The Girl in the Steel Corset
Page 11
It was Lady Marsden who answered. “We used to. Although, Mrs. Burke and I haven’t seen each other since I was but a girl. Edward was my late brother. How are you, Mary?”
Finley frowned. For Griffin’s aunt to refer to her mother by her Christian name, or for her mother to refer to the late duke in a similar manner, they must have known each other very well indeed at one time. Her only consolation in this confusion was that Griffin didn’t seem any more aware of what was going on than she was.
Her mother, back stiff as a board, replied, “I was very well until a few moments ago.”
There could be no mistaking the insult this time. “Mama, we need to talk to you,” Finley said, taking control before her mother did something foolish like toss the marchioness out of the shop. “May we go upstairs where it’s more private?”
Her mother looked as though she’d rather swallow rat poison than go anywhere with Lady Marsden, but the gentle slump of her shoulders signaled defeat. That innocent gesture formed a cannonball of dread in Finley’s gut. She wasn’t sure she wanted to have this conversation anymore, no matter how much she wanted to discover how to fix what was wrong with her.
The lot of them climbed the stairs in single file, Finley’s mother leading the way and Silas at the rear. He’d even gone so far as to flip the Closed sign over and lock the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Burke’s home was a comfortable space—certainly not as grand as the Duke of Greythorne’s mansion, but welcoming and warm. Fitzhugh, the family cat, trotted over to Finley and twined himself between her ankles before rubbing his head against Griffin’s calf. To his credit, the duke bent down with a smile to pet the fluffy orange tom.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he spoke, rising to offer Silas his hand. “It’s just that I discovered a strange connection between our families and I’d like to learn more. I’m sure Finley would, as well.”
Mary’s eyebrow rose at the familiar use of her daughter’s name, and Finley blushed a little. She straightened her shoulders. “Mama, how is it possible that you and my father knew His Grace’s parents?” She couldn’t help but sound incredulous. It was too strange to fathom. “Is it true that my father was Thomas Sheppard, not Thomas Jayne?”
Her mother looked as though she might be ill. Surprisingly, Lady Marsden came to the rescue. “Perhaps we should sit?”
Mary nodded. Her face was pale, but she led the way to the small parlor where Finley had often lain about and read on a Sunday afternoon.
They seated themselves almost as if preparing for battle— The Burkes on one sofa, Griffin and his aunt on the other. This left Finley to sit by herself in a high-backed chair. How appropriate that she be odd man out, as that was actually how she felt.
“I’m not certain where to start,” her mother remarked, a hint of anxiety in her voice.
Silas reached over and took her hand in his own. “The beginning is often a good place.”
Mary smiled at him. For the first time in her short life, Finley was jealous of their relationship. She wanted someone to look at her like that—like she hung the moon and stars.
“Thomas Sheppard—your father—and I met the previous Duke of Greythorne more than twenty years ago. It was at a scientific lecture your father was giving on the dual nature of man. The two immediately struck up a friendship despite the difference in social stature. The duke became something of a patron to Thomas, funding many of his experiments.” As she spoke, a faint smile curved her lips.
Finley stared at her mother. How could she not have heard any of this before? Why had Mama lied about her true surname? Her father must have been a brilliant man, an important man, and yet her mother rarely spoke of him. She didn’t ask this, however, but allowed her mother to reveal what she would.
“Thomas often experimented on himself when no other subject was available. He believed man’s evil side the result of an imbalance in the humors. Purity was the balance of the four—sanguine, melancholy, phlegmatic and choleric. By creating an imbalance in any number of the four, he believed he would discover a way to treat not only criminal behavior, but madness, as well.” Mary shot a pointed look at Lady Marsden. “Greythorne agreed and sanctioned further research. He even gave Thomas compounds to work with. One night, I watched as he took one of the new potions himself.” She stopped, but no one made a sound. Even Lady Marsden was watching with noticeable sympathy in her eyes.
Finley stared at her mother, who had dropped her gaze to her own trembling fingers. “That night I watched as my husband became…” She pressed her fingers to her mouth as her voice broke. Her other hand still held tightly to Silas’s. “He became a different man, in every way. His appearance changed and he became like a wild thing, base and crass. I didn’t know what to do so I sent for the duke. He made Thomas drink another potion that turned him back to his former self. The two of them laughed and celebrated—congratulating each other as though my husband’s turning into a monster was a good thing!” At this point, Mary’s attention jerked to Griffin, as though pleading with him to understand.
And Griffin, it seemed, did. “They continued with the experiments, didn’t they?”
