an appointment with Philippe’s mum later and she ‘ates it when I keeps her waitin’.”

Both blokes laughed. Jack allowed himself a grin as he gestured for Toby to jump in before him, then he climbed into the carriage and Philippe’s mechanical horses jerked into motion.

Toby wasn’t a real talkative fellow, for which Jack was glad. They made the journey to the docks in relative silence. It gave him time to just enjoy the darkness, being hidden in the shadows.

There was no such thing as “quiet” on the docks. It was a city unto itself, bustling and pulsing with life and drama. There were several large seafaring vessels in port, and their crews were either hard at work or hard at play.

“Got enough ladies here to have a tea party,” Toby remarked as they drove by one raucous bunch.

“Those ain’t ladies,” Jack told him with a smile. “Those be prostitutes—they eat ladies for breakfast.” His mum had been one of them—after his father had gotten through with her. Society wasn’t too kind to “ruined” girls.

Jack’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t going to think of Mum or that bastard again today. Enough was enough.

“I can think of worse ways to go out,” his companion allowed. “So what’s the plan, Jackey-boy?” Only Toby was permitted to call him that.

“Get in, get the crate, deliver it and get paid.” Jack grinned in the dimness. “That’s what it’ll be if Fortune smiles on us.”

“And if not?”

His smile faded. “I don’t want no blood shed if we can ‘elp it——ours or anyone else’s.”

“Got it.” What was left unsaid, however, was that if it came down to Toby’s life or someone else’s, Toby was to be completely selfish, because Jack intended to do the same.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop—at least Philippe’s unnatural beasts had that to recommend them. Jack waited a moment to be sure they had indeed arrived at their location before opening the door and jumping out.

It was considerably darker along this stretch of dock—considerably quiet, as well.

A breeze ruffled Jack’s hair, brushing the back of his neck. Every instinct he had—and he trusted each and every one implicitly—insisted that he get back in the carriage and drive away, but he had one thousand pounds that said that wasn’t an option.

“Let’s get this done and get the ‘ell out of ‘ere,” he said, shutting the carriage door.

“Is that where we are supposed to go?” Philippe’s tone was perplexed as he pointed ahead. “It is nothing but a pile of rubble.”

Jack turned his head. The Frenchman was right. It was just a pile at rubble. At one time it had been a considerable warehouse, but now it didn’t look as if it could withstand a good sneeze.

“This is it,” he confirmed. The place matched Abernathy’s description perfectly. “The crate is in the cellar. Let’s go. I don’t want to be ’ere any longer than we ‘ave to be.”

Toby grabbed his carpetbag of tools just in case they were necessary and came to stand beside Jack. “Lead on.”

“Stay here,” Jack told the Frenchman

Philippe looked insulted. “You think I run off and leave Jacques and le Poisson?” He spat on the ground. “I would die first.”

Jack made a face. “Don’t be so dramatic. Come on, Toby.”

Abernathy had given Jack a sketch of the layout, so he knew to duck beneath the collapsed timber on the far right side. Toby held a gas torch in his hand so they could see.

“What happened here?”

“Something bad,” Jack replied, eyeing the destruction. What could make a building like this collapse into itself as if it had been squeezed by a giant hand? “Something powerful.”

There were footprints in the dust and dirt on the floor. Some were almost completely refilled in, but others were more recent.

“What makes a footprint like that ‘un?” Toby asked, pointing.

Jack placed his own foot beside it for reference. His feet were long, but this print was even bigger than his boot. And then there were all the little quasi-round tracks. Either a troupe of tiptoeing children had run through here, or metal had been—at least once upon a time.

“Nothing human,” he replied. “Come on.” Metal—especially large automatons—unnerved him. Unless someone had figured out a way to make them sentient—and according to Finley someone had—he couldn’t read them. They weren’t creatures of emotion or irrationality, so he had no idea how to know their intentions or use his abilities to gauge what they might do next. He couldn’t read them, and he hated it.

Abernathy had told him that the crate would be on the floor, in the back of a room designated as the office. He’d mentioned that right around the time he assured Jack that there was nothing dangerous in the crate—just that the people who wanted it hadn’t the means to fetch it and transport it themselves.

