The next few days were filled with shopping as Lady Morton and Phoebe were determined to see Finley well dressed. She refused to allow them to buy her extravagant clothing, and instead set her mind to simple, well-made garments.

“I’m supposed to be from the country,” she argued. “Country fashion is much more practical than City dress.” She was right, of course, so they gave in. The result was a modest wardrobe of good, modern pieces—nothing too fine or fussy, but nothing so drab that they’d be ashamed to be seen with her in public.

If she needed something superfine, it was agreed that she could borrow something that Phoebe had already worn and alter it. Being raised by a seamstress had its advantages.

But all this shopping and stopping for tea, more shopping, stopping for luncheon and visiting, and then more tea, followed by dinner and an evening at the theater—in Lord Vincent’s box—meant that it was days before Finley had the chance to talk privately with Phoebe, and quite late at night at that.

Before changing into her nightclothes, Finley went to the other girl’s room. She dismissed the young maid forfor the night, so that she could help Phoebe get ready for bed.

Finley felt as though they had become quite close over the past few days. Perhaps not the best of friends, but at least confidantes. She hadn’t told Phoebe her secret, and the girl hadn’t asked, but Finley definitely felt comfortable around her.

They made small talk for a few moments, talking about the play they’d seen—a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Ideal Husband, which had been equally hilarious and surprisingly serious. Finley had quite enjoyed it.

“May I ask you a question?” Finley asked, as she loosened the laces of Phoebe’s damask corset.

“Only if I may ask one of you,” the girl replied, holding on to one of the posters of her bed. “Good lord, Finley, you’re going to lift me clean off the floor!”

“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Finley gentled her actions. Sometimes she forgot her own strength.

Phoebe smiled over her shoulder. “What is it you wished to ask?”

“Why are you marrying Lord Vincent?”

“How is it you can leap from a second-floor window and not even twist an ankle?”

“Usually how this sort of thing works is that you answer my question before asking your own.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I will answer yours after you answer mine.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. Finley sighed. “I don’t know how I’m able to leap out a window and remain unharmed, only that I can.” It was an honest answer, if a poor one.

Dark eyes narrow, Phoebe turned to face her, popping the hooks in the front of her corset, beneath which her chemise was stuck to her skin. “What else can you do?”

“I agreed to one question,” Finley dodged. “Now you must answer mine. Why are you marrying Lord Vincent? You obviously don’t want to, so why?”

Phoebe glanced away, clenching her jaw in an almost petulant manner.

“Are you going back on our agreement?” Finley demanded.

“I agreed that you could ask me a question. I did not promise to answer it.”

“Oh, that’s honorable of you.” She should keep her mouth shut. This girl was not her social equal. One word to her mother and Finley would be out on the street—again. But she was hurt, insulted and a little pissed. “I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else and you won’t extend the same courtesy. That’s just lovely. Good night.”

She made it perhaps two steps before Phoebe reached out and seized her by the wrist. For a second, Finley was in a poor enough temper that she was tempted to catch the girl’s wrist in her own hand and squeeze until the delicate bones rubbed together.

“Finley, wait.” An expression of real distress crossed her face. “Don’t go. Please.”

With a mulish set to her jaw, Finley turned, relaxing her posture enough that Phoebe dropped her arm. “I’ll stay.”

Phoebe’s thin shoulders sagged. “Good. Why don’t we sit down?”

They sat beside one another on the edge of the bed. Phoebe had slipped into a robe to protect her bare arms from the slight spring chill in the air. Finley waited patiently for her to begin.

Licking her lips, Phoebe tangled her fingers in her lap, thumbs rubbing together nervously. “Surely you noticed that Papa did not attend the theater with us this evening?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought to be honest.”

“No,” Phoebe said softly. “I suppose you wouldn’t. And it’s not as though it’s unusual for an engaged girl and her mother to attend the theater with the girl’s fiancé.”

Finley wouldn’t know what was unusual and what wasn’t with the upper classes—not really. “Did your father’s absence upset you?”