Mary nodded. “Thomas continued to use himself as a subject oftentimes, with varying degrees of results. There were nights that I left the house altogether for fear of what he might become.”
Finley made a small sound low in her throat. Things were becoming all too clear now. “Did he… Was he conducting these experiments before I was born?”
Her mother could barely look at her, hesitated, then nodded. A hot, prickly sensation raced from the top of Finley’s head straight to her stomach. For a moment, she thought she might actually swoon.
She was the way she was because her father had been experimenting on himself when he impregnated her mother. He had made her this way. How could she ever fix what was wrong with her when it was in her blood?
She looked at Griffin, who had an almost apologetic expression on his face. Of course he would look that way—his father had encouraged hers to become a monster. But Lady Marsden’s expression was almost triumphant, satisfied—as though she’d forced Finley to own up to a lie.
She believed Finley had known this all along. That Finley had been using Griffin to get revenge.
Rage washed over her with the swiftness of a sudden wind, tearing down the delicate walls she’d built inside herself to protect what she considered the “good” side of herself from the bad. In an instant Finley went from sitting demurely in her chair to seizing Lady Marsden by the throat, lifting her, the fingers of her right hand like claws, itching to tear out those damnable mocking eyes.
Behind her, her mother and stepfather cried out, but neither made a move to stop her.
“Would you like to know what I’m thinking now?” Finley asked, almost fully controlled by her darker nature. She could snap this woman’s frail neck.
Lady Marsden’s eyes widened, but she made no other move. Finley felt a slight push against her mind—a sweet voice cajoling her to let go. Mentally, she squashed it like a bug beneath her boot. Crunchy.
The marchioness winced. One would think the silly woman would know better by now.
Finley smiled. “You annoy me, your ladyship. In a most vexing manner.”
And then a strong hand gripped her arm—the one poised to strike above her ladyship’s face. “She’s not the one you want to hurt,” Griffin said in that melodic voice of his.
Finley turned her head, but she didn’t let go. “No? Because I have to tell you, this feels pretty good right now.”
He reached over and took hold of her other wrist, as well. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her hand from his aunt’s neck. Finley let him do it. She knew she was physically stronger than he was, but there was something about his voice and the way he spoke to her that took the anger out of her and made her want to do what he said. That terrified her even as the darkness eased from her soul. What else could he make her do if he wanted?
She whirled on him, but he kept his hold on one of her wrists. His other hand, instead of coming up to defend himself as she thought it would, circled her waist, pulling her against him. He hugged her. Letting go of her wrist, he cupped the back of her head, holding her so her face was in the crook of his neck. He smelled warm and spicy—like cinnamon and cloves. Safe, and comforting. As he held her, he murmured soft words. She wasn’t even sure if any of them made sense, but she listened all the same, too shocked by this display of concern—of trust. It would take little effort for her to hurt him right now. She could hurt him badly.
But Griffin King could hurt her, as well, and he hadn’t. Instead of using force or violence against her, he used patience and understanding. She had no defense against that.
When he let her go, she was shaking. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to her mother who stood staring at her in horror.
“My sweet little girl,” her mother whispered. “I didn’t know. I would never…” Her words faded into a choked sob. Finley crossed the short distance between them on quivering legs and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman. She didn’t care if Griffin or his nasty aunt saw her tears. If anything was worth crying over, the discovery that her father had made her a monster had to be one.
Chapter 7
You owe Finley an apology.” Griffin and Cordelia were alone now, having sent Finley to her room for rest—something the poor girl no doubt needed, along with time to process everything they’d learned that day.
Cordelia shot him a sharp look. “For trying to kill me? I think not.”
“For believing that she’d lied about her father,” Griff retorted, closing the study door. “She had no idea of what the man was up to.”
She picked up the chunk of teal ore he used as a paper weight and pretended to study it. “So she claims.”
“Cordelia, not even you are good enough an actress to put forth such a performance.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Finley Jayne is a victim in all of this, not our enemy. If anything, it’s my responsibility to help her.”
“For something that happened before you were born? Rubbish.”
“Why? You were content to blame her on the same criteria.”
His aunt pursed her lips and Griffin knew she couldn’t argue. “Our fathers made a mistake and now Finley’s paying for it. I think she deserves our help, don’t you?”
Cordelia shrugged somewhat sullenly. Times like this reminded Griffin that she wasn’t even ten years his senior.
