But killing August-Raynes would have been worth swinging from a noose. Abernathy was not.

Jack slapped him. Wasn’t that what gentlemen did when one insulted another? He didn’t have kid gloves, so he had to use his bare hand. A nice, hard backhanded slap that snapped Abernathy’s head to the side and set his fleshy jowls to trembling. It would leave a mark. A nasty one, with the imprint of Jack’s ring as a reminder bruised into it. It wasn’t an easily identifiable ring—not a signet or the like—but that was all right. Both Abernathy and Jack would know whose mark it was, and that was all that mattered.

The older man’s hand went to his cheek as his face turned back toward Jack. He looked astonished. Afraid.

Jack smiled grimly. “I think now we understand one another.” With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, hands in his pockets so no one could see they were clenched into fists.

He drove back to Whitechapel, his rage dropping to a low simmer. Tonight, he’d ask a few discrete acquaintances if they knew anything about the crate and its cargo. He couldn’t risk his reputation by going after it himself. If word got out that he’d stolen something for payment and then stolen it back... Well, that kind of thing didn’t look good.

So he’d be patient, and if questions didn’t yield results then he’d swallow his pride and go to the one man who truly was a gentleman. The one person he knew who could be trusted to do absolutely the right thing.

Griffin King.

The duke and his friends—especially Finley—would do all they could to find the metal girl. They would do what he couldn’t.

Save her.