The Girl In The Clockwork Collar (19 page)

And that was as far into the future as he would let himself look.

It was late afternoon before Griffin finally felt well enough to leave his bed. The Organites were doing their work—not as fast as he would like, but it was better than dead. By tomorrow evening, he should be as good as new. Just in time to go to whatever theater Reno Dalton would be at.

He had gotten Finley’s telegraph message earlier, while lying abed, sipping the Organite tea Emily made him. She was convinced it would help his insides heal faster. For a moment he had hesitated, wondering if it was the Organites and their effect on human evolution that had made him encounter that thing in the Aether. But it seemed too much of a stretch and didn’t make enough sense for the theory to stick.

More than likely it was the machine itself that had caused the dark energy. It might have conjured a malevolent spirit. That would explain the mysterious threat the other machine had “written.” He would advise Mr. Tesla to destroy the blasted thing.

Gingerly, he eased off the bed. For a moment he considered calling Sam for help, but he was not an invalid. He might not be as physically strong as Sam or Finley, but he was not weak.

Still, he could have used the help at that moment. His arms and chest were bandaged, so he bathed as well

as he could and managed to wash his hair.

He was in front of the wardrobe with a towel around his waist when the door to his room opened. Startled and practically naked, Griffin hid himself behind the open armoire.

It was only Sam.

“Don’t you ever knock?” he demanded, feeling like a girl for having hid his state of undress.

Sam scowled at him, but that was nothing new. Sam scowled at everyone. “I knocked a while ago. You didn’t answer. I was worried.”

“I was in the shower.”

“So I can see.” Sam’s dark gaze raked disapprovingly over him. “You need to eat more.”

Griffin glanced down. “I don’t look
that
bad.” All right, so maybe a couple of his ribs were beginning to show and his abdominal muscles were sharply defined, but he had always been lean.

“You haven’t taken proper care of yourself since that night at the warehouse.”

He had almost died that night, too. This was a habit he did not want to continue.

“You’re right. Do me a favor and call down to the kitchen, will you? Ask them to bring something up. Order something for yourself if you like.”

A rare smile curved his friend’s lips. “As if I wouldn’t do that, anyway.”

Sam called down using the telephone on the desk. After that, he assisted Griffin in getting dressed, despite Griffin’s protests that he was quite capable.

“Finley mentioned something interesting last night,” the larger boy began, while Griffin buttoned his shirt. “She said that she’d spotted a man outside the Astor-Prynn residence the other night who Dalton identified as Whip Kirby. She thought he might have been watching Dalton’s place, as well.”

Griffin frowned. “He must be waiting to catch them in the act.”

“The act of what?” Sam asked. “We still have no idea what Dalton’s up to.”

“Except that it has to do with a strange machine and the Museum of Science and Invention.”

Sam’s expression was wry. “That still doesn’t tell us much.”

“Maybe we should check the schedule of events for the museum. Maybe that will give us an idea of what Dalton’s up to.”

“I’ll ask downstairs if they have a listing of events.”

Griffin ran a hand through his hair. “It’s worth a look.”

Then conversation turned to Finley—a topic Griffin was surprised by. Sam hadn’t liked Finley when she first showed up; Sam didn’t like most people in general. But it seemed as though the two of them were slowly, very slowly, becoming tolerant of one another, if not friends.

“She refused to leave your side all bloody night,” Sam remarked with something that sounded like respect.

“She’s a good friend,” Griffin replied.

His old friend stared at him in amused disgust. “Griff, I’m your friend, and even I wasn’t about to sit here and watch you heal.”

Griffin looked away, annoyed by the sudden heat in his cheeks. “Yes, well, she was a much prettier sight to wake up to than your ugly head.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been told my eyes are like a night sky” came the mock-indignant reply.

From there, the conversation spiraled into a bout of goodnatured insults. Griffin was much more comfortable with that than discussing Finley and how she’d stayed with him. He wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that himself, and most of that was because he didn’t know how she felt.

Perhaps it would be better not to think of it at all.

