Prince of Hearts (10 page)

And worse than that, his tie was crooked. He stared at his reflection in his bedroom mirror with a mixture of despondency and irritation. He was to attend the opera tonight, having decided that
La Traviata
was just the ticket to end his brooding, or to at least make it look like his life was not spinning out of control. He suspected that was the killer’s goal, and he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.

But as he cast his eye over his evening clothes, he decided that he looked ridiculous. This century’s fashion choices were a welcome improvement over the giant powdered wigs and high heels of the previous one. And for once in centuries, he was able to clothe himself without the aid of a legion of servants.

But no matter how he tried to knot his neck cloth, it still came out crooked and limp.

Finch had tied them for him for the past five years, and he had grown used to it. For such a clumsy little package, she had remarkably dexterous fingers. His crooked necktie was, quite frankly, the last straw where she was concerned. He’d not be traipsing around London looking like a vagrant. He stalked downstairs and threw open the door to the billiards room. Fyodor was inside playing by himself.

“Bring my curricle around. I’m going to find Finch and drag her back here kicking and screaming if I have to.”

Fyodor curved his mouth in a sly smile, as if to say he’d believe it when he saw it, but not before.

Sasha scowled at him and strode from the room.

Ten minutes later, he was driving himself across town in his steam-powered curricle, his body thrumming with irritation. This little standoff between him and his secretary was about to come to an end, and he was the one who was going to come out on top, not the other way around.

Perhaps giving her these past few days to come to her senses had not been the best plan. Indeed, it had been the entirely wrong thing to do. He should have marched to her flat the night he’d arrived and sorted out the business there and then, pride be damned.

Oh, she was going to pay for turning his life on its head, that was for certain.

He arrived at the boarding house Finch lived in on the border of Bloomsbury, and jumped down from the perch, yanking off his traveling goggles and gloves. Matthews emerged from the shadows to greet his unexpected visit. Sasha was too irritated to speak with the man, so he merely gave him a terse nod and continued on his mission. He strode up the steps and rang the bell.

And rang and rang until the door finally opened.

A middle-aged woman he took to be the proprietor stared up at him, her eyes wide. It was not every evening, he supposed, that a man dressed for the opera showed up on her doorstep.

“I am here to see Finch.”

She continued to stare up at him in bemusement.

“Finch,” he repeated, too vexed to explain further.

“I … er, you mean Miss Aline Finch, sir?”

He nodded and followed her inside, nearly treading on her skirts in his haste. He stared around a dusty hallway distastefully. “What room is hers?” he demanded.

“Er … I … seven, sir. But if you will wait here.” She gestured towards a small parlor to the left, “I shall see if she is available to come down and speak to you. You are…?”

He moved towards the stairs instead of the parlor. “There is no need to bring her here. I shall go to her.”

“I … oh, dear! But that is not …” the woman huffed behind him.

“Proper?” he supplied, striding up the stairs. “I am sure Finch would agree.”

“But … I, er, that is … sir!” the woman called after him. But she made no move to follow.

He reached the landing of the first floor and located the number seven on a door at the end of the hall. It was a plain, no-nonsense-looking door. A very innocent looking door. He wondered if it knew it stood guard over an ungrateful, shrewish imp.

He pounded his fist against the wood so forcefully the number seven went slightly askew. He continued for what seemed an interminably long time until his knuckles were numb from the effort. He was beginning to think that Finch was not in. Or that she knew who was paying her a visit and chose to ignore the knocking.

The latter, most likely.

Well, he’d make it impossible for her to ignore him. He pounded even harder.

Just when he was about to curse, the door swung open, and the head of an automaton peered furtively around the corner. Or at least that was what Sasha’s overtaxed brain told him he was seeing: a metallic head with a glass-covered mask obscuring its eyes, attached to a crude mechanical breathing device, the likes of which he’d never seen before. The closest thing he could compare it to was something an ocean diver wore.

