Engaged? The very idea continued to baffle Finley for the remainder of the day, long after she’d unpacked all her belongings and had taken a quiet luncheon in her room reading the book Silas had given her.

It was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, a book Finley hadn’t been allowed to read prior to this because her mother thought she was too young. The mention of “evil forebodings” in the first line grabbed her attention and she sat by the window reading until teatime, when she joined Phoebe and Lady Morton for tea, sandwiches and tiny cakes so delicious it took all her willpower not to eat six of them.

They didn’t speak anymore of the engagement then. In fact, they didn’t speak of it at all until that evening, when Phoebe came to Finley’s room.

“Am I late?” Finley asked. She was just putting on the earrings Phoebe had loaned her. In fact, everything she wore except for her undergarments was on loan from Phoebe.

“No, I’m early,” the girl replied, pearls shining in her thick, upswept hair. “I’ve been assured by many of my friends that constant punctuality is a failure of the worst kind.”

Finley smiled at the humor in her voice. “Are most of your friends constantly late?”

Phoebe returned the grin. “Exactly! You look lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Finley blushed. She wasn’t used to compliments, and she wasn’t accustomed to wearing such beautiful gowns as the deep plum silk one she wore now. It made her eyes brighter—like the amber her mother compared them to. The color brought out the honey in her hair, as well, which she had always thought of as plain dark blond.

“You’re stunning,” she told the other girl. Most debutantes wore pale colors, but Phoebe was dressed in a rich peach that really made her green eyes stand out.

“Thank you. One of the perks to being an engaged woman is that now I don’t have to wear pastels all the time.”

Finley shuddered at the thought. She adjusted the earring and rose from her dressing table. “Have you been engaged for long?”

“Just a fortnight,” Phoebe replied. “Hold on, you’ve got a loose pin.” Finley watched in the mirror as the girl walked behind her and attended to her hair. She didn’t even wince when her would-be maid shoved a pin deeper into her coiffure.

“There.” The paler girl admired her work with a faint smile. “Now you’re gorgeous. All the eligible gentlemen at the party will line up to dance with you.”

“Not me,” Finley argued. “I’m just a companion.”

Phoebe’s smile faded, only to come back twice as bright—and a little forced. “Didn’t Mama tell you? We’re telling everyone that you’re my cousin from the country. No one will know you’re not filthy rich or connected.”

A wave of dizziness washed over Finley. For a moment, she felt that other part of her struggle to come to the surface, but she pushed it back down. “Why would you do that?”

Phoebe frowned. “I’m not certain. It was Mama’s idea. I reckon she thought we wouldn’t look so pretentious if it seemed that you were family. Since I’m engaged I no longer need constant chaperoning, so perhaps she simply wants someone watching over me at all times. I’m not certain what sort of trouble she thinks I’ll get myself into.”

Finley almost suggested she ask her mother, but then thought the better of it. Phoebe’s relationship with her mama was none of her business.

“I suppose being from the country will provide an excuse for any ignorance I might have for proper social behavior.”

Phoebe waved her hand. “You have more manners than most lords and ladies I’ve met. Trust me.”

Finley did, oddly enough. She didn’t think Phoebe or her mother were trying to harm her in any way, but the entire situation was very strange. She suspected there was more to it than either she, or Phoebe had been told.

“We’d best take ourselves downstairs,” Phoebe remarked with a glance at the clock on the mantel. “Mama will be waiting.”

Dutifully, Finley followed after the girl, despite the lump in her stomach. How on earth was she to pretend she was of the upper class? To be sure, Silas and her mother had instilled good manners in her, and her vocabulary was such that she could certainly speak properly, but she had no idea what that sort of life was like, outside of observing it. She had more of a “mongrel” look to her than aristocratic features—a fact she was more often happy for than not, as some nobles seemed to have been bred out of having any chin to speak of.

Well, there was no getting out of it. She would just have to do as well as she could and hope for the best.

Phoebe had been right, her mother was indeed waiting for them, along with the butler, whose name Finley couldn’t remember, if she’d been told at all. He helped first Lady Morton, then Phoebe and finally Finley into their wraps. Hers was yet another loan from Phoebe.

“Thank you, Tolliver,” Lady Morton said with a smile. She wore tinted spectacles that partially concealed her odd eye. “We will be home by four at the latest.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed. “Have a lovely evening, ladies.” Then he opened the door so that the three of them could march out into the cool night air. A footman stood by the carriage to hand them in one by one.

As the carriage gingerly lurched into motion, Finley held her clenched hands in her lap and drew deep, even breaths. She could do this. All she had to do was follow Phoebe’s example and behave as she did. It would be easy.

So long as she never left Phoebe’s side.

It was a short drive to their destination, which was but a few streets away. The metal horses that pulled them moved faster than their flesh-and-blood counterparts. Finley couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a coach such a short distance when she had two feet perfect for walking.

That was exactly the sort of observation she had to remember to keep to herself. Aristocrats did not walk to social events.