It was only because Jack had sensed at least a partial truth in that statement that they were even in this death trap of a building. If he’d believed the viscount had set him up, they wouldn’t be here. Still, there was something not right. They needed to get out of here and soon.

They found the office without incident, save for a few sneezes from Toby. The place was full of dust and debris. The crate was marked with black paint—”E.312.” It was over five and a half feet long, two feet wide, and approximately just as deep. Not a huge piece, but big enough that it wasn’t going to be easy to be inconspicuous with it.

“That’s it,” Jack said, fingers creeping closer to the pistol at his thigh. His nerves hummed at an alarming pace, instinct sharp and raw. The “voices” he called his intuition screamed for him to get out, that this building held nothing but danger. And yet...

There was one voice—the strongest one—that urged him forward. His instincts had never let him down before, and even though he knew they should just nab the bloody thing and run, he had to walk up to it and place his hand on the top of it.

It was like being hit by lightning. His heart slammed into his throat. Every hair on his body bristled. Every nerve tingled—painfully.

Bloody hell. He’d never felt anything like it. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t find any reasonable logic, but he knew he had to take that crate with him. He had to get it out of here no matter what the cost. Whatever was inside it was special. Important.

“We’re not going to be able to carry it,” Toby informed him. “Not easily. It’s heavy.”

As luck would have it, there was one of those two-wheeled things used to cart about heavy objects in the office. Most warehouses had at least one. That no one had stolen this one was a testament to just how unsettling the place was.

The crate stood on its end lengthwise, so it was easy enough to get the lip of the transport cart underneath it. Then Toby did the pushing and Jack steered them down the path of least resistance to the exit.

They’d gotten to the door—almost out—when Jack heard it. It was the sound of metal in need of oiling, of mechanical parts grinding together and squealing in protest.

The flesh between his shoulder blades tingled, and he turned his head.

Climbing out of one of the holes in the floor was an automaton. It appeared incredibly human, dragging its ragged torso across the floor. Its lower half had been ripped away by something strong. Its gaze was menacing as it settled on Jack. “You cannot take that,” it said in a tinny voice. “Please do not.”

There was such sincerity in its voice that Jack had second thoughts—again—about this job.

“Jaysus, is that thing talkin’?” Toby’s voice was shrill, his eyes wide.

“It is,” Jack murmured. Then, louder, “Sorry...mate. I’m being paid to deliver this to St. Pancras.”

The metal looked up, pivoting its torso to meet his gaze. God, but it was unnerving! “St. Pancras?”

Something in its tone pinged Jack’s intuition. Telling it about the drop had been the right thing to do. Saying more was the right thing, as well, because as he’d been talking to the thing, more had joined it—along the walls in the shadows, on the ceiling. Not many—maybe three—but enough to kill both him and Toby with ease.

“Yeah. That okay with you?”

Its smooth metal head nodded. “Take it and go. More are coming.”

The words echoed with Jack’s intuition. Something was coming. Something worse than the things in this room.

“Go,” Jack commanded, giving Toby a shove. “Go now!”

They burst through the door of the building with their prize, Toby pushing and Jack steering. As they raced toward the carriage, Jack saw Philippe raising an Aether pistol. “Hurry, mes frères, we have company!”

Jack didn’t glance behind, or to either side. He could feel them closing in, every nerve screaming with it. He ran faster, and so did Toby.

They reached the carriage. The cargo brace had already been lowered. They dumped their cargo onto it and pulled the lever. Automatically adjusting clamps closed and tightened around the box as it lifted and drew back toward the carriage.

“Get in,” Jack commanded, finally glancing over his shoulder. Good God. “Philippe, get us out of here.”

“Oui!” The fabric covering his horses was sucked back into their backs, and the Frenchman turned a key in a panel near his leg. “Allons-y!”

Jack jumped into the carriage just as it started moving. They tore away from the warehouse as if the hounds of hell were at their heels.

He glanced out the back window. There had to be at least a dozen automatons chasing them, and several humans on velocycles.

“Faster, Philippe!” He shouted just before the first shot rang out.

