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How was she supposed to react to that? How was she to know when he acted all interested one moment and then walked out on her the next?
    It wasn’t her fault Jack had sent her flowers. She hadn’t asked for them. In fact, the prat had probably sent them knowing it would irk Griffin.
    It was enough to make a girl wonder if there was something wrong with her—and Finley had had quite enough of that already, thank you. So if Griffin wouldn’t acknowledge her on his own, she’d make him.
    People stopped to stare at the two of them as they strolled down the dusty sidewalk, putting Finley on her guard. It was a sunny day with a light breeze, which unfortunately carried the smells of this part of the city on it. Behind run-down buildings, clothing fluttered on battered lines. Some of those items were so grimy they barely looked washed at all.
    Someone here had to know how to find this Dalton fellow, who was apparently a friend of Jasper’s. When Griffin had returned from the Tombs that morning, he’d said he’d run into a lawman who’d claimed that Jasper may have returned to his former lawless ways. That Jasper might have been responsible for a man’s death in California. Finley didn’t believe it. Oh, she had no doubt Jasper had his own sense of right and wrong—just as she often did—but he wasn’t a killer. Not without reason. If Griffin was going to give up just because of a murder suspicion, then he should have tossed her out when Scotland Yard believed she killed Lord Felix, a fellow who had attacked her.
    Finley and Emily defended Jasper, much to Sam’s chagrin. It was no secret Sam was jealous of how the cowboy flirted with Emily. Couldn’t the brute see how much Emily adored him? Finley didn’t understand it, but it was obvious to everyone but Sam that Emily loved him.
    Regardless, when Griffin had said that he and Sam were going to see what they could find out about Dalton, Finley had taken his attitude and the fact that he’d refused to make eye contact with her to heart and decided to do a little detective work of her own. Emily, of course, had refused to let her go alone.
    “Do you think the lads are here, as well?” Emily asked, glancing about.
    Finley was busy trying to catalog everyone watching them. “Dunno. I’m more concerned with us at the moment, Em.”
    Her friend glanced at her, face even paler beneath her freckles. “Do you think we’re in danger?”
    “I think we’d be idiots to assume otherwise,” she replied, oddly calm. This was one of the things she had to accept when Griffin began the process of helping her merge the two aspects of her personality. She thought things now, did things that she wouldn’t have before. So being cocky yet anxious in the face of potential danger was new to her—and most inconvenient.
    Slowly, she nudged her small friend toward the center of the square. She’d rather be out in the open than risk being hauled into a building or alley. These people weren’t the sort to shoot someone in cold blood; they were fist-and-blade sort of people—the kind that took killing personally. There was more honor in meeting a foe toe-to-toe than picking them off from a distance.
    She could respect that. She was also thankful for it.
    “You girls don’t belong here” came a thick Irish brogue. Both Finley and Emily turned toward the voice. It belonged to a young man, not much older than themselves. He was tall and thin, his dark auburn hair glinting in the sun. His shirt and brown trousers had been washed so many times they were both a muddy color and mended in several spots. Still, he stood there like he owned the place.
    Cheeky bloke, Finley thought. “We’re looking for someone,” she told him.
    His eyebrow jumped at her voice. “There be no one you want here, English,” he informed her in a mocking tone.
    Finley smiled coolly. “I haven’t even told you who it is, Irish. ” She kept her gaze focused on him, but her peripheral vision was filled with