just want to see him,” Griffin replied, pulling open the door. “I want to hear his side of the story.” He ignored the other remark—partly because Sam didn’t know what he was talking about and partly because the lout was right. Jasper was his friend and someone had taken him. Griffin didn’t like that.
“There’s a chance you won’t like what he says.” There was no censure in Sam’s tone, only caution.
Griff nodded, his jaw tight. “I know.” And that was why he had to see his friend. He had to know the truth before he decided whether to come back one evening and use his abilities to blow a hole through the side of the building to get Jasper out. After what happened during their battle with The Machinist, he was certain he could do it, but only if Jasper was innocent.
And he had no doubt his friends would help—even Finley, whom he hadn’t seen since last night’s fiasco in her room. He supposed he owed her an apology for his behavior, but he wasn’t the least bit sorry for any of it—only that he’d noticed the bloody flowers in the first place. But that wasn’t important right now. He pushed all thoughts of Finley aside and concentrated on the matter at hand: Jasper.
The inside of the jail was no more inviting than the outside—less so. It was doubtful that anyone here would be impressed by his title. There were men in shackles or body bonds—bands that clamped both arms tight to a person’s side so they couldn’t move them. They were accompanied by lawmen, some of whom had automaton companions for extra muscle. Griffin noted that Sam—who had been brutally attacked by a machine—didn’t seem overly bothered for once by the metal men.
Griffin approached the counter and the tired-looking man behind it. “I beg your pardon, but I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
The man raised a gray brow and stared at Griff with tired eyes. “And who would that be, Your Highness, the Queen of Sheba?” Then over his shoulder, “Hey, Ernest. You seen the Queen of Sheba?”
A portly man with thick mutton sideburns chuckled as he turned a wheel on the wall, closing a heavy iron gate beyond the counter. “Not recently, George.”
It took all of Griffin’s will not to roll his eyes. Sam, however, was not so amused. “Watch your tongue, troll. Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Sam…” Griffin warned.
George’s expression of wary amusement faded, replaced by a scowl Griffin recognized as the offended pride of a little man with too much power. “No, I don’t know, and I don’t care. But you watch your tongue, mister, or I’ll lock you up.”
Hands curled into fists, Sam took a step forward, violence promised in his posture and expression. Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm, his gaze directed at the man behind the counter. “Excuse us.” He pulled Sam aside. “What the devil is the matter with you?”
Sam glared at him. “He can’t talk to you like that.”
“My title is worth very little here, Sam. He doesn’t care who I am, and he can speak to me however he likes. You getting angry is just going to make him all the more obnoxious or, worse, get you locked up, as well.”
“I’d like to see the bounder try.” There was a gleam in Sam’s dark eyes that usually meant trouble.
Exasperated, Griffin let go of the larger boy’s arm. “That would be a great plan if we knew for certain Jasper was here—and that he was innocent. But if you want to get arrested, go ahead. I’ll go back to the hotel and explain it all to Emily.”
That took the fight out of Sam’s expression. “Right. We’ll do it your way, then.”
Griffin clapped him on the back. “Good man.” He turned back toward the desk and discovered that his place had been taken by a man in a long duster coat and a hat much like the one Jasper usually wore. The sight of him made Griffin reluctant to make his presence known to the guard once more. He didn’t think cowboys were much more common in New York than they were in London.
Sam stopped, as well, and the two of them shared a glance before turning their attention to the stranger and what he was saying.
“Excuse me, friend, but I wonder if you might be able to give me some information.”
Griffin watched out of the corner of his eye as the cowboy offered George what appeared to be several dollars.
The guard took the money and gave the man a gap-toothed smile as he tucked the bills in his pocket. “Happy to do what I can, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a young fella by the name of Jasper Renn. Is he here?”
Sam and Griff exchanged another look as George flipped through the sheaths of papers in front of him. After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted his head. “Nothing. Nobody by the name Renn here.”
“You’re certain?” Even though Griffin couldn’t see the man’s face, he knew he was frowning. “I heard he was being transported to New York City from London.”
George shrugged. “He wasn’t brought here.”
Griffin swore under his breath. “This is bloody marvelous,” he muttered, turning so the man wouldn’t hear.
“You think maybe he changed his name?” Sam whispered.
Griffin shook his head. “Jasper Renn’s his real name. That’s the one the men who came after him used—the name that was on the poster.” Maybe it was an alias, but it was the name the men would have used to lock him up.
“Then where the devil is he?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I have no bloody idea.”
The cowboy was talking again, so Griffin turned his attention back to him and the helpful George.
A tanned, slightly callused hand thrust a card toward the guard. “Name’s Whip Kirby. I’m a marshal from San Francisco.” His voice was strong, as though he wanted to be heard.
That was where Jasper was from. A marshal. So he was a lawman, then. Had he been sent to pick up Jasper and perhaps take him west? If so, where was Jasper?
“I’m not sure I can offer any further assistance, Marshal.” George’s tone and expression were wary now—as though he thought Kirby might ask a favor.
“Probably not, friend,” the lawman drawled. “But if Renn should happen to show up, perhaps you’d be so kind as to send word to me at this address.” He slid a card across the desk on top of more bills. “I’d be mightily obliged.”
George’s eyes lit up at the prospect of perhaps relieving the marshal of yet more money. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, sir.”
Kirby tipped his hat. “Thank you.” He turned to leave.
“Say,” George said, stopping him. “What’s this Renn done, anyway?”
The lawman paused. “I want to talk to him about a murder that took place a couple years ago in San Francisco.”
Sam’s elbow struck him hard in the ribs, and Griffin had to swallow his pain rather than voice it aloud. He shot his friend