Apparently they weren’t the only ones who wanted the crate, but their pursuers were willing to kill for it.

Chapter 3

“Philippe!” Jack yelled. Had his friend been shot?

“Oui!” came the reply, followed by a grinding sound that meant he was raising the armored backdrops behind himself and the rear of the carriage that would protect them from further shots.

“What the devil’s in that crate?” Toby asked, loading a strange-looking rifle with even stranger-looking ammunition.

“Not a bloody clue,” Jack replied. “Toby, are those marbles?”

“Specially designed Aetheric spheres.” The rifle snapped shut. “They’ll put a hole in a man and stop anything with an engine dead in its tracks.”

“Good to know. Avoid killing anyone. We’re going to attract enough attention as is.”

“Aye, Jackey-boy.” With that, he pulled down the window, leaned out of the carriage and fired.

Jack took the other side, carefully aiming his Aether pistol at the automaton that looked like a rubbish bin with limbs about to jump onto the back of the carriage. Thankfully his aim was true—it was difficult to maintain a steady hand in a vehicle picking up speed on a rough stretch of dock.

Bloody hell. This was going to cause a bit of a ruckus. So much for discretion.

“Get us out of here, Philippe!” Jack yelled, firing at another rapidly moving piece of metal—this one a strange dog/human hybrid with glowing red eyes. It was the sort of thing nightmares were made of. His first shot sheared off its right front leg at the joint, but it continued to run on three. He fired again, and it fell to the street, sparks flying.

Toby had taken out several, as well. They continued shooting, until all that was left were their human pursuers. They were in a carriage, as well, and quickly gaining on them. One of them hung out the passenger side, a rifle raised to his shoulder.

Jack fired and missed as his carriage hit a rut. The man fired back, the shot imbedding itself in the carriage exterior just above Jack’s head. These bounders were playing a deadly game, shooting to kill. Jack pulled the trigger—his gun failed.

He should have asked for three thousand. If he lived through this, he was going back to Abernathy’s house and stealing the silver again. All of it.

Another shot hit just in front of him, sending splinters flying into his face. He raised his arm to protect his eyes and pounded his pistol on the door frame. Maybe a little violence would induce the bloody thing to work properly.

Over the top of the carriage, he saw the flash of Toby’s rifle—the pellet struck the front of the vehicle behind them and flared. The pursuing carriage sputtered to a stop in the middle of the street. Toby cheered in victory and raised his first two fingers in a rude salute to the swearing men trying to get their vehicle working again.

“I’ve got to ‘ave one of those, mate,” Jack enthused as they both dropped back into their seats. “Good going, Philippe!”

“Très bon, mes frères! Très bon” came the reply on a wave of maniacal laughter.

Jack and Toby chuckled, as well—a release of nervous energy. That had been close. They’d had closer, Jack especially. Once, he’d stared down the barrel of a pistol just inches from his face while trying to pull his trousers on. Luckily for him, the wife of the man holding said pistol chose that moment to throw a pillow at her husband, and Jack took the opportunity to jump out the window. He’d landed in a rosebush, and despite being scratched senseless by the thorns, he’d run to his carriage barefoot, laughing like the idiot he was to have been diddling with a magistrate’s wife in the first place. Obviously the man hadn’t thought his wife’s honor to be worth hunting Jack down, but just to be safe he’d never returned to Exeter.

His smile at the memory faded as the carriage sped on toward St. Pancras and he brushed slivers of wood from the front of his coat. He hadn’t anticipated tonight’s attack, but he’d felt it in the warehouse. He’d known something was wrong and he hadn’t gotten him and his men out of there fast enough to heed the warning bells clanging in his head. That was badly done of him. Philippe and Toby knew there could be consequences to working with him, but if one of them had been killed tonight...

Well, Abernathy would owe him more than money. As it was, the viscount owed him an explanation, or at least an apology.

What the hell was in that crate?

* * *

It wasn’t easy getting the crate into St. Pancras. Fortunately, the train stop wasn’t terribly busy, and Jack and his friends had disguised themselves as laborers to make their activities less interesting to anyone who might see them.