Then a human hand came up and yanked the device off, revealing his secretary underneath. His rebuke died on his lips at the sight of her. Finch's ever-present spectacles were missing, and her hair, usually tied back in a vise-like hold, fell loose down her shoulders in a wavy, tangled heap.

He reassessed several things about Finch in that moment. Her eyes were big, too big for her face, and the color of chocolate, and her hair was not so much mouse-colored blonde as it was the color of a baby fawn, streaked with gold and copper. She looked...

Adorable. Adorable and...

Sick. Her eyes were bleary, and her small, pert nose was the color of a candied cherry. She squinted up at him as if peering through a thick fog.

She sneezed.

Then she shut the door in his face.

Stunned by the unexpected sight of the unsightly mask, followed by her disheveled state and her rather abrupt dismissal, he stared at the door, unmoving.

Gathering his wits, he lifted his fist and pounded against the wood with renewed insistency, the brass number threatening to fall off completely. He’d break the door with his enhanced strength if he was not careful, but he was not going away without a fight.

Seconds later, the door reopened as his fist was poised to strike once more, catching him off guard. She glared up at him as she tied a ratty-looking pink robe around her waist. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in a stuffy, miserable voice.

“What was that thing on your head, Finch?”

She held up the mask. “My uncle’s invention. It helps keep my lungs clear, if you must know. As you can clearly see, I am sick!” she bit out.

Well, her eccentric uncle must have managed to get one thing to work, though it was hideous. “It makes you look like an aquanaut.”

She glared at him. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

"I am going to the opera, and I can't manage my necktie,” he muttered.

She snorted. “Unbelievable.”

"No one can tie it like you, Finch. It was the last straw."

"Really," she said dryly. "Why are you truly here?"

"To discuss your desertion, naturally."

"It was a resignation," she corrected. "And there's nothing to discuss. You shouldn't be here. It is improper. If anyone should see you...”

"Then you better let me inside before I ruin your reputation."

She debated this for a moment, then reluctantly stood aside.

He strode into the tiny flat before she changed her mind. Books lined the walls in neat rows, and ferns and flowering shrubs in mismatched, colorful pots filled every available nook. He glanced towards the rear of the flat, where a small wrought-iron-framed bed stood near two glass doors leading to an ant-sized balcony overflowing with more potted plants.

It was not what he expected. What he expected Finch's private sanctum to look like was more in line with the stacks at the Bodleian. Not this ... this jungle. Yet despite the apparent clutter, everything was precisely arranged and spotless, just as he expected of the neat little Finch. The only signs of her current indisposition were the tangled nest of blankets atop her narrow bed and a trail of wadded handkerchiefs littering a tidy desk.

She shuffled past him to the desk and snatched up her spectacles. She settled them on her nose and sniffled.

"Well, get on with it,” she demanded in a peevish tone he'd never heard before. She extracted a dank handkerchief from her robe's pocket and blew her nose. The noise was loud and unladylike.

Another first for the prim little Finch.

Staring down at that spectacular mane of fawn-colored hair, he forgot his anger, and something warm and completely foreign flooded his chest. It must have been relief. This was the first time he’d seen her with his own eyes since this whole nightmare had begun, after all.

He smiled, earning him a fierce glare over the top of the handkerchief.

"Do I amuse you?" she mumbled.

Why, yes, she did. Perhaps too much. But he couldn’t help himself. After weeks of nightmares, this was like waking up to a summer morning. He’d always loved bantering with her, and this new defiant backbone she’d sprouted was as delightful as it was inconvenient.

He wanted the delight to last as long as it could. He pasted a stern expression on his face, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What do you mean by turning traitor?" he demanded.

Most people caved when he used such a tone, but not Finch. She rolled her eyes and crossed her own arms over her chest, digging in her heels for battle. He almost smiled again, but caught himself.

"My behavior is hardly traitorous. I merely left your employment,” she sniffed.

"You
are
a
traitor
. You have thrown my affairs into a shambles by your irresponsible behavior."

"Irresponsible! Why you complete, utter... " She sneezed again, knocking her spectacles at a precarious angle.

