The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (7 page)

Dinner with Lord Vincent was one of the most uncomfortable situations Finley ever found herself in.

First of all, she was wearing one of the gowns that Lady Morton had insisted on buying for her. It was lovely and a gorgeous shade of plum satin, but the little sleeves were snug and didn’t allow for much movement, and Phoebe had laced her into her corset so tightly she thought her lungs might come out her nose.

Secondly, there was the fact that Lord Morton was there, as well, and he was about as pompous and self-important as she could stand. He practically ignored his wife and daughter, and had the table manners of a Newfoundland dog.

Most obviously, there was Lord Vincent himself. Oh, he was all manners and decorum, but Finley caught him looking at her several times with a gaze that was anything but polite. He looked at her like she was an insect he would like to pin to a board and dissect.

“I heard you ladies were set upon by ruffians the other day,” he remarked—rather casually.

Lady Morton’s head snapped up. “Oh? Where did you hear that, pray tell?”

The earl smiled gently. “Lord Morton informed me when he called upon me this morning.”

Finley didn’t miss the flush that crept into Lady Morton’s fair cheeks. It was obvious from the way that she looked at her husband she suspected he had called on Lord Vincent for more money.

“My valet told me,” Lord Morton explained with a sniff. “Damn fine kettle when a man has to hear about his wife being accosted from the servants.”

The most caustic and bitter smile Finley had ever seen curved the lady’s lips. “I knew how you’d worry if I told you.”

A similar expression crossed her husband’s face. “You’re always so considerate, my dear.”

Good lord, these two despised one another! Finley glanced down at her plate. Aristocrats were a queer lot—marrying for money, staying with spouses they couldn’t stand, living by all manner of foolish rules.

Selling their daughters to save their own hides.

“I also heard,” Lord Vincent continued, as though the tension between Lord and Lady Morton didn’t exist, “that it was Miss Bennet who fought the bounders off.”

Finley lifted her head and met his cool gaze. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, my lord. I’m hardly a heroine.”

“So you didn’t return home with bruised and bloody knuckles from striking one of them?”

She glanced at Lord Morton, but he had gone back to his plate and paid her no attention. The man certainly liked to talk—at least when he was begging for money.

She held up her hands, palms toward herself, so that he could examine them. “Not a bruise nor a cut.” There wasn’t either. They had disappeared earlier that day.

Lord Vincent’s lips pursed. “I see I was mistaken.” He didn’t cast an accusatory glance at Lord Morton, but still he seemed perturbed. Perhaps it was a reach, but the thought flittered across Finley’s mind that perhaps he hadn’t heard details of the altercation from Lord Morton. What if he had gotten his information from a more reliable source, such as the thugs themselves?

No, that was too much. Wasn’t it?

“Although it would be extraordinary if I had fought them off, wouldn’t it?” she asked with a cheeky smile. “They’d write novels about me then—stopping runaway automaton horses, fending off ruffians. I’d be a sensation.”

Lady Morton and Phoebe chuckled—and sounded almost genuine, though Finley didn’t miss the look Lady Morton shot her. It was a look that demanded to know if she had lost her mind.

“Indeed,” Lord Vincent replied, then he dismissed her and turned to Phoebe. “You look lovely in the pearls, my dear.”

Phoebe had worn his gift to dinner. He was right; she did look lovely. She also, Finley imagined, looked like a younger version of his dead wife. It was enough to make a body shiver as though an icy hand trailed down her spine.

“I’m afraid I’ve developed a terrible headache,” Finley announced suddenly, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “It’s been brewing all day. I think I might lie down for a bit. Will you all excuse me?”

The gentlemen rose as she did—Mr. Morton looked rather put out about it. He also had beef in his moustache, but Finley didn’t point it out. Let him wear it for a while. Hopefully it would still be there when he went to his club later.

“I hope you feel better soon, Miss Bennet.” Lord Vincent sounded sincere, but she didn’t trust it.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Both Lady Morton and Phoebe wished her a quick recovery. As far as Phoebe was concerned the excuse was legitimate. Only Lady Morton and Finley knew exactly what she was truly about to get up to.

And she got up to it quickly. As soon as she entered her room she squirmed out of the gown, corset and underclothes. Then, she redressed in fresh bloomers, short skirt, blouse and leather corset. She laced up her sturdy black boots and shrugged into a black sweater to ward off the slight chill of the evening.

Then, she repeated the same maneuver she had a few nights before when she last ventured to Lord Vincent’s estate, even entering the house through the same window.

