The Girl with the Windup Heart. Kady Cross
there was something tantalizing about possibly getting her out of it.... He pressed his lips to her throat.
The door to the library burst open.
Finley swore. Griffin chuckled. Of course the others would choose this moment to show up. Their timing was, as always, terrible.
They filed in one after the other—Emily in front, followed by Sam, Wildcat and Jasper. A motley bunch if ever there was one. Emily carried a stack of papers, and had that expression on her freckled face that said she believed she’d solved a puzzle. Griffin loved to see that look.
“What did you find?” he asked as Finley sat up, putting a little distance between them. He wanted to pull her back, but she wasn’t much for flaunting their relationship in front of other people, even their friends.
Emily flopped down in a nearby chair, spreading the papers out on the tea table. “Lady Ash, I think.”
Sam snatched a shortbread from the plate and shoved the entire biscuit in his mouth. “She’s a genius.”
It always amazed Griffin to watch Sam eat. His friend loved food so much that somehow he managed to talk without spraying crumbs—as though his mouth knew better than to waste them by spitting them out.
“That goes without saying,” Griffin agreed.
“Just let her speak, will you?” Finley was peevish—and it was obvious. Griffin patted her thigh. He’d make certain they had some time alone later.
Emily arched an eyebrow at the other girl’s tone and Wildcat and Jasper shared a glance. Maybe Griffin should speak to the cowboy and ask him how he managed to find time to sneak away with Cat. They never seemed to have a problem spending time together. In fact, there had been times when they’d been impossible to find. People always seemed to find him.
“I used the Aether engine to compile a list of possible suspects,” Emily informed them in her Irish lilt. “I compared the guest list to all the gatherings with the Scotland Yard accounts of recently reported burglaries.”
Finley frowned. “But Lady Ash hasn’t stolen anything. Has she?”
Emily grinned, seemingly unaware of just how foul the other girl’s mood was. “No, but I reckoned she might be intelligent enough to realize someone would look into her ruined pearls. Two aristocratic women reported having pearls stolen as of late, but only one was invited to—and attended—each of the parties.”
They all stared at her—waiting. She sat there, smiling at them as tension built.
“Emily,” Finley growled. “Just tell us who the bloody hell she is.”
“She’s in an ugly mood, Em,” Sam added. “Best not to poke too much.”
The little Irish girl sighed. “I stayed up all night compiling this data—the least you all can do is allow me to bask in my success.”
“Bask later.” Finley sounded as though her jaw was glued shut. Griffin hid a smile. It was cruel of him—childish even, but how could he not love knowing that she was so sour because they’d been interrupted?
“Just tell us, Em,” he urged. “And then we can praise your hard work and genius.”
That seemed to appease her. She lit up like Guy Fawkes Night. “Lady Grantfarthen.”
Grantfarthen. It wasn’t a title Griffin knew well, but then, he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. As a young noble, especially a duke, he was a person that many sought to know, curry favor from or shove their daughters at. He had more important things to do than dance and drink champagne. Although, perhaps if he’d done a little more of that, his life wouldn’t always seem to be in peril.
“Her husband was a viscount,” Emily went on. “They spent most of their time at their country estate in Lincolnshire until Lord Grantfarthen shot himself over gaming debts, and the new heir tossed Lady Grantfarthen out.”
The new lord must be quite the peach indeed. “Let me guess. The victims have all been people to whom the late viscount owed money?” It wasn’t a brilliant deduction, so Griffin didn’t pat his own back over it.
Emily nodded. “Two of them had called in their markers, as well. When Grantfarthen couldn’t pay, they threatened to ruin him publicly.”
It was enough to make Griffin ashamed of the society into which he’d been born. If the thought of ridicule was enough to make you eat a bullet, what sort of world did you live in? Not a very pleasant one. “So the widow uses her abilities for a little revenge and claims her necklace was stolen to cover her tracks.”
“She’s not stupid,” Wildcat commented. “Would have been smarter not to wear the pearls at all, though.”
“Appearances,” Griffin said, absently. “One must keep up appearances. Not wearing the pearls might make people speculate that she’d taken to selling off her jewelry. Did you look into the lady’s finances?”
Emily puffed up like a little bird. “On a whim, I did. Turns out she had her own fortune as her father’s only child, but her da had put a stipulation on her dowry that Lord Grantfarthen couldn’t have access to it without written permission from his wife and his father-in-law. The old man’s in trade apparently, and rich as Midas. He refused to sign over any money, but he did offer his son-in-law a loan.”
“Which he refused,” Griffin concluded with a grimace. For many men—especially titled ones—pride was a terrible thing. Having a man “beneath” him deny him what he saw as rightfully his must have driven the viscount to distraction. “Do we know where the father is now?”
Emily consulted her papers. “I have an address for Mr. Peabody in Cheapside. He’s been out of the country, though.”
“When’s he due back?”
She looked again. “This morning. What are you thinking, lad?”
Griffin smiled without humor. “I’m thinking that our fiery lady might decide to pay a visit to her papa. She might decide she’s had enough of him controlling her money—and she might want his, as well.”
Some of the color left Emily’s cheeks. She was already very pale. “You don’t think she’d kill her own father?”
“I think she’s insane, very powerful and drunk on the fact that she’s gotten away with it for this long. I also think we’d better make haste to Cheapside if we’re to save Mr. Peabody from a grisly death.” He rose to his feet and offered Finley his hand. “Let’s go.”
Her fingers entwined with his as she rose to her feet. She wasn’t happy, he could tell—and he didn’t blame her. Since they’d met, their lives had been one adventure after another. Some of it had been fun, but most of it had been dangerous. They could use a little quiet time together. He wanted to give her that, but not at the expense of a life—especially not when it was a life they could save.
“We’ll go away after,” he told her in a low voice. “Spend some time alone.”
She shot him a doubtful glance. “All right.” But there was no conviction in her tone. She pulled her hand free of his and walked toward the door.
“I don’t blame her,” whispered a voice near his ear.
Garibaldi. Griffin didn’t turn his head. Didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard. No one else seemed to have either.
“She knows you don’t mean it, Your Grace. More importantly, you know you don’t mean it.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Clenching his hands into fists, he followed his friends.
The Machinist chuckled—the sound echoing in his head.
“I’m coming for you, Griffin King.”
* * *
“Why do I need to learn to dance?”
Jack