Emily consulted her papers. “I have an address for Mr. Peabody in Cheapside. He’s been out of the country, though.”

“When’s he due back?”

She looked again. “This morning. What are you thinking, lad?”

Griffin smiled without humor. “I’m thinking that our fiery lady might decide to pay a visit to her papa. She might decide she’s had enough of him controlling her money—and she might want his, as well.”

Some of the color left Emily’s cheeks. She was already very pale. “You don’t think she’d kill her own father?”

“I think she’s insane, very powerful and drunk on the fact that she’s gotten away with it for this long. I also think we’d better make haste to Cheapside if we’re to save Mr. Peabody from a grisly death.” He rose to his feet and offered Finley his hand. “Let’s go.”

Her fingers entwined with his as she rose to her feet. She wasn’t happy, he could tell—and he didn’t blame her. Since they’d met, their lives had been one adventure after another. Some of it had been fun, but most of it had been dangerous. They could use a little quiet time together. He wanted to give her that, but not at the expense of a life—especially not when it was a life they could save.

“We’ll go away after,” he told her in a low voice. “Spend some time alone.”

She shot him a doubtful glance. “All right.” But there was no conviction in her tone. She pulled her hand free of his and walked toward the door.

“I don’t blame her,” whispered a voice near his ear.

Garibaldi. Griffin didn’t turn his head. Didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard. No one else seemed to have either.

“She knows you don’t mean it, Your Grace. More importantly, you know you don’t mean it.”

Griffin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Clenching his hands into fists, he followed his friends.

The Machinist chuckled—the sound echoing in his head.

“I’m coming for you, Griffin King.”

* * *

“Why do I need to learn to dance?”

Jack Dandy smiled as he guided Mila through a turn. She was a good dancer, despite her whining. “Because it’s something every well-bred young lady knows how to do, and because it’s enjoyable.”

“I’m not well-bred. I was built. I suppose I could be well built.”

She was at that, he thought with a touch of irony-laced guilt. She was very fit, and her tailored trousers and waistcoat showed that off to brilliant advantage. Add her mane of wild red hair and wide amber eyes and she was a girl a fellow didn’t easily forget.

“You don’t like to dance?” he asked, turning her again.

“You could have just given me a book on it. As soon as I read the instructions I’d know how to do it.”

His lips quirked. “So, you don’t like dancing with me, is that it?”

Her cheeks flushed at his teasing. “No. I’m sure you know you dance very well—otherwise you wouldn’t do it. I just think this is a waste of your time.”

“It’s not.” And that was as much conversation as he intended to have on the subject. He wouldn’t admit—not even to himself—just how much he enjoyed dancing with her. She felt comfortable in his arms—as if she was made to fit him.

Which was ridiculous. She’d been made—engineered—to house the brain of a madman, only those plans had gotten all mucked up by Griffin King. Because of an injection of some sort of goo that apparently gave a kick in the bollocks to the evolutionary process, Mila the automaton had become Mila the girl, complete with a sharp brain and all the blood and organs that went along with being human.

She learned at an incredible rate, which was good, because, though she looked like a woman, if she were human, she wouldn’t even be old enough to crawl yet. She’d learned so much already—more than he’d ever thought possible, but there was still so much she didn’t know.

“Are you enjoying Romeo and Juliet?” Shakespeare was practically required reading in England.

Her winged ginger brows knit into a frown as she moved. Her dancing had dramatically improved in the past five minutes. Remarkable. “No. It’s foolish and contrived.”

Both of Jack’s brows shot up. He misstepped and almost trod upon her toes. “Apologies,” he muttered.

Mila easily moved around his clumsiness and kept the dance going with effortless grace. Then again, he could have fallen on his arse and she would have simply swept him back onto his feet. It was enough to emasculate a fellow, her strength. “You’re surprised.”

“I am. Most girls quite enjoy the romance of Romeo and Juliet.”

Her frown grew. She was adorable when she scowled. “I don’t find tandem suicide the least bit romantic, Jack. Why didn’t they just stand up to their families?”

