Kady Cross - The Girl with the Windup Heart

“Jealous?” Sam inquired sweetly.

She glared at him. “What would you do for the person you loved, Sam? Would you pound the snot out of, oh, the father who abandoned them and treated them like rubbish?”

“Good point,” he agreed. “If Mila hurts an earl, she could hang for it.”

“The drop wouldn’t break her neck,” Emily remarked—rather needlessly, Finley thought.

“It would still hurt,” Jasper commented. “And they’d keep trying till they found something that took.”

Emily fidgeted, folded her arms over her chest. “This is all just speculation.”

Finley glanced at her. “We should check on her just to make certain. I don’t want to be the one to tell Griffin or Jack that we let Mila get herself into trouble—and Blackhurst is trouble regardless.”

“Let’s go, then,” Sam said, already crossing the threshold. One by one, they followed out after him. Finley took another piece of cake with her. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

When the bell rang, Jack’s first thought was that it was Mila, even though he knew in his heart that it wasn’t. She would never use the bell. Still, it was a surprise to find Gracie Adams standing on his step, and a less pleasant one to see the state she was in.

Blackhurst was a monster. If there was some way to remove his father’s taint from his blood Jack would do it in an instant. Every awful thing he had ever done was because of that man—either to spite him or because he’d had little other choice given the relative poverty he and his mother had been left to. His father had paid for him to be educated, but that didn’t put food on the table when you were stuck in Whitechapel.

“Hello, Jack.” The young woman peered inside his house. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, pet.” He stood back to allow her entry. As soon as she crossed the threshold his attention was drawn to the coat draped over her shoulders. It was a dark teal with shiny brass buttons, and he’d know it anywhere. After all, he had bought it when Mila insisted that she had to have it, even though it was one of those ready-made items he despised.

“Gracie? Where’d you get that coat, love?”

Wide eyes turned to his. Poor thing looked a fright. Looked as if she thought he might hurt her—him of all people. She knew him. Knew he wasn’t like that. “Mila.” Her voice was frail.

He was going to kill Blackhurst, and after that he would do all he could to make this up to her. God, he felt responsible. “Where did you see Mila?”

“At Blackhurst’s,” she whispered. “Jack, I think she’s in trouble. She helped me escape, and Blackhurst isn’t going to like that she laid out his footmen.”

No, he wouldn’t, even though Jack could hug her for it. This was his fault, as well. If he hadn’t threatened Blackhurst over Mila, the bastard might have forgotten about her, or at least lost interest eventually, but now that he knew she was important to Jack, she was that much more attractive to the lech. He’d be that much meaner to Mila knowing that Jack cared about her.

The thought of that man touching her... He ground his teeth as he strode stiffly to the cabinet where he kept his Aether pistols. “Stay here.” Gone was all pretense of cockney. He yanked the door to the cabinet open and removed both pistols, checking to make sure both were fully charged. “If I’m not back in an hour call the authorities.”

“The authorities?” Obviously that distressed her more than the sight of the weapons. “Jack, what do you mean to do?”

“I’m going to make certain Blackhurst doesn’t hurt another woman ever again.” He fastened the holsters for the pistols around his hips and cinched the belt snugly. “You’ll be safe here.”

“Jack, I got something from his safe you need to see.”

He grabbed his coat. “Later.”

“No, Jack.” Gone was that waifish tone, replaced by one of sheer determination. “You need to see this now. ”

Jack stopped at the door, and turned his head toward her. Bruised and disheveled, she faced him with a grim countenance as she held out a folded piece of yellowed paper. He snatched it from her fingers and opened it. His gaze skimmed over words that his brain struggled to make sense of, even though he was fully capable of comprehending them.

Blood drained from his face and dropped to his feet. For a moment he thought he might do something embarrassingly foolish like pass out. “Where did you get this?” His voice was a hoarse rasp.

Gracie’s eyes were full of sympathy, perhaps even pity. “Blackhurst’s safe. That is your mother’s name on the paper, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded, his fingers holding the page so tight they crumpled the edges. “You don’t tell anyone about this, Gracie. Do you understand? No one can ever know.”

She frowned, clearly not understanding at all. “But, Jack—”

“No one. Ever. Give me your word.” He pushed a little persuasion behind the words, let his will shine in his eyes. In a second, Gracie took on that slightly dazed look of someone open to whatever suggestion he had to make.

“I swear to tell no one. On my honor.”

Jack didn’t like using his abilities on people he liked, and using them on Gracie after all she’d been through seemed a tad callous, but it was necessary. “That’s a good girl. Now, go on upstairs and run yourself a bath. Use my tub. What are you going to do if I’m not back in an hour?”

She was still a little dazed. “Send for the authorities.”

He kissed her forehead. “Off with you now.” He only spared a moment to make certain she was off to do as he instructed before yanking open the door and stepping out into the dwindling night. Blood pumped wildly through his veins as he fought to control his emotions. He couldn’t lose himself. He had to remain focused and calm, but damn his eyes if it wasn’t almost impossible at that moment.

Behind his house was a somewhat run-down-looking shed. In actuality it was a rather sturdy structure that concealed an even larger one where he kept his vehicles. Everyone in Whitechapel knew that stealing from him would be a mistake they’d only make once, but Jack didn’t see the point in flaunting how well his business paid, nor was he an enthusiastic tempter of fate.

He chose his glinting black-and-brass velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled machine that could easily maneuver through traffic and navigate narrow alleyways and tight spaces. It was going to be necessary for him to do just that. He swung a leg over the seat and started the machine’s engine—it came to life with a powerful roar. Gripping the steering bars, Jack took his feet off the ground and leaped forward.

The velocycle hugged the cobblestones as it sped through the streets of Whitechapel. Jack wove in and out of traffic—and pedestrians. He narrowly avoided an old drunk who shouted obscenities at him as he whipped past. People screamed and jumped out of his way as he steered the machine down the steep steps of the Aldgate East underground entrance. He sped down the platform, rose up on the footrests, out of the seat and pulled the steering bars up. The velocycle leaped from the platform onto the dark track, its headlamp illuminating the long stretch ahead. Rats scattered as the wheels spun up debris as they grasped for purchase.

Jack knew every inch of London. He’d made it his business to know the city like the back of his own hand. He drove west to Moorgate, then swerved to the left toward the Bank stop. From there he continued west, rushing headlong into another long tunnel—an almost straight line to Oxford Circus. He pushed the velocycle as fast it could go. The goggles he wore prevented his eyes from watering as he bent low over the bars, but the wind tore at his hair and tried to tear his coat right off.