This time, however, she did not linger in the countess’s old room. It was simply too disturbing. She opened the door a crack and peeked out into the corridor. It was dimly lit, but there was not a servant in sight, which only added to her suspicion that he had something he didn’t want others to see up here. Quickly, she slipped into the hall, closing the door behind her. This time she avoided the places where the boards had creaked beneath her feet. It wasn’t the middle of the night, and there were people and machines in the house that might hear her mincing about.

Her heart thumped hard and heavily against her ribs as she turned the knob on the door at the end of the hall. She pushed. Locked.

Bloody hell. What now? She couldn’t very well kick the door in—that would cause a bit of a ruckus. She knew nothing about picking locks, although it seemed it shouldn’t be
that
difficult.

She turned and glanced down the corridor in the direction from where she’d come. Most grand houses had separate bedrooms for the mistress and master of the house, but those rooms were almost always connected. Down the corridor she went, again taking pains to avoid creaking floorboards. This time she stopped one door before the countess’s room—approximately halfway down.

This door was not locked, and she ducked inside the darkened room. There was a lamp on the wall beside the door. She found the switch and flicked it, bringing light to the room. How fortunate she was that Lord Vincent insisted on having his entire house outfitted with modern conveniences.

His room was large and very masculine, the walls cream with lots of wood paneling and trim, the air filled with the scent of Bay Rum and hair pomade. It made him seem a far nicer man than she believed him to be.

She didn’t have to look hard. Sitting atop his dressing table was a key attached to a ladies’ hair ribbon. The ribbon was dark blue, slightly frayed and creased. It had to have belonged to the former countess. He was still in love with her.

For a second—and only the one—Finley felt sorry for him. Then she remembered that he was marrying Phoebe, and why, and her pity faded. She snatched up the key and crept back to the room at the end of the hall.

Satisfaction blossomed in her chest as the key turned and kicked the tumblers into place. She slid the key into the pocket of her sweater and turned the knob. Tiny beads of sweat formed along her hairline. She was a little scared to go in.

There was nothing that could hurt her on the other side of this door—unless of course Lord Vincent had rigged some sort of trap for people who came spying—like perhaps an automaton with blades for hands, or a pistol set to go off as soon as the door opened.

Perhaps it was just her overactive imagination that made her paranoid, but Finley jumped back after giving the door a push, just in case.

Nothing happened. No blades, no bullets. Cautiously, she peeked around the door frame into the room. Aside from scientific equipment, it was empty. It was a little disappointing, really. As an inventor he could at least have had a hunchback assistant, or perhaps a metal one.

The room was clean to the point of being sterile. The walls were a fresh white, the benches and sideboards a deep walnut. A stack of folders sat at the far end of the counter, near a tray of neatly arranged surgical instruments.

Finley turned her head. There was another workbench on the other side of the room, and near the window, with a large chandelier over it, there was a table—the kind she’d seen at the doctor’s office.

Why would a man who built automatons have a surgical table? Surgical equipment? Lady Morton said Lord Vincent had built his own prosthetic leg, but surely he hadn’t installed it on himself, as well? Perhaps he had. But why maintain the equipment? Who was he working on now?

As if in reply, there came a gurgling noise from behind her. She froze. Her heart was so far up her throat she could feel its beat on the roof of her mouth. Cold heat prickled her fingers and toes, and spread up to the nape of her neck.

She did
not
want to turn around, but she had no choice.

Slowly, mouth drying out with every movement, Finley turned toward the tank. She had been able to ignore it until now, when the contents had apparently come alive.

The coils of wires running into the tank were mostly concealed by a white cloth draped over the top. Finley’s fingers trembled as she reached for that cloth. Once she removed it she would not be able to put it back, not without seeing what lurked beneath.

She clutched the linen and pulled. Lord, was it possible for someone her age to die of heart failure? Surely the poor thing could not continue this furious beating for much longer.

The cloth fell away, revealing the bubbling pink goo beneath. Revealing what lurked there.

She had been right. It was a brain. Her stomach twisted, threatening to expel her dinner. It was awful and fascinating at the same time, floating there in the goo, wires attached to it. The wires had to be what kept it “alive”—some sort of electrical current? The goo had to be similar to human tissue, perhaps the lining of the skull. She had no medical knowledge, so she could only assume these things, but it made sense to her shocked mind.

What sort of madman kept a brain in a tank?

She turned away, unable to stare at it any longer. It bobbed in the liquid, as though begging for her help, which she had no idea how to give. It had been inside a human once. Did it maintain memories, feelings? Was it suffering?

It was too much.