“Because that just wasn’t done.”

She snorted. “Ridiculous. If I was in love with someone, I wouldn’t let that stop me.”

“You haven’t lived your life by a strict code of rules.”

The gaze she leveled at him was so direct it was unsettling. “Neither have you.”

Were that true. “I did for a little while—when I was younger.”

“If you so dislike the rules, why are you imposing them on me?”

Oh, she was getting far too smart. To think that when she came to live with him she was more like a child. Now...well, there was nothing childlike about her. “Because I want you to have a better life than I had.”

Mila glanced around at the opulence of his drawing room. It looked like a brothel—an expensive one—with its crimson walls and dark furniture. “Yes, your life has been little more than tragedy and want.”

He never should have taught her sarcasm. It was yet another thing at which she excelled. He also never should have revealed to her that the atrocious cockney accent he often used wasn’t his true manner of speaking. That had opened up a whole slew of questions—and hurt her feelings when he told her he didn’t want to talk about it.

“My life has been what I’ve made of it, and it wasn’t easy.” That was the bluntest, least dramatic way to phrase it.

“You want my life to be easy?”

Yes, damn it. “I want your life to be exactly as you deserve.”

“But you’re the one deciding what I deserve.”

He whirled her around. This conversation was becoming tedious. They’d been having it quite often of late. “Just making certain every option is available, poppet.”

She whirled him around—to make a point, no doubt. “No, you’re making certain every option you want me to have is available.”

“Now you’re just splitting hairs. Put me down.” And she did, because he’d put enough will behind his gaze to give himself a headache. Mila took more of a push than normal people to bend to his will. It wasn’t an ability he used on a regular basis—not anymore. He preferred winning the old-fashioned way these days.

Mila stopped dancing and shook her head as if to clear it. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Not a big lover of being picked up like a rag doll either, love.”

Her eyes brightened. She was spoiling for a fight—and he was prepared to give it. What was happening between them? It seemed just a few days ago she was still his sweet, curious Mila. Now she was this difficult, argumentative creature that challenged him at every turn. So, why did he find this new her so bloody interesting even when he wanted to throttle her at times?

He stared at her and she at him. They were perfectly still—tense. The music continued to play in the background as they stood with their fingers entwined, his hand on the small of her back, hers on his shoulder. A few inches and they’d touch. He could haul her right up against him. What sort of reaction would that get?

The doorbell rang. Swearing, Jack stepped back, releasing her. He consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock. “Lesson’s over, poppet.”

“My heart is broken,” she drawled. “Expecting company?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Off to your room.”

“I don’t get to meet your friend?”

Never would he use that word to describe Darla. “No.” God, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain Mila’s presence in his home. Normally he’d say she was his ward, but the changes in her lately had made that more difficult. At least one of his companions had gotten very jealous of the other girl—foolish chit. Mila was his responsibility, not his lover. There was no reason for any other woman to be threatened by her.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because you insulted my last visitor.”

She frowned. “I did not!”

“Hmm, you did. You commented on her hair color.”

“I simply wanted to know why the hair close to her scalp was a different color than the rest of it.”

Jack walked toward the foyer. “You don’t ask women such questions.”

“I’ll add it to the list.”

Cheeky baggage. He paused near the door and shot her a pointed gaze. “Upstairs. Now.”

Mila sighed with the gusto of an elephant expelling water from its trunk. She stomped from the drawing room to the stairs.

“Easy,” Jack warned. “Break my staircase and you’ll be cleaning the water closet for a week.” The girl didn’t know her own strength sometimes. Shortly after he’d taken her in she’d ripped two doors clean off their hinges by accident.

She glared at him, but her steps were light as she huffed and muttered her way upstairs. He heard just enough to decide to watch his language around her. She knew more profanity than most sailors.

When she was gone from sight, and he’d heard the door to her room slam, he greeted his visitor.

Darla arched a brow. She was a tall willowy woman, with hennaed hair and brown eyes and a feisty disposition. “Kept me waiting long enough.”