Griffin sighed and pushed a button on the box atop his desk. “I’m going to have some coffee, during which I’m going to read Father’s notes on Thomas Sheppard. Then, I’m going to sit down with Finley. I can’t image how she feels knowing her father was the inspiration for Jekyll and Hyde.” That had been a tidbit that came out earlier in the afternoon—courtesy of Cordelia, of course.
His aunt set the ore on the desk once more. “Sheppard was careless. There was gossip. Of course he provoked Stevenson’s interest. Finley will do the same if she’s not careful, which she won’t be. She could call undue attention to all of us.”
And by that she meant Griffin most of all. He shook his head. “And that gives you the right to be mean to her?”
His aunt turned to stare at him, as though she could not believe he’d question her. “She pushed me out of her mind, not once but three times. Do you know the number of people who have ever been able to do that? None! Whether or not you want to admit it, that girl’s dangerous—and you treat her like a houseguest!”
“She is a guest.”
“Until she snaps someone’s neck. What if she attacks Emily?”
“She won’t.” If only he felt as certain as he sounded.
“You have no way of knowing that. Mrs. Dodsworth told me how she threw the footman as though he was nothing more than a toy. You put everyone in this house in danger by having her here. I cannot allow it.”
Griff stiffened. He met his aunt’s gaze carefully, fighting to keep his anger under control. “You have no say. It’s my house.”
Cordelia scowled, fists on her hips. “I am your guardian.”
“Do you really want to fight me, Delia? Because I’m certain the family solicitors will side with me.” Of course they would, they knew it was Griff’s fortune that paid their bills, that Cordelia ran things in name only. It was Griff who made estate decisions.
His aunt looked at him as though he’d slapped her. “She’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “She is. I can’t explain why, but I know she belongs here, with the rest of us.”
“She’ll never be able to be part of something while she’s two halves of a broken whole.”
Griff smiled slightly, knowing he’d won without driving too much of a wedge between himself and his aunt. “Then we’ll just have to put her back together.”
Cordelia arched a brow. “We?” But Griff knew she would help him. She always did. Sooner or later, she would see that he was right about Finley.
His coffee arrived—an entire silver pot full, piping hot and smelling like heaven. He poured some into the china cup and added cream and sugar. When it was the perfect color and sweetness, he took a drink. It was good.
Cordelia took her leave—she had plans for tea and had to change first. Griffin sat down at his desk after finding a journal of his father’s marked “Thomas Sheppard.” His father had kept copious notes on all aspects of his life—a habit Griffin did not share.
Finley frowned. For Griffin’s aunt to refer to her mother by her Christian name, or for her mother to refer to the late duke in a similar manner, they must have known each other very well indeed at one time. Her only consolation in this confusion was that Griffin didn’t seem any more aware of what was going on than she was.
Her mother, back stiff as a board, replied, “I was very well until a few moments ago.”
There could be no mistaking the insult this time. “Mama, we need to talk to you,” Finley said, taking control before her mother did something foolish like toss the marchioness out of the shop. “May we go upstairs where it’s more private?”
Her mother looked as though she’d rather swallow rat poison than go anywhere with Lady Marsden, but the gentle slump of her shoulders signaled defeat. That innocent gesture formed a cannonball of dread in Finley’s gut. She wasn’t sure she wanted to have this conversation anymore, no matter how much she wanted to discover how to fix what was wrong with her.
The lot of them climbed the stairs in single file, Finley’s mother leading the way and Silas at the rear. He’d even gone so far as to flip the Closed sign over and lock the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Burke’s home was a comfortable space—certainly not as grand as the Duke of Greythorne’s mansion, but welcoming and warm. Fitzhugh, the family cat, trotted over to Finley and twined himself between her ankles before rubbing his head against Griffin’s calf. To his credit, the duke bent down with a smile to pet the fluffy orange tom.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he spoke, rising to offer Silas his hand. “It’s just that I discovered a strange connection between our families and I’d like to learn more. I’m sure Finley would, as well.”
Mary’s eyebrow rose at the familiar use of her daughter’s name, and Finley blushed a little. She straightened her shoulders. “Mama, how is it possible that you and my father knew His Grace’s parents?” She couldn’t help but sound incredulous. It was too strange to fathom. “Is it true that my father was Thomas Sheppard, not Thomas Jayne?”
Her mother looked as though she might be ill. Surprisingly, Lady Marsden came to the rescue. “Perhaps we should sit?”
Mary nodded. Her face was pale, but she led the way to the small parlor where Finley had often lain about and read on a Sunday afternoon.
They seated themselves almost as if preparing for battle— The Burkes on one sofa, Griffin and his aunt on the other. This left Finley to sit by herself in a high-backed chair. How appropriate that she be odd man out, as that was actually how she felt.