The tricky part was going to be getting the crate to the correct spot, as it required them dropping onto the tracks and down a bit, unless Toby could get them into the maintenance rooms.

As luck would have it, the train pulled out of the station just as they arrived on the platform, so for the time being they had the place all to themselves.

“Don’t dawdle,” Jack said to Toby as his lanky friend crouched in front of a service door, lock-picking tools in hand.

At one time it had been easy to pick a lock—they were practically all the same, and a master key was as good as gold. Then people starting taking their home security more seriously—a ring of body snatchers who weren’t too picky about whether or not their victims were already dead when they set upon them would do that—and locks became more intricate. Now there were punch cards and clockwork mazes, secret codes and what have you.

Fortunately, the one on this door was a simple clockwork piece. Jack could have picked it himself, but the benefit of being the one running the show meant not getting the knees of your trousers dirty.

There was a noise beside him—a muffled sliding sound. Frowning, Jack turned his head. Had it come from inside the crate? He listened again, but all he heard was the gentle clicks of Toby’s tools, and Philippe singing a French song under his breath.

“We’re in,” Toby crowed as he pushed the door open.

Jack clapped him on the back. “Well done, mate. Let’s go.” He could hear footsteps approaching, some of which did not sound human but more like the clang of metal on stone. Had their pursuers caught up to them?

Philippe pushed the trolley over the threshold with Toby holding the door. Jack followed, catching the door before it closed all the way. Through a slit no wider than his index finger, he watched as two men and an automaton appeared on the platform. He didn’t recognize them, but they certainly looked like men on a mission.

“Where do you think they went?” one asked.

The shorter one glanced toward the track. “Probably caught the train.”

“And leave that remarkable carriage? I wouldn’t.”

“Well, they’re not here. I don’t see them on the track—they wouldn’t have gotten far. They’re limited to the public areas. They must have taken the train.”

Jack stifled a chuckle. These two weren’t dressed well enough to be aristocracy, but they were gently bred all the same. Upper class, perhaps. They were the sort who naturally assumed everyone played by the same set of rules as they.

“Well, they’ll be coming back for that carriage, so I say we watch that. We can always follow them. We have to get that crate. If it falls into the wrong hands...”

The smaller man nodded. “I know, my friend. I know. Come, let’s find a porter or station worker—someone might have seen them.”

He’d heard enough. Jack carefully closed the door and turned to his companions. “Philippe, you have to get up top and move the carriage immediately. Hide it out of the way.” It was what they should have done to begin with, but there was no time for recriminations now. They had wrongly assumed their pursuers were no longer a threat, or if they were, that they wouldn’t think to look behind the station buildings for their vehicle.

“D’accord. When and where shall we meet?”

“Thirty minutes, outside that hotel a few blocks down—the one where you met Mariska.”

At the mention of his fiancée’s name, Philippe smiled dreamily. “She picked my pocket. A good choice. I will meet you there.”

The Frenchman made his escape through another door, one that led into the maintained areas of the station. Jack and Toby followed him in, but when Philippe veered right, his companions kept going straight.

“Who do you reckon those blokes were?” Toby asked as they steered the crate down a corridor just barely wide enough for it.

“No idea. No one I ever wants to meet again, though.”

“Are we delivering this thing into the wrong hands, Jackey-boy?”

“Dunno that eever. Don’t much care at the moment.”

“Aye, understood. Is this the door?”

It was. Marked with just a number, the door was like all the rest, but it opened into a room with another door that led below the tracks, to the catacombs and tunnels below.

Going down stairs with the bloody cart was not easy, but they managed it in a few short minutes. The spot where they were to leave it was just feet away. Toby tipped the trolley when they got there, and Jack eased the crate onto the dirt floor.

There was that noise again—coming from inside the crate.

“Did you hear that?” Toby asked, glancing about.

Jack nodded but didn’t speak. Frowning, he reached out his right hand and rapped his knuckles once against the side of the crate. A second later he could have sworn something in the crate had knocked back.

This time he tapped out a pattern—a rhythm. There was a moment of silence, and then the same pattern was echoed back to him.

“What the devil?” Toby’s eyes were larger than saucers.