On the opposite wall there was a large metal door. Finley turned her attention to it instead of the brain. She wanted to run away, but she couldn’t. Not until she’d uncovered every secret Lord Vincent had.

It was at that moment that she felt a calm settle over her. She knew at once that her darker nature was taking over, and she let it. It always seemed to come during times of high emotion or stress, and since it was better equipped to handle this sort of situation, she didn’t put up a fight.

A couple of deep breaths later and her nerves settled. Fear was replaced with determination, and a healthy dose of righteous anger. Instead of feeling sorry for the thing in the vat, she was angry for it. Instead of being afraid she was determined.

She turned the wheel on the front of the large metal door. There was a hissing sound, the release of steam. As she turned, gears clicked into place until finally there was a loud thud as the locking mechanism slid free. She pulled the lever to the side and the door slowly swung open.

A wave of cold struck her, fogging the air as it clashed with the warmth of the room. For a moment she couldn’t see, the stuff was so thick.

When it cleared she wished she hadn’t opened the door. This was obviously an ice chest, and standing in the middle of it, strapped to a board was the late Lady Vincent. She wore a simple robe—which her husband had obviously dressed her in out of a sense of modesty rather than warmth. This poor lady wasn’t in any condition to mind the cold.

Finley stared at the corpse, mouth grim. There was a large, unhealed slash across Lady Vincent’s forehead. She didn’t have to be a genius to know it went all the way around.

At least she knew now who the brain in the tank belonged to.

“You’re a very nosy girl, Miss Bennet.”

Finley swore under her breath—the kind of swearing that would have made her mother wash her mouth out with soap.

How could she not have heard him coming? He’d sneaked up on her like a cat on a deaf mouse.

She turned, and met the glittering gaze of Lord Vincent.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked. “Are you going to attempt reanimating your wife?”

He arched a brow, gazing down that big nose of his at her. “That might cause some issue, considering the world knows her to be dead.”

Frowning, Finley glanced at the brain in the tank. It was bobbing furiously now. He kept the brain alive, so he must be planning on using it for something….

It was as though a giant hand of ice reached inside her and seized her heart. “Oh my God,” she rasped. “You’re going to put her brain in Phoebe’s head.”

It was a horrible assumption, one she hoped was wrong, but the second the accusation left her lips, Lord Vincent smiled an awful smile. “Nosy and smart. Never a good combination, my girl.”

Rage swelled up inside her. Who did he think he was, God? “I can’t let you do this. I won’t.” She clenched her fists at her sides.

More of that self-satisfied smirk. “And I won’t allow you to stop me.” Suddenly he had a pistol in his hand, pointed at her head. It was one of those six-shooters like the cowboys in America used. It was deadly, but at least it wasn’t one of his fancy inventions. “I know you’re fast, and much stronger than you ought to be, but even you aren’t faster than a bullet.”

Hadn’t she thought the same thing the other day? “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you destroyed my precious horses in a way even a circus strong man would not have been able to. I know you single-handedly fought off men armed with a pistol and knife.”

How did he know exactly what weapons they had? Neither she nor the other women involved had mentioned that—hadn’t wanted to bring more attention to her than necessary.

“You hired them to attack us.” Disbelief dripped from her words. “You could have killed your own fiancée.”

“They had strict orders not to harm Phoebe, but you and Lady Morton, not so much. Don’t look at me like that. I had to know what you were capable of. I had to know what I was up against so I could protect what I’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

“You’re bloody mad.”

“Perhaps. Have you ever been in love, Miss Bennet? No, of course not. You’re but a child. What do you know of love?” He sneered at her, but there was pity in his eyes, as well. “I loved my wife. I love her still. And now I have been given a chance to make everything right. I can make her forgive me.”

“You think she’s going to thank you for shoving her brain in someone else’s body?” He really was insane.

“It will be like having her own body back. Phoebe is the spitting image of Cassandra when she was young. Once I give life back to her, she’ll forgive me for taking it away from her in the first place.”

That was a surprise. Had he killed her? “Lady Morton said it was a carriage accident.”

“It was, much like the one you and Phoebe almost had. We were driving home in the snow, and the horses I’d built malfunctioned. We went over a small ravine. I survived. Cassandra did not.”

“That still sounds like an accident to me.” Not that she felt sorry for the lunatic, but he hadn’t been in control of the situation.

“If I had been more intelligent…” His voice cracked. “If I had done a better job, the horses would not have malfunctioned.”

She shrugged. “They malfunctioned at the park, too. What did you do wrong there?”

He shook his head, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“So, if you’re not ‘intelligent’ enough to make metal horses work, do you really think you can make a brain transfer work?”