Phoebe’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose. “No. You asked me why I’m marrying Lord Vincent?”

It took a second for Finley to realize that her companion was waiting for her confirmation before she replied. Raising both brows, she gave a small nod. “Yes. I did.”

“My father…” Phoebe frowned, tucking in her lips. “My father prefers to spend his evenings at his club or with his cronies.”

Finley shrugged. “All right.” What the devil did this have to do with Lord Vincent?

“He enjoys horse racing and cards.” Dark eyes darted away from hers. “Perhaps too much.”

She could have smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. Lord, but she could be dense at times! She should have already made this assumption—because it made the most sense.

“Lord Vincent paid off your father’s debts in return for marrying you.”

More pink flooded Phoebe’s cheeks. She was quite flushed now. “Yes. So you see now why I cannot simply break the engagement to be with Robert.”

Finley nodded. “I assume that Vincent has also agreed to continue covering any debts your father racks up?”

“Yes. It is very good of Lord Vincent to do this.”

Who was she trying to convince? Finley or herself?

“No matter how much your father owes, it’s not what you are worth,” Finley remarked.

The dark-haired girl turned to her. There were tears in her green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered before dissolving into sobs.

What the devil was she to do now? Finley didn’t have a lot of experience with crying—her own or that of others. Slowly—and a bit awkwardly if she was truthful—she slid her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and patted her back a bit.

The sobs subsided after a few moments, and Phoebe reared up and off the bed in search of a handkerchief for her eyes and nose. When she turned to face Finley again it was with puffy eyes and a red nose. “Forgive me.”

“Whatever for? For being upset over a situation that rots? I think you have every right.”

“Lord Vincent has been nothing but gentlemanly and kind to me through the entire process, and I know that I am extremely fortunate to make such a match. I’ll be a countess.”

“But?” Finley prodded, sensing there was more.

Twisting the crumpled linen handkerchief in her hands, Phoebe’s shoulders slumped. “Perhaps you’ll think me naive, but I always thought I’d marry for love. Lord Vincent doesn’t love me. In fact, I think he only wants me because I look like his dead wife. I know you saw her portrait.”

So she hadn’t been asleep the entire carriage drive. “So your father makes a mess and you get to clean it up. You’re a better person than I, Phoebe. I don’t think I could do it.”

“I’m not doing it for my father,” came the firm reply. She sounded a little angry, but she didn’t rush to her father’s defense. “I’m doing it for Mama—and for myself—so neither of us has to suffer through the whispers and stares, the social downfall that happens when ones debtors come calling. I would save us both that humiliation. This way if Father ruins himself, I will be in a position to care for my mother.”

Wanting to protect her mother was something Finley could relate to, though she still had no idea what role she was to play in all of this. Had Lady Morton hired her to make certain Phoebe went through with the marriage and didn’t run away with Robert? Or had she been hired because Lady Morton was uncomfortable putting her daughter in the hands of a man old enough to be her father?

One thing for certain, she was beginning to like Phoebe, and she didn’t want to see anything happen to her. That meant she was going to have to find out all she could about Lord Vincent. Lord Morton, as well.

“I should let you get to bed,” she said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for confiding in me. I want you to know that I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

A shaky smile curved Phoebe’s lips. “Thank you, but I’m not sure that there’s anything you can do. Although, you never did tell me just what else you are capable of doing.”

It was meant as a lighthearted comment, and Finley tried to react as such, but it struck just a little too close to home for her find it funny. She turned her head to meet Phoebe’s gaze past the corner of the door. “I’m not sure either of us wants to find out,” she replied. “Good night, Phoebe.” And then closed the door behind her.

Finley woke to utter darkness and a sense of determined purpose, which could mean only one thing, though it never occurred to her—her other self was awake, as well, and in control.

It wasn’t fair that Phoebe had to marry Lord Vincent, though Finley was aware that life was full of things that weren’t fair. That wasn’t the issue crowding her head right now. What she wanted to know was why a man Vincent’s age wanted to marry such a young girl—other than the obvious, of course. Old men always leered at younger women, always wanted someone new and fresh to give them an heir and make them feel young again.