When the food arrived, it seemed to Griffin that Sam had ordered everything on the menu. Regardless, the two of them managed to eat it all. In fact, they had just polished off two slices of thick, flaky-crust apple pie when the phone rang. It was the majordomo from the reception desk downstairs. He was terribly sorry to bother His Grace, but there was a Whip Kirby waiting upon him in the lobby. Would he care to come down, or should the gentleman be sent away? Griffin replied that he would be there directly, thanked the man and hung up.

“Whip Kirby wants to see me,” he informed Sam. “He’s downstairs now.”

“What the devil does he want?” Sam demanded, scowl back in place.

“I don’t know, but perhaps he has information about Jasper or Dalton. I’m going to meet with him.”

“You sure you’re up to that?”

Griffin nodded as he rose from the chair. “I feel much more myself, now that I’ve bathed and eaten. I’m certain I can give Mr. Kirby a few moments of my time.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No thank you. I need you here in case Finley comes by or sends another message. Is Emily still at Tesla’s?”

Sam’s brows clenched. “Yes. Finds him bloody fascinating, she does.”

Griffin offered a supportive smile. “It would be the same if you met the author of some of those dime novels you like so much. She respects his mind, Sam. And he’s impressed by hers—that’s all. He’s old enough to be her father.”

Thankfully, Sam did not remind him of how many society marriages joined an older man with a much younger lady. “You’re right. I just hoped with Renn out of the picture that we might spend some time together.”

“You could always pick her up and cart her off,” Griffin suggested with a grin. “If that doesn’t get her attention, nothing will.”

Sam seemed to consider this a viable plan. He helped Griffin into his coat and was left pondering aloud the possibility of perhaps having an entire pie sent up.

Griffin took the lift down to the foyer, his dislike of small spaces raising its head just enough to make his heart beat faster. If it weren’t for the lad operating the bloody thing, he’d probably break out in a sweat. His fear was always calmed by having another person with him.

He adjusted his coat sleeves as he stepped out into the blessedly large entry area and spotted Kirby standing not far away. He started toward the older man.

“Your Grace! How delightful to see you again!”

Griffin stifled a groan as he recognized who had stopped him. He turned to the petite blonde with a forced smile. “Miss Astor-Prynn. Good afternoon. I trust this afternoon finds you well?”

She rolled her bright blue eyes. “You would not believe the day I’ve had, Your Grace. First my maid—” she jerked her head toward the timid-looking little thing standing a few feet behind her “—
ruined
my favorite hair ribbons, and then Cook served the most dreadful luncheon, and my dressmaker had to cancel my appointment, because she was bitten by a spider and is under the weather. I swear, it is impossible to find good help these days.”

Sweet Hades. Could she honestly be this shallow? Yes, he could see it in her face; she could. “My sympathies. I hate to be rude, but I must ask you to excuse me. I am on my way to meet someone.”

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. The pressure didn’t hurt, but made his wounds itch uncomfortably. She wore a large-brimmed hat decorated with ostrich plumes, and when she leaned in closer to him, the feathers almost brushed his face. He had to blow on them to keep them away.

“I do hope you’re feeling better after that unfortunate … altercation the other night. Why, you don’t even have a bruise!”

Of course he didn’t—the Organites made certain of that. “Yes, well, like I said to the police, I’m fairly certain the girl used chloroform or something similar. She couldn’t have knocked me out otherwise.” Thank God the authorities had agreed with him. That was easier to understand than the fact that Finley was extraordinary—not that he could have told them that, anyway.

“I am very glad to see that you survived the ordeal unscathed. My shoulder still aches where the awful creature ran into me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you should see a doctor.” Perhaps she could do that right now and leave him alone. He was in no mood to flirt and be charming; he wasn’t very skilled at it even on a good day.

The girl waved a dismissive hand. She was a pretty little thing, but something about her got under his skin and annoyed him—like a tick. “It’s nothing serious, and it won’t stop me from attending the theater tomorrow night. Will you be there, Your Grace?”

“Which theater is that?”

She laughed, as if she thought he was trying to be funny. “Why, the Olympia, of course! It’s the only one with a production worth seeing at the moment.”

Could that be the theater where Finley and Dalton would be? It seemed a little too coincidental not to be. “Is that so? I may have to attend, then. I’ve heard the theater in New York is tremendous.”