“Grab that pry bar, my friend.” It was luck to find one nearby, but that didn’t really surprise him. Good fortune seemed to follow him, and he was going to take full advantage of it while he could.

Toby snatched up the old, rusty bar and handed it to him. Quickly, Jack shoved it under the lip of the crate top and pulled down. There was a tearing—splintering—sound, and then the top of the crate popped open.

Jack looked inside.

Bloody hell.

Chapter 4

Toby looked inside, as well. “Sweet God!” He jumped back, face white with horror.

Jack’s attention drifted back to the contents of the crate.

At first glance it was difficult to tell what it was. Metal covered part of it. It was dirty, and looked as though it had been in this crate for a very long time. That thought disgusted him. It was cruel and barbaric.

It made a noise, but no words came out—just groaning. It was probably his imagination but it sounded like “Help me.”

“What is it?” Toby demanded.

“A girl. Somewhat.”

It was an image he would carry with him for the rest of his life. It... She stared up at him with one eye—the other was either destroyed or was still being made. Her face was half flesh, half metal, as was the rest of her. He could see her internal organs through the gaps in her metal ribs where tissue had yet to knit itself together.

She wasn’t human, but she wasn’t entirely machine either. How was such a creature even possible? And why, when he looked at her, did she remind him of Finley? Finley was beautiful. This was not. Still, his heart kicked hard inside his chest when he looked at her.

Fingers that were metal bone covered with scraps of flesh reached for him, grabbing his hand before he could jerk it away. Jack braced himself, prepared to be disgusted. Instead, her skin was warm, the exposed metal cool and smooth. Her grip was tight—any tighter and she’d break his hand.

She made that noise again—the one that sounded like a plea for help.

“That’s it,” Toby said. “I’m leaving.”

Every moment spent staring at the poor creature was another moment closer to being caught or something going wrong. Jack managed to pull his fingers free. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

He shut the lid.

* * *

He was at a party at Piccadilly Circus—a masked event much like the one he’d taken Finley to some time ago. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing a raven mask that covered the top portion of his face.

On a nearby stage, a woman danced with fire as though she was made of it herself. On another, a man swallowed swords, and on one more, a man and woman bent themselves into contortions that shouldn’t be possible. They made it look like a beautiful ballet, intimate. Every moment was slow and controlled.

Music swelled, bodies moved and swayed. Heat rose as colors blurred.

Then he saw her. She stood apart from the crowd—she had no choice. There was no hope that a girl such as her could ever be part of a crowd. She was tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. She was dressed in a gown that started out black at the bottom but gave way to shades of red, orange and gold as it rose up around her. It draped and clung—provocative but still somehow demure. Her fair skin glowed. Exposed shoulders gave way to a long neck and firm jaw. Her lips were full beneath a mask that looked as though it was made of pure flame. Her hair—a riot of rich copper curls—only added to the image of her as a creature of fire. Her mask was similar to his—birdlike.

When she turned her head to meet his gaze, Jack’s heart slammed to a hard stop. A phoenix. That’s what she was—a gorgeous mythical creature rising from the ashes. Her eyes were amber, molten and questioning, like Finley’s, but not Finley’s.

He moved toward her, unable to stop his feet. Normally he let young ladies come to him and saved his pursuit for older women who wouldn’t expect more than what he was willing to give, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

When he reached her, he held out his hand to her. She took it, her long fingers soft and strong in his. He led her onto the dance floor, where couples twirled around them. His hand pressed against the small of her back as her fingers slid up to his shoulder. Jack shivered despite the heat in the room.

God, she was like looking at the sun after too many dark nights. She smelled of amber, of warmth and sweetness. It made him a little dizzy and he didn’t care. He liked it, even though part of him was terrified. Dangerous, that’s what she was. Dangerous and so very, very tempting.

She danced as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, all grace and ease. God, she was incredible. He could kiss her right there, not caring who saw, not caring if she slapped his face after. It would be worth it just to taste her lips.

As though she could read his mind, she moved closer to him, their bodies touching. She really was a creature of flame—and she could burn him to ash if she wished. Molten eyes stared up at him, inviting and unashamed. A soft flush filled her smooth cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” Jack murmured. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”

She opened her mouth and made a terrible moaning sound. “Help me.”