Lord Vincent stilled, all of the frustration in his expression melting away to pure, determined rage. “I will bring Cassandra back.” He raised the pistol once more, so that it was pointed right at her forehead. “I will have my wife’s forgiveness, and you will not stop me.”

Some deep instinct told Finley to duck even before he pulled the trigger. As it was, she felt the bullet as it whizzed above her, just inches from her head. She hid behind the metal door of Lady Vincent’s frozen tomb.

“How are you going to explain my death, Lord Vincent? Lady Morton knows where I am.”

“Let her go to the police. They will think she’s mad. And they wouldn’t dare search my house. Even if they did, I could have all of this easily concealed. No one will care about you, Miss Bennet. Or should I say, Miss Jayne?”

Finley didn’t react to the sound of her real name. It didn’t matter how he had found out. All that mattered was getting out of this alive. She shrugged. “Whichever you prefer, my lord.”

His smug expression mixed with irritation. “It’s not as though you are really of noble blood, are you? You’re just some freakish little girl Lady Morton hired because she doesn’t like me.”

“That might have something to do with the fact that you plan to give her daughter a new brain!” Finley shouted.

Another shot. This one bounced off the door. She bolted from behind it and dived behind the surgical table. She had to get to him, overpower him.

He fired off three more shots, each of which ricocheted off equipment. One grazed Finley’s shoulder, drawing blood. She cried out.

“Got you, did I?” came Lord Vincent’s pleased tone. “Come on out, dear girl, and I’ll make your death quick.”

One more bullet
, Finley thought.
That’s all he has
. There was a spindly sort of stand next to her that looked like a skeletal coatrack on wheels. She kicked the base of it and it went flying across the room. Startled, Lord Vincent fired another shot at it.

Six. That was it. He was out of bullets.

Before he could reload, Finley lunged to her feet and threw herself at him. He looked up from shoving more bullets into the pistol with a horrified expression.

She hit him hard, sending both of them crashing into the workbench. The tank shuddered. Lady Vincent’s brain bobbed wildly. Suddenly, Finley knew what to do. There was only one way to end this without either she or Lord Vincent dying.

Grabbing him by the coat with one hand, she hauled him close and punched him twice in the face, hard. He fell back with a groan, the pistol falling to the floor.

Finley didn’t waste any time, she grabbed a handful of wires leading into the tank and yanked. There was a squishing sound as they pulled free of the brain, and she winced. Then, she seized the tank with both hands.

“No!” Lord Vincent screamed.

Finley pulled. He grabbed her just as the tank crashed to the floor, splattering its gruesome contents all over the lab.

Everything went eerily quiet—even Lord Vincent. He clung to Finley for a moment, like a child clinging to its mother, before slowly sinking to the floor, sobbing. When he crawled toward the destroyed grayish-pink mass in the middle of all the glass and goo, Finley made her escape. Lord Vincent’s plaintive wails rang in her ears as she ran. “No,” he cried. “Cassanda, no.”

It was heartbreaking—or it would have been had he not tried to kill her, had he not been prepared to kill Phoebe for some mad experiment that probably wouldn’t have worked.

Finley shuddered as she burst through the door of the countess’s bedroom. She hoped it wouldn’t have worked.

She crawled out the window just as servants clamored up the stairs—about time they came to investigate all the shots. When she hit the grass, there was another shot, and she froze. Had Vincent shot one of his servants?

There was screaming from inside the house—lots of it. Lights began to come on in the upstairs windows, and one man shouted for someone to fetch the Watch. That’s when Finley broke into a run. She did not want to be there when the police arrived.

Lady Morton and Phoebe were waiting for her when she returned. The relief on the older woman’s face touched Finley.

“I was so worried when Lord Vincent decided to leave early,” she explained. “I had no way to warn you.”

“She was so distraught I made her tell me what the two of you had been up to,” Phoebe added, with a stern glance at her mother. “Finley, that you would do that for me is humbling, but I would never have forgiven myself if you had been harmed.”

“He tried,” Finley replied. “He had a gun and shot at me, but he wasn’t very good at it.” The spot where he’d grazed her shoulder was already healing, and her dark clothing concealed the blood stain.

“Thank Heaven,” Lady Morton whispered, hand pressed to her chest. Her artificial eye gleamed, as though expressing its own relief.

Finley flopped against the back of the settee. She was exhausted.

“What was he up to anyway?” Phoebe demanded, sitting on a nearby chair. Her posture was much better than Finley’s.