She shrugged. “Though nothing like the London stage, I’m sure. After all, you have Lillie Langtry.”

“I believe she’s moved to this side of the pond,” he replied with the one bit of information he knew about the aging actress. Kirby still stood by the wall, watching them. He redoubled his efforts to extricate himself. “Miss Astor-Prynn, will you excuse me? I’m supposed to meet someone, and he’s waiting for me.”

The blonde smiled prettily. “Of course. I hope to see you tomorrow evening.” Then she offered her hand, and he was forced to take it in his own and kiss the air above her knuckles. It would have been rude of him not to.

He said goodbye and turned toward his next visitor with a sigh of relief. He felt as though he had just been pulled out of the path of a runaway carriage.

Whip Kirby watched as he approached. Once they were within a few feet of each other, the lawman tipped his hat. “Your Grace, thank you for seeing me without a prior appointment.”

“Of course. Shall we find somewhere a little more private to talk?”

They found a small seating area not far away, which wasn’t currently in use. Griffin made himself as comfortable as he could, but his torso was still a little tender. Having one’s chest perforated would do that.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Kirby said, leaning forward so that his forearms rested on his knees. “Have you had any contact with Jasper Renn?”

Griffin arched a brow. “Who?”

“Come now, Your Grace, don’t play games. I saw you at the Tombs, and I know Renn was seen in your company in London. Your presence in New York is no more a coincidence than mine. Plus, you’ve been asking around ’bout Dalton just as much as I have.”

“If you know this, then you also know that I’m not about to tell you anything that might endanger my friend, or myself.”

The lawman tipped his chair back. “You assume I’m interested in harming the boy.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m interested in justice.” Kirby’s eyes were flat—entirely empty of emotion. “I won’t let some well-meaning English dandy stand in my way. I’ll ask again—have you made contact with Renn?”

Griffin could lie, but there was something in the old man’s tone that confused him—a hint of desperation. Could it be that they were on the same side?

“I haven’t been in direct contact, no.”

The older man smiled, causing lines to fan out around his eyes. “So that English girl running with Dalton’s gang is yours. I wondered about her. You know about Dalton, too, right?”

If Finley belonged to anyone it was herself. He was tempted to tell the marshal that. Instead, he nodded. “I do.”

“Then you know what kind of trouble your friend is in.”

“Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Kirby?” Griffin was still sore and more than a little cranky, so he was done with this conversation.

The lawman met his gaze with one that was the color of a wolf ’s and just as unnerving. “During your association with Renn, he never once talked about San Francisco or why he left?”

“We might have talked a little about his family but not much else.” Come to think of it, Griffin hadn’t offered up much personal information about himself, but they had managed to become friends, anyway.

“You’re sure? He never once mentioned Venton or Reno Dalton? Not even a girl? I find it hard to believe that young men your age wouldn’t talk about girls.”

Griffin arched a brow. “Not one in particular, no.” What did this man think, that he had nothing better to do than sit around chitchatting about girls all day? “I didn’t learn about Dalton until I arrived in Manhattan.”

“Damnation,” Kirby mumbled, rubbing the stubble along his jaw with the palm of his hand. “I suppose he wouldn’t talk about Venton’s murder, not if that’s what he was runnin’ away from.”

Just what sort of information was he after? And was that concern he heard in the man’s tone? Griffin went ahead with the obvious. “Jasper is not a murderer, Mr. Kirby.” He didn’t care what kind of evidence the lawman had. He refused to believe the young man he knew would kill someone in cold blood.

Kirby regarded him for a moment. “Your faith in your friends is admirable, Your Grace. But regardless of that, I want to talk to Renn myself.”

He wouldn’t be much of a lawman if he simply took Griffin’s word for it, and Griffin respected that. But if Kirby wanted information, then he was going to have to share some. “Tell me, Mr. Kirby, what is it that leads you to believe that Jasper murdered this person?”

Kirby hesitated, as though considering his words. Perhaps he decided to trust Griffin, just as Griffin was prepared to trust him. Sometimes a man had to listen to his gut. “Your Grace, I don’t think Renn murdered Mr. Venton.”