“I’m not certain where to start,” her mother remarked, a hint of anxiety in her voice.
Silas reached over and took her hand in his own. “The beginning is often a good place.”
Mary smiled at him. For the first time in her short life, Finley was jealous of their relationship. She wanted someone to look at her like that—like she hung the moon and stars.
“Thomas Sheppard—your father—and I met the previous Duke of Greythorne more than twenty years ago. It was at a scientific lecture your father was giving on the dual nature of man. The two immediately struck up a friendship despite the difference in social stature. The duke became something of a patron to Thomas, funding many of his experiments.” As she spoke, a faint smile curved her lips.
Finley stared at her mother. How could she not have heard any of this before? Why had Mama lied about her true surname? Her father must have been a brilliant man, an important man, and yet her mother rarely spoke of him. She didn’t ask this, however, but allowed her mother to reveal what she would.
“Thomas often experimented on himself when no other subject was available. He believed man’s evil side the result of an imbalance in the humors. Purity was the balance of the four—sanguine, melancholy, phlegmatic and choleric. By creating an imbalance in any number of the four, he believed he would discover a way to treat not only criminal behavior, but madness, as well.” Mary shot a pointed look at Lady Marsden. “Greythorne agreed and sanctioned further research. He even gave Thomas compounds to work with. One night, I watched as he took one of the new potions himself.” She stopped, but no one made a sound. Even Lady Marsden was watching with noticeable sympathy in her eyes.
Finley stared at her mother, who had dropped her gaze to her own trembling fingers. “That night I watched as my husband became…” She pressed her fingers to her mouth as her voice broke. Her other hand still held tightly to Silas’s. “He became a different man, in every way. His appearance changed and he became like a wild thing, base and crass. I didn’t know what to do so I sent for the duke. He made Thomas drink another potion that turned him back to his former self. The two of them laughed and celebrated—congratulating each other as though my husband’s turning into a monster was a good thing!” At this point, Mary’s attention jerked to Griffin, as though pleading with him to understand.
And Griffin, it seemed, did. “They continued with the experiments, didn’t they?”
Mary nodded. “Thomas continued to use himself as a subject oftentimes, with varying degrees of results. There were nights that I left the house altogether for fear of what he might become.”
Finley made a small sound low in her throat. Things were becoming all too clear now. “Did he… Was he conducting these experiments before I was born?”
Her mother could barely look at her, hesitated, then nodded. A hot, prickly sensation raced from the top of Finley’s head straight to her stomach. For a moment, she thought she might actually swoon.
She was the way she was because her father had been experimenting on himself when he impregnated her mother. He had made her this way. How could she ever fix what was wrong with her when it was in her blood?
She looked at Griffin, who had an almost apologetic expression on his face. Of course he would look that way—his father had encouraged hers to become a monster. But Lady Marsden’s expression was almost triumphant, satisfied—as though she’d forced Finley to own up to a lie.
She believed Finley had known this all along. That Finley had been using Griffin to get revenge.
Rage washed over her with the swiftness of a sudden wind, tearing down the delicate walls she’d built inside herself to protect what she considered the “good” side of herself from the bad. In an instant Finley went from sitting demurely in her chair to seizing Lady Marsden by the throat, lifting her, the fingers of her right hand like claws, itching to tear out those damnable mocking eyes.
Behind her, her mother and stepfather cried out, but neither made a move to stop her.
“Would you like to know what I’m thinking now?” Finley asked, almost fully controlled by her darker nature. She could snap this woman’s frail neck.
Lady Marsden’s eyes widened, but she made no other move. Finley felt a slight push against her mind—a sweet voice cajoling her to let go. Mentally, she squashed it like a bug beneath her boot. Crunchy.
The marchioness winced. One would think the silly woman would know better by now.
Finley smiled. “You annoy me, your ladyship. In a most vexing manner.”
And then a strong hand gripped her arm—the one poised to strike above her ladyship’s face. “She’s not the one you want to hurt,” Griffin said in that melodic voice of his.
Finley turned her head, but she didn’t let go. “No? Because I have to tell you, this feels pretty good right now.”
He reached over and took hold of her other wrist, as well. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her hand from his aunt’s neck. Finley let him do it. She knew she was physically stronger than he was, but there was something about his voice and the way he spoke to her that took the anger out of her and made her want to do what he said. That terrified her even as the darkness eased from her soul. What else could he make her do if he wanted?