Jack awoke with a gasp, lurching upright in bed. He was drenched with sweat, heart pounding.

“Jack?” came a sleepy voice. What was her name again? “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he replied, throwing back the covers. There’d be no more sleep for him, and dawn wasn’t far away. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. “Nothing at all.”

He left the house a few moments later and went to the small shed for his velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled vehicle that could weave in and out of traffic with ease and outrun anything that challenged it. A hat was useless on the bloody thing, so he tied a piratelike scarf around his head to keep his hair tamed and pulled on a pair of goggles. Then he started the machine and took off down the street as fast as the velocycle would go.

St. Pancras station was busier than it had been a few hours ago but still relatively empty. Unfortunately, there were more staff than patrons. It didn’t matter—he knew how to get in now, having escaped it earlier. He easily found the door through which he and Toby had left, and he picked the lock to gain entry once more.

Down dark steps he ran, down to that dank, bleak place where he had left the crate.

Left her.

He raced into the catacombs as if those hellish hounds were after him again. Or maybe the flames he felt were just remnants of his dream—of her.

Jack stopped.

The crate was gone. Frantic, panting for breath, his gaze scanned the area. This was the right spot. Wasn’t it? No, it was. It was. He had left it right here.

There was nothing—not even an impression in the dust and dirt. It was as though he’d never been here—or something had taken care to make it look that way.

Where had they taken it? Who had taken it? There wasn’t so much as a track—not even a footprint.

Jack sagged against the rough stone wall, folding his arms over his chest. The scent of amber teased him like a cruel joke. Was it real or just his imagination?

She was gone. Lost. Whatever happened to her now was out of his hands.

And entirely his fault.

* * *

Payment from Abernathy arrived later that day via messenger. Jack didn’t even open it. He just tossed the package on his desk and poured himself a whiskey. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him, but this was one of those times that getting pissy-eyed drunk appealed to him.

He had returned home from the station ill-tempered and guilt-ridden. The woman who had been in his bed was gone, leaving a thank-you note on his pillow. He tossed it in the fire without reading it, and then went to take a very hot shower. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw and the water turned icy. Only then did he dry off and pull on clean clothes.

He still felt dirty. It wasn’t a feeling he liked. Wasn’t one he’d experienced in a very long time.

He threw himself into work. Lots of business opportunities to investigate—legitimate ones. The average life expectancy of someone in his line of work wasn’t terribly long. Spending the rest of his days as a criminal wasn’t what he wanted. Making something of himself—something real and good—was the best revenge he could get on his father, and the best way he could honor the sacrifices his mother had made for him.

Finley had sent him a note. He didn’t read it either. He paced the length of the carpet in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. His attention kept going back to the packet from Abernathy.

Piss on it.

He grabbed the payment and stormed from the room. He snatched his hat, coat and walking stick and collected his steam carriage. He made the drive to Mayfair in record time. He drove like a madman—reckless, with no regard for himself or others. It was badly done, but he was a lucky bastard—that’s what he’d been told—and he made it unscathed. Of course he did. That was his luck. His charm, right? Finley would call it his talent. It wasn’t natural and he didn’t care.

He took the steps to Abernathy’s door two at a time and jabbed at the button. The housekeeper’s voice greeted him a moment later. “Name and business.”

“Jack Dandy to see the viscount,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but his lordship is not at home today.”

That was a lie. Jack could hear it plainly in her voice. This was what the rich did when they didn’t want to see someone. “I’m going to see him.”

“Please leave, sir—”

“Listen, woman,” he growled, stepping up to the mirror so she could see his expression. “Let me in, or I’ll go ’round back and start breaking windows til I get to the right one.”

There was a pause. Then the door opened.

Jack brushed past her without a glance and tore through the house toward the room he had been in the day before. If Abernathy wasn’t there he’d rip the house apart until he found him.

But his luck was with him, and the viscount was there. The older man looked up with a start. “Dandy. What the devil are you about, man? Get out or I’ll summon the authorities.”