He reached out and straightened them for her before she could protest. She muttered something that sounded close to a thank you and blew her nose again, looking quite miserable. "You're at death's door, aren't you?"

"No thanks to those ... those
hellhounds
of yours."

"Hellhounds?" he cried, quite offended. Finch had never called his pups hellhounds before ... to his face. They were a frisky pair, to be sure, but hellish was taking it too far.

"Yes, hellhounds. Those unnatural beasts you insist on calling pups. They knocked me into the Thames."

He couldn't help himself. He laughed, imagining the sight of the proper Finch up to her neck in the mud and filth of the river.

"You think it's funny those mongrels nearly drowned me?"

He bit his lip. "Of course not."

She didn't buy it for a moment. She fixed him with her best schoolmistress stare, placing her hands on her hips and squaring her shoulders even more. The effect was ruined by her red nose and watering eyes. Poor Finch. She really was quite ill, and he almost felt sorry for her. But not quite. She had caused too much trouble.

He struggled to look contrite, however. One caught a Finch with honey, not vinegar. That much he'd learned. "I'm sure Ilya and Ikaterina are very sorry. They shall apologize just as soon as you come back to us."

"I am not coming back," she muttered, wiping her nose.

"Once you are well...”

"I. Am.
Not
. Coming. Back."

Now
the delight was fading. He was not getting anywhere with her. "What has come over you?" he demanded.

"Nothing has come over me sir. Unless it is my good sense returning at last,” she retorted.

"What is it you want? A raise? I'll double your salary."

Her usually full lips settled into a grim, stubborn line.

"Triple it, then."

Her lips all but disappeared, as did her eyes. "No."

"I'll raise your salary ten times over."

Her eyes widened, her lips parted, but she shook her head. "No. No. No."

"What is this about? The pups? I shall find someone else to exercise them. Though they love you, Finch."

"Love me? Are you blind as well as deaf? Those mongrels hate me."

"If they hated you, Finch, they would have pulled out your throat by now.”

She paled. "The sad thing is that’s probably true,” she muttered. “It is not about the dogs, sir. Not entirely, at any rate."

"Then what is it, damn it?"

"Do not
curse
, sir. I am simply choosing not to be your slave any longer."

"Slave?"

"Or serf. Whatever it is you Russians call it."

Oh, if she only knew how sore a subject she’d raised. Or how good she had it compared to the serfs he’d been born to rule. "You are my secretary."

"Secretary. Note-taker. Housekeeper. Accountant. Valet. Errand boy. Dog-sitter." She began to enumerate on the fingers of her free hand. "I run all over London on your invariably bizarre missions. I proofread your work, though I hardly understand a word of it. I solve all the disputes with your servants, despite barely understanding a word they say. I buy your clothes. I have even been forced to stitch your ... your ... unmentionables."

"No need for that, Finch. Throw them away. I hardly need to scrimp.”

She was not finished. "I make on average ten cups of tea a day for you."

"You've counted?"

Her scowl deepened. "I take shorthand while you interview psychopaths. I grade your students' exams. I... I...”

Her tirade was cut short by a violent sneeze, launching her spectacles to the floor. It was too loud a sound to come from her tiny frame, and she shook miserably from the effort. Belatedly, she wiped her nose and stooped to retrieve her spectacles.

He got to them first and handed them over. "Are you finished?"

She snatched her spectacles from his palm, glared at him, and fixed them into place behind her ears. "No, sir. Where was I? Oh, yes. You even leave me to finish with your mistresses for you!"

"Is that what this is all about? Your maidenly sensibilities are offended by your proximity to sinful women?" he quipped.

She sniffed. "Hardly."

"You're jealous, then," he continued. "It pains you to see the other women in my life."

It was a mistake. Her eyes narrowed, and he heard a low, fascinating growl issue from the back of her throat. "You conceited bas ..."

"No cursing, please, Finch," he said with provoking calm.

She growled again and started forward with one of her fingers extended. It poked him in the chest. “Ouch!” he said, though it didn’t hurt. Not a lot could hurt him.