Griffin she had earned a spot in the good graces of not only Lady Marsden, but the big “mandroid,” as well.
“What is it?” Emily inquired, eyes wide as saucers as Finley took possession of the large pink box, tied with an elegant black-and-pink-striped ribbon.
“I don’t know,” she replied with all sincerity.
Lady Marsden arched a brow. “It’s from Madame Cherie’s. Whatever it is, it is expensive.” When Finley gaped at her, she continued with a smile, “Don’t just stand there, girl. Open it!”
Fingers clumsy with anticipation, Finley did just that, draping the ribbon over the back of the empty chair next to her. She removed the lid and set in on the floor, and then parted the delicate blush-pink tissue paper….
She gasped. Inside was a costume for a fancy dress ball—a fairylike gown of iridescent ebony feathers that glowed with deep violet, rich green and bright blue under the light. A matching mask accompanied it.
“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Emily whispered.
Finley was inclined to agree. Certainly she’d never owned anything so fine before. Why, the bodice was the same green as in the feathers—like a vibrant peacock’s plumage.
Astounded, she glanced up to see Griffin scowling and his aunt smiling coyly. “It seems you have an admirer, Miss Finley. Very bold of him to send you such an extravagant gift.”
“Read the card,” Griffin suggested, sounding as though he spoke through clenched teeth. Finley glanced at him. His jaw was tight indeed. Was he jealous? The notion seemed too fantastic to entertain, and yet he was certainly displeased. Either he was jealous or he thought her loose—it was highly improper for a gentleman to send a girl such a personal present. This was the kind of thing men bought their mistresses.
Suddenly, Finley was afraid to open the card. The beautiful costume had been ruined by the scandalous nature of its deliverance. Everyone was watching her, however, so she had little choice but to pick up the small envelope and withdraw the note inside.
Wear this tonight. I will come for you at nine o’clock.
We’re going to the Pick-a-Dilly Ball.
Jack
“Who’s it from?” Griffin asked in a low voice.
Finley glanced at him, heart pounding hard against her ribs. She cleared her throat. “Jack Dandy.” Still it came out a hoarse whisper.
Griffin said nothing, but she could see how white his knuckles were as he gripped his cup of coffee. His eyes were positively thunderous, his expression as hard as stone.
“You can’t go,” Sam blurted out. “That’s no place for a girl.”
Emily scowled. “Oh, but I suppose t’would be all right for you to go, would it, Samuel Morgan?”
The muscular young man flushed. “It’s dangerous, Em. Men are better equipped to defend themselves.”
“I’m better equipped to defend myself than most men,” Finley reminded him tartly. She didn’t like being told what to do—and there was a part of her that very much wanted to go to this ball. She’d never been to one before—not as a guest. She’d sat in a stupid room with other ladies maids and tapped her foot to the music while sipping warm lemonade, but never had she been one of the dancers or a debutante in a beautiful gown.
“Of course you should do whatever you want,” Griffin said, his voice still that strange, low pitch. “No one would argue that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself should a situation arise.”
Finley stared at him. Did he mean that, or was he just saying it? And why did another part of her want him to demand that she not go? Wanted him to act like a tyrant and command that she return the dress to Dandy and never see him again.
“It might be advantageous,” Lady Marsden remarked casually—a little too much so. “Much of London’s underground attends that ball, along with the upper classes. It would be the perfect spot to gather information on The Machinist and his plans.”
The Machinist—Finley had read about him in the papers. He was the one the Peelers thought responsible for the recent automaton malfunctions. She cast a quick glance at Sam out of the corner of her eye. His face was taut and pale, but otherwise impassive. Surely he wanted to find the man believed to be behind the attack that almost cost him his life? She would be doing him something of a favor then, wouldn’t she? If she went.
But it was Emily who finally convinced her—not stony Griffin or wounded Sam, not even sly Lady Marsden. Little Emily with her