His Clockwork Canary (33 page)

Her muscles screamed as she held tight to Wesley whilst Simon tried to haul him up.

Wesley stirred and suddenly he was pointing a gun at Willie with his free hand.

She was trying to save his wretched arse and he wanted to
kill
her?

He spared Simon a glance, then looked back on Willie. “You’re a traitor to Freaks,
Mina.”

“You’re a traitor to mankind,” Simon said, swinging the Remington Blaster over the
wall and taking aim. “Drop your peashooter into the drink, Wesley.”

“I have a better idea, Darcy.” He jerked out of Willie’s grasp and plunged, gun and
all, through the dark, through the air, into a watery grave.

Willie’s heart jerked as she heard the splash. At once a raging whirlpool erupted,
blasting them with icy water before fizzling into snowflakes. “Oh, God.” Willie collapsed
against Simon just as Gentry reined in.

“We good here?” the cowboy asked, flicking his gaze to the air skirmish.

“Willie’s in my care, as is the compendium,” Simon said. “You see to Strangelove.”

“One way or another,” he promised. “Don’t worry about Amelia or the engine. Meet you
back at the ranch, Darcys.” He tugged at the brim of his Stetson, then kicked the
horse into a dead run.

Willie turned just as feathered wings appeared and the horse and rider took flight.

Simon leaned forward, squinting into the dark. “Did I just see what I thought I saw?”

“Astonishing,” Willie said, her night vision enabling her to watch as the Sky Cowboy
navigated some sort of Pegasus into the ensuing sky battle.

“No wonder my sister’s smitten with the man. He owns a flying horse. Blimey.”

Emotions churning, Willie leaned into Simon. “I tried to save him. Wesley.”

“Yes, you did. We both did. He made his choice, Willie. Not you.”

“That’s just it. He was too selfish to choose death.” She glanced toward the Thames.
“I’m not sure that he perished, Simon. I cannot explain, but I don’t feel as though
Wesley’s gone.”

“Just as I would know if Jules was no more. I understand.” He held her close, kissed
the top of her head. “If he comes back into our life, we’ll tackle that obstacle together.”

She looked up at him and forced a small, brave smile. “Everything will work out.”

“Yes, it will.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth and she felt her world settling into
something good and right. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

“Not quite yet,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I have an adventure to pen and
I haven’t seen the end of the story yet.”

Huddled together against the wintry mix, they gazed up into the dazzling night as
the Sky Cowboy tussled midair with the Scottish Shark of the Skies.

“I do hope Phin doesn’t steal all of Gentry’s glory,” Willie said as their friend
roared by on some sort of kite flying contraption.

Simon winked down at her. “I hope he does.”

O
NE WEEK LATER . . .
M
C
S
TEAM’S
C
OFFEEHOUSE

“How did it go?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“It could have gone better.”

Simon squeezed his wife’s hand, then held out her chair as she sat across a table
from Phin. “Willie’s disappointed because the queen refused to recognize our marriage.”

Phin snuffed his cigar and regarded Willie with a furrowed brow. “You thought she’d
overturn a long-standing law just for you.”

“
No
, not just for me. For all Freaks.”

“We live in a country where people are still frowned upon or penalized for marrying
outside of their social class,” Phin said. “The kind of change you’re suggesting won’t
happen overnight.”

“I realize that,” Willie said. “I was just . . .
hoping
. Part and parcel of my new optimistic attitude.”

Simon smiled whilst signaling the server for two more coffees. “At least she didn’t
ban you from the room.”

“Aye,” Willie said as she removed her derby and smoothed her hair. “Although Queen
Victoria was wary of my race and the powers we possess, I confess she was most tolerant.
And, in the end, somewhat reasonable, although I wish she were more so.”

“I must say, I’m impressed that Gentry was able to arrange a private audience for
you,” Phin said. “Although it did take a bloody long week.”

“Apparently the queen spent the last few days deliberating with an adviser,” Simon
said. “Given her views on time travel and the Peace Rebels in general, I’m grateful
she didn’t act in haste and order the artifacts destroyed.”

“What did she decide?”

Simon waited until the server had placed two fresh cups and a small pot of aromatic
coffee on the table before plunging into what he considered to be a fantastic tale.
Never had he thought to meet Queen Victoria face-to-face, let alone receive a royal
invitation to share his sketches and plans for Project Monorail. Indeed, his shock
and elation were such he’d found it most difficult to fully concentrate on the legendary
submissions. Thankfully, Willie, Amelia, and Gentry had been present, keeping the
task at hand on track.

“Not so surprisingly,” Simon said, “although the queen believed the engine and compendium
to be worthy of submission for the Triple R Tourney, she did not deem a formal submission
wise. Publicly declaring the PR’s engine had not in fact been destroyed and that it
was indeed the original engine used by Briscoe Darcy? Governments across the globe
as well as assorted criminal kingpins would be vying to pinch the engine for God knows
what use.”

“So the queen and her adviser, the director of Her Majesty’s Mechanics,” Willie said,
“decided that the best course was to lock away the clockwork propulsion engine in
a secret vault, a royal vault. I cannot think