She whirled on him, but he kept his hold on one of her wrists. His other hand, instead of coming up to defend himself as she thought it would, circled her waist, pulling her against him. He hugged her. Letting go of her wrist, he cupped the back of her head, holding her so her face was in the crook of his neck. He smelled warm and spicy—like cinnamon and cloves. Safe, and comforting. As he held her, he murmured soft words. She wasn’t even sure if any of them made sense, but she listened all the same, too shocked by this display of concern—of trust. It would take little effort for her to hurt him right now. She could hurt him badly.
But Griffin King could hurt her, as well, and he hadn’t. Instead of using force or violence against her, he used patience and understanding. She had no defense against that.
When he let her go, she was shaking. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to her mother who stood staring at her in horror.
“My sweet little girl,” her mother whispered. “I didn’t know. I would never…” Her words faded into a choked sob. Finley crossed the short distance between them on quivering legs and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman. She didn’t care if Griffin or his nasty aunt saw her tears. If anything was worth crying over, the discovery that her father had made her a monster had to be one.
Chapter 7
You owe Finley an apology.” Griffin and Cordelia were alone now, having sent Finley to her room for rest—something the poor girl no doubt needed, along with time to process everything they’d learned that day.
Cordelia shot him a sharp look. “For trying to kill me? I think not.”
“For believing that she’d lied about her father,” Griff retorted, closing the study door. “She had no idea of what the man was up to.”
She picked up the chunk of teal ore he used as a paper weight and pretended to study it. “So she claims.”
“Cordelia, not even you are good enough an actress to put forth such a performance.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Finley Jayne is a victim in all of this, not our enemy. If anything, it’s my responsibility to help her.”
“For something that happened before you were born? Rubbish.”
“Why? You were content to blame her on the same criteria.”
His aunt pursed her lips and Griffin knew she couldn’t argue. “Our fathers made a mistake and now Finley’s paying for it. I think she deserves our help, don’t you?”
Cordelia shrugged somewhat sullenly. Times like this reminded Griffin that she wasn’t even ten years his senior.
Griffin sighed and pushed a button on the box atop his desk. “I’m going to have some coffee, during which I’m going to read Father’s notes on Thomas Sheppard. Then, I’m going to sit down with Finley. I can’t image how she feels knowing her father was the inspiration for Jekyll and Hyde.” That had been a tidbit that came out earlier in the afternoon—courtesy of Cordelia, of course.
His aunt set the ore on the desk once more. “Sheppard was careless. There was gossip. Of course he provoked Stevenson’s interest. Finley will do the same if she’s not careful, which she won’t be. She could call undue attention to all of us.”
And by that she meant Griffin most of all. He shook his head. “And that gives you the right to be mean to her?”
His aunt turned to stare at him, as though she could not believe he’d question her. “She pushed me out of her mind, not once but three times. Do you know the number of people who have ever been able to do that? None! Whether or not you want to admit it, that girl’s dangerous—and you treat her like a houseguest!”
“She is a guest.”
“Until she snaps someone’s neck. What if she attacks Emily?”
“She won’t.” If only he felt as certain as he sounded.
“You have no way of knowing that. Mrs. Dodsworth told me how she threw the footman as though he was nothing more than a toy. You put everyone in this house in danger by having her here. I cannot allow it.”
Griff stiffened. He met his aunt’s gaze carefully, fighting to keep his anger under control. “You have no say. It’s my house.”
Cordelia scowled, fists on her hips. “I am your guardian.”
“Do you really want to fight me, Delia? Because I’m certain the family solicitors will side with me.” Of course they would, they knew it was Griff’s fortune that paid their bills, that Cordelia ran things in name only. It was Griff who made estate decisions.
His aunt looked at him as though he’d slapped her. “She’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “She is. I can’t explain why, but I know she belongs here, with the rest of us.”
“She’ll never be able to be part of something while she’s two halves of a broken whole.”
Griff smiled slightly, knowing he’d won without driving too much of a wedge between himself and his aunt. “Then we’ll just have to put her back together.”
Cordelia arched a brow. “We?” But Griff knew she would help him. She always did. Sooner or later, she would see that he was right about Finley.
His coffee arrived—an entire silver pot full, piping hot and smelling like heaven. He poured some into the china cup and added cream and sugar. When it was the perfect color and sweetness, he took a drink. It was good.
Cordelia took her leave—she had plans for tea and had to change first. Griffin sat down at his desk after finding a journal of his father’s marked “Thomas Sheppard.” His father had kept copious notes on all aspects of his life—a habit Griffin did not share.