“What happened to her?” Jack demanded. They both knew Abernathy wasn’t going to call for the coppers.

“Her?” Abernathy was all innocence.

Jack gritted his teeth. “The girl in the crate.”

Apparently, something in Jack’s expression gave the viscount pause. He dropped the pretense. “Mr. Dandy, that wasn’t a girl. That was a complex piece of machinery.”

In his head, Jack knew that—remembered the exposed metal—but in his heart, in his conscience, he remembered that eye staring up at him, so full of fear. Her lips moving and that awful sound she’d made that haunted his dreams. Help me. That’s what he imagined she’d said.

Abernathy took advantage of his silence. “Did you go back to St. Pancras with plans of being a white knight, Dandy?”

Jack’s gaze snapped up. The viscount’s expression was one of mockery, his pale eyes glittering in amusement. He stared into that gaze, his jaw clenching. “Where. Is. She?”

The older man blinked. And swallowed. “Its whereabouts are not your concern. Rest assured it is in good hands. Take your payment like a good boy and go on back to Whitechapel.”

Where you belong. That was what he didn’t say, what he didn’t have to say.

Jack tossed the packet of bills at him. Abernathy tried to catch it, but he was too slow, and it fell to the floor at his feet. “I don’t want it,” Jack snarled.

Disbelief slackened Abernathy’s features. “We had a bargain, Dandy.”

“And I kept it. I delivered your crate.” His shoulders straightened. “But I never said I wouldn’t try to find her again. I never said I wouldn’t steal her again.” He couldn’t just leave her alone out there. He couldn’t just abandon her.

He knew what it was to be abandoned. Knew what happened to people who were abandoned. He didn’t want that for her.

The older man flushed hotly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“You’ll never find it.”

“Yes, I will.” Or rather, he knew someone who could. “And I’ll do it for free.” He turned to leave the room.

“You’re no gentleman. You’re a liar and a thief, with no honor at all. I ought to have known what to expect from Blackstone’s whoreson bastard.”

Jack froze—for less than a second, but it felt like an eternity. He whipped around, body moving faster than his mind. A few long, purposeful strides carried him back to the older man until there were less than a few inches between them. Jack towered over him, using his height and rage to intimidate.

It worked. Abernathy drew back, but he was caught between his desk and Jack. There was nowhere for him to run.

“What are you going to do, D-Dandy? Beat me? Mur... Kill me? I have witnesses who will testify you were here. You won’t get away with it this time.”

Jack had never wanted to kill anyone so much in his entire life. No, that was a lie. He had wanted to kill his father since he was old enough to know what that meant, but now he just wanted to make the old man miserable. No, he wanted to kill this worthless sack of meat almost as much as he had wanted to kill Felix August-Raynes for taking violent advantage of young women.

But killing August-Raynes would have been worth swinging from a noose. Abernathy was not.

Jack slapped him. Wasn’t that what gentlemen did when one insulted another? He didn’t have kid gloves, so he had to use his bare hand. A nice, hard backhanded slap that snapped Abernathy’s head to the side and set his fleshy jowls to trembling. It would leave a mark. A nasty one, with the imprint of Jack’s ring as a reminder bruised into it. It wasn’t an easily identifiable ring—not a signet or the like—but that was all right. Both Abernathy and Jack would know whose mark it was, and that was all that mattered.

The older man’s hand went to his cheek as his face turned back toward Jack. He looked astonished. Afraid.

Jack smiled grimly. “I think now we understand one another.” With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, hands in his pockets so no one could see they were clenched into fists.

He drove back to Whitechapel, his rage dropping to a low simmer. Tonight, he’d ask a few discrete acquaintances if they knew anything about the crate and its cargo. He couldn’t risk his reputation by going after it himself. If word got out that he’d stolen something for payment and then stolen it back... Well, that kind of thing didn’t look good.

So he’d be patient, and if questions didn’t yield results then he’d swallow his pride and go to the one man who truly was a gentleman. The one person he knew who could be trusted to do absolutely the right thing.

Griffin King.

The duke and his friends—especially Finley—would do all they could to find the metal girl. They would do what he couldn’t.

Save her.