Staring at her, Finley wondered how much to tell. If the police had taken Lord Vincent into custody, how much would be in tomorrow’s papers? Would it be worse for Phoebe to read about it and have people whisper about her? Or would it be better to know the truth?

“He wanted to use you to bring his dead wife back to life,” she explained. In such cases, the truth had to be the best course of action.

Phoebe’s normally smooth brow furrowed. “How did he plan to manage that?”

Finley glanced at Lady Morton, who was suitably horrified, and drew a deep breath. “He was going to put her brain in your head.”

“But that—” All the color drained from Phoebe’s face. She swayed a little on her chair, and Finley moved closer to catch her in case she swooned. “He planned to kill me?”

Grimly, Finley nodded. Phoebe’s reaction to the news was unexpected. She threw herself at Finley and wrapped her arms around her so tight Finley could scarce draw breath. “Thank you, Finley. Thank you so much.”

They were still sitting like that a few minutes later when Lord Morton stumbled in, drunk. He took one look at the embracing girls and his pale wife, and said, “You’ve already heard then.”

“Heard what?” Lady Morton inquired.

The portly earl swayed on his feet, face flushed and his eyes glassy. “About Vincent. Seems shortly after he left here he went home and killed himself.”

A collective gasp rose from his audience. Finley’s heart stopped for a second. The shot she heard before all the screams broke out. That had been Lord Vincent taking his own life. When he realized he would never resurrect his wife, he decided to join her in death. It was almost romantic, in a mad-inventor sort of way.

She looked at Phoebe, who was staring at her, big green eyes filled with tears and shock.

“You’re free,” she whispered to her. Tears streamed down the girl’s face, and Finley hugged her close once more. Lady Morton joined them on the settee and wrapped her arms around them both.

“Women,” Lord Morton muttered. “Well, at least there’s a debt I won’t have to pay back.” With that profoundly sensitive remark, he staggered out of the room, leaving the three of them alone once more.

He wasn’t missed.

Finley stayed on long enough to attend the funeral, as was proper. As Lord Vincent’s fiancée, Phoebe was socially obligated to observe mourning protocols, but she was determined to spend the shortest amount of time possible at it. Since she wasn’t going to be out and about much for the next few months, Finley didn’t see much point in continuing on as her companion.

Besides, every time the girl looked at her, Finley knew she was a reminder of all that had happened. Aside from Lady Morton, Finley alone knew what Vincent had planned to do to her, and that was the last thing the poor girl needed.

“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Lady Morton asked her, pen poised over her checkbook.

Finley nodded. “I’m sure. Thank you, though. And thank you for the letter of reference.”

The lady smiled. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.” A tear glistened on her lashes and she wiped it away. “Here are your wages.”

The check was generous—more than Finley was due, but she took it regardless. It would be an insult to Lady Morton if she argued. “You’re very kind.”

Lady Morton set aside her pen and straightened her spine. “A friend of mine’s daughter is returning from Paris tomorrow and is in need of a lady’s maid. It doesn’t require much in the way of social appearances, but it does pay well and affords more freedom than most domestic posts. I told her about you. Should you like, you can stop by on Wednesday morning for an interview. Here is her address.”

Stunned, Finley took the card she offered. “Lady August-Raynes,” she read aloud.

Lady Morton nodded. “I know nothing of the daughter, but she had a son with a bit of a reputation as a rogue. If you accept the position, you keep an eye out for him. Swat him about a bit if he steps out of line.”

Finley grinned. “I’m sure I can handle him.” She thanked the lady again. Then she went and said goodbye to Phoebe, which was more difficult than she thought it would be.

“I hope it works out with you and Robert,” she said.

Phoebe nodded. “Me, too. Thank you, Finley. For everything.” She grabbed her then, in a tight embrace that robbed her of breath and threatened to bring big fat tears to her eyes. Finley let it continue for as long as she dared, and then she pulled away.

“Take care,” she murmured before walking away.

And that was it. A few weeks together spending more time together than sisters, and it was over just like that. Who knew if the two of them would ever see each other again. It made Finley a little sad.

She climbed into the carriage that would return her to her mother’s house, check tucked into her glove. Lady Morton and Phoebe waved to her from the step as the vehicle pulled away. Finley waved back, and then turned away before either of them could see her wipe a tear from her cheek.

She’d go home and spend a few days with her mother and Silas, have her faith in love and human beings in general restored. She’d buy her mother something nice with the extra money she’d been paid—maybe even treat herself to a new pair of boots. And maybe she’d tell Silas that she’d prefer something by Jane Austen next time he gave her something to read. She’d had her fill of monsters for a while.