As they stepped from the carriage, Finley took a deep breath. There were familiar scents in the air—the smell of real horses, of heated metal, of steam and grass—that calmed her pounding heart somewhat. Relief flooded through her as the anxiety waned. Intense emotions were not conducive to keeping control of herself. The darkness inside her loved to come out at those times.

The house they entered was huge—an old Gothic structure that had to have been built at least two centuries earlier. The stone had probably once been beige, but it had darkened to black in some places, giving the entire structure a sinister feel.

It instantly made Finley think of Frankenstein and the castle where the doctor conducted his scientific experiments.

“It’s like something right out of a novel,” Finley whispered to Phoebe.

Her companion didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. “Yes. It’s rather antiquated on the outside, but the inside has every modern convenience, I assure you.”

Finley glanced at her, uncertain as to why the girl sounded almost defensive. “I’m sure it does, not that it matters to me. I don’t have to live here.”

Was it her imagination or did Phoebe just shudder? Perhaps she shouldn’t continue reading Mary Shelley’s novel if it was going to make her mind so foolish.

They joined a handful of other guests walking up the stone path to the front door. Flickering torches illuminated the way, but that wonderful gothic feeling was lost as soon as they stepped inside.

The interior was just as Phoebe had promised—modern, which caused a peculiar disappointment in Finley’s chest. Had she hoped for a spooky run-down ruin?

Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and wall sconces bathed everyone in a warm glow. She didn’t hear the hiss of gas, which meant that the house—or at least the lighting of it—was powered by the “battery” manufactured by the Greythorne Corporation. The last house she worked at had been in the process of converting to the power source invented by a previous Duke of Greythorne long before Finley was born. He’d discovered an ore that, once refined and properly treated, could power an entire house for months off one small battery that could then be exchanged for another once it was depleted. Amazing discovery, it was. And somewhat expensive, though she’d heard that the current duke was taking measures to make the batteries more affordable so everyone in Britain could light their homes without worrying about fire—or the whole thing exploding.

There were ladies in all manner of beautiful gowns and jewels. Gentlemen were dressed in black and white, some with brightly colored neck cloths. Human servants and gleaming brass automatons milled around the guests, bearing trays of champagne, lemonade and other refreshments.

Finley had never seen so many automatons under one roof except for an exhibition she’d visited a few years ago with her parents. She had to remind herself not to stare.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” came a voice from her left.

She turned as an older man, perhaps a few years older than Silas, walked up to stand beside her. He gestured with his champagne toward one of the smaller machines collecting empty glasses. “This one knows his route. He’ll move in a precalculated pattern throughout the room, collecting empty crystal, which he’ll then take to the kitchen to be washed.”

Finley glanced at the man. He had a nice face, and was probably very handsome when he was younger and his dark hair not touched with gray. “Are you not worried about having so many, given the recent accidents?” There had been two or three mentions in the papers over the past few months of automatons acting against their programming. People had been injured, though not seriously.

He smiled at her. Yes, he must have been handsome as a young man. He was handsome now. “Of these beauties? Of course not. You see Miss…”

“Bennet,” Finley supplied, remembering the name Phoebe told her to use, and her manners. She offered her hand. “Finley Bennet. I’m here with Lady Morton and Lady Phoebe

Blue eyes brightened. “Are you? How lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet. I am Lord Vincent, creator of all the automatons you see around you.”

Finley flushed. Of course he wouldn’t be nervous of them. “Forgive me, my lord. I am new to town.” How easily the lie rolled off her tongue. “Am I to understand then, that this is also your home?”

Lord Vincent nodded as he continued to smile at her. “No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. I am surprised that neither Lady Morton or Lady Phoebe mentioned you to me when last we spoke, and that they seem equally remiss in mentioning me to you.”

There was nothing dark in his voice when he spoke, but the base of Finley’s spine tingled at his words. Why would Lady Morton neglect to inform their host that she would be bringing an extra guest? And why would either she or her daughter feel the need to tell Finley about his lordship?

Suddenly Lady Morton and Phoebe were there, inserting themselves so Finley was forced to step back from the man.

“Forgive me, Lord Vincent,” Lady Morton said, a flush in her cheeks. “I was caught up in conversation with Lady Marsden, else I would have made introductions. I see you’ve already met our cousin, Miss Finley Bennet.”

Indeed I have,” Lord Vincent replied as he bowed over each of their hands. “You are lovely as always, Lady Morton. Lady Phoebe, allow me to say that you are more beautiful each time I see you.”

Phoebe blushed at his praise. Finley didn’t blame her—it was a pretty racy thing for him to say to someone who was engaged.

Then Phoebe raised her gaze, and Finley saw something in her bright eyes that she could not identify. Was it fear? Panic?

“Forgive me, cousin,” Phoebe said to her, her voice low and a little shaky. She slipped her arm around Lord Vincent’s, her face now strangely pale. “I should have been the one to make the introductions. May I present Harris Spencer-White, Earl Vincent, our host for the evening and my fiancé.”