If the old earl had nefarious plans for her new friend, he was in for a rude awakening. Friendship was a rare thing, and Finley liked Phoebe, she really did.

As much as she could like a girl without much of a backbone. Honestly, she didn’t even like herself all that much at times.

She tossed back the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Ten minutes later she was dressed in a short skirt, striped stockings, heavy boots, black shirt and serviceable leather corset that tied in the front. She pulled on a long black coat, secured her hair on top of her head and opened a window.

It was quite a drop to the grass below, but luck was on her side in the form of a trellis a few feet over. All she had to do was ease her body out of the window and stretch an arm and a leg toward the trellis, while maintaining her balance with her remaining limbs. When she had a solid hold on the trellis, she let go of the window casing and swung as gracefully as a monkey.

Quickly, she clambered down the side of the house and dropped to the soft grass. She glanced around to make certain no one had seen her before jogging toward the garden wall. It was better to keep to the shadows than the street—and faster.

She ran toward the wall, pushed up against the moss-covered stone with the toe of her boot and vaulted herself up to grip the top edge. She pulled herself up easily, and crouched there a moment before jumping down into the neighboring garden. When nothing came at her, she took off running, the thick soles of her boots a blur over the grass. She vaulted another wall, and then another, working her way toward Lord Vincent’s estate through a shortcut of back gardens and shadows.

When she reached the top of the wall around his lordship’s garden, she paused, barely winded. Every instinct warned her not to charge in like a bull chasing a red flag. Lord Vincent was a technologically minded man. He had automatons for servants, and automatons never slept.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, her sensitive ears picked up a faint grinding sound that seemed to grow louder and louder. A small light shone through the darkness, and then she saw that the light came from a bulb implanted in the chest of an automaton. The bright beam swelled to illuminate the garden like a torch, sweeping a radius of perhaps seven feet in front of the graceful machine.

A sentry. It had pistols mounted on its shoulders and pincers on the end of its humanoid hands. It was made to maim, perhaps even kill intruders. Finley frowned. She understood that Lord Vincent was a rich and powerful man, and that his house was full of things thieves would love to steal, but the Watch kept an eye on this area, and Lord Vincent already had iron grates over his lower windows, and top-notch locks on all the doors—she had noticed them the night of the ball.

Which begged the question: what was Lord Vincent trying to protect? Or better yet, what was he trying to hide?

Finley stayed where she was until the automaton had navigated around the side of the house; it gave her time to figure out a way in. She jumped down from the wall, thighs slightly tight from crouching so long, and bolted toward the house. She didn’t have much time. The automaton would eventually make its way back, and if her estimation of Lord Vincent’s secrecy and intelligence was even half of what it should be, the metal would sense her from a distance.

She was strong and fast, but a bullet could kill her just as easily as it killed anyone else.

Speed gave her momentum and she leaped up at the house, fingers clutching at the top of a window casing. Toes and fingers dug in as she pulled herself up. Was she getting stronger? She felt even stronger than she had before punching that idiot governess.

That silly part of her that worried too much was not going to be happy about that, but she was! Quickly, she scampered up the side of the house, sometimes using nothing more than breaks in the mortar for purchase. Past the ground floor, then the first. She stopped at a second-floor window—one without shutters—and pushed.

There was a slight popping noise as the latch broke, bits of it hitting the floor. The window swung open and she pulled herself over the sill just as the automaton approached far below.

As a precaution, she closed the window once more. It gaped slightly without its latch, but as far as she was concerned that wasn’t her dilemma.

She was in a bedroom. As she surveyed her surroundings in the dark, with nothing but moonlight and her keen eyesight to guide her, she saw that she was in what must have been the late countess’s bedchamber. Either the earl had never closed the room up after she died, or he was in the midst of preparing it for his new bride.

She picked a brush up from the vanity. Auburn hair clung to some of the bristles, answering her question. He had never closed the room up after his last wife’s death.

Did he plan to move Phoebe in here without changing a thing? Or would he put her elsewhere, so this room might remain a museum of sorts? Whichever he chose, it was still…creepy. Marrying a girl who looked that much like your dead wife was just unsettling. Surely society thought the same way? But no one would dare tell an earl that he was clearly on the short list for Bedlam, the lunatic asylum.

Flesh prickling with goose bumps, Finley made for the door. She couldn’t stay in this room any longer, cryptlike as it was. Why, her overactive mind could almost imagine the husk of the former Lady Vincent beneath the bedcovers.

Her heart was pounding as she slipped out into the corridor. It was dark and quiet here—not a mechanized servant to be seen, nor a human one. The only light was what peeked from beneath a door at the end of the hall.

Finley crept toward that light, wincing when the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. She froze, scarcely daring to breathe. Nothing. No metal guards, no weapons flying out of the walls, no trip wires designed to maim or kill. Lord Vincent put all of his energy into keeping people out of his house rather than taking precautions against a stranger romancing the inside—thankfully.

At the end of the corridor, she crouched down and put her eye to the keyhole.

Please, don’t let him be naked, she prayed. She might have to gouge out her own eyes if Lord Vincent was prancing about in his flesh pajamas on the other side of the door.

She needn’t have worried, she soon realized. This wasn’t a bedroom—or at least it wasn’t anymore. It might have been at one time, but now it appeared to be a laboratory of some sort. Lord Vincent stood with his back to her—fully clothed. He seemed to be fiddling with some sort of cabinet with a glass top. She couldn’t quite see it all because he was in the way.

The room was brightly lit, and the odor seeping from underneath the door smelled vaguely of chemicals and smoke, and was moist with steam. Jars and beakers sat on shelves and workbenches. Strange tools that looked like things a dentist or surgeon might use hung ominously from hooks in the walls. If it wasn’t so clean and bright, she might think she was spying on Dr. Frankenstein himself.

Lord Vincent was probably building a new automaton, or working on one of his inventions. She’d been foolish to be overly suspicious of him. At worst he was an eccentric, dirty old man eager to marry someone almost a third his age.

Finley was just about to move away from the door and go home, when Lord Vincent moved away from the cabinet. Sitting on top of the wooden base was a large glass tank filled with a viscous pink liquid. Coils of wires ran from various apparatus and switches into the tank, bobbing as whatever it was they were attached to moved—or rather twitched—in the fluid. The movement brought the thing flush against the glass….

Finley barely covered her mouth in time. Swallowing her cry, she rocked back on her heels, gripping the wall for support as prickles of heat swarmed her mind. She did not shock or surprise easily, especially not when the weaker side of herself was asleep, but what she had seen horrified her.

She peeked through the keyhole again despite her better judgment. She had to know if her eyes had deceived her. Her heart hammered as she turned her attention to the tank.

It was still. The wires leading into it did not move, nor did the jellylike contents. There was nothing bobbing like an apple in a barrel of water, only stillness—like a jar of jam.

Could she have imagined it? She wondered as she rose to her feet. Her limbs trembled and her heart continued its throbbing rhythm, even as she doubted her own eyes.

The sound of footsteps grew louder on the other side of the door, spurring her into motion. She had barely ducked into the eerie bedroom at the end of the hall when she heard the door of the laboratory open. Through the crack, she spied Lord Vincent walking down the polished floor toward that room. Whirling on her heel, she raced toward the window and squeezed out onto the ledge, closing the glass behind her. She quickly climbed down to the grass and sprinted toward the wall, narrowly avoiding the patrol automaton.

The vision of that tank haunted her all the way back to Lord and Lady Morton’s, and continued to plague her as she lay in bed, wishing for a fast and dreamless sleep. She could not forget the image no matter how hard she tried. Not for the first time she doubted her own sanity, because she couldn’t have seen what she thought she had seen. But still…

She had seen something similar in an anatomy book Silas had in the store, and though the thought made her stomach churn, she could have sworn that what she had seen in the tank at Lord Vincent’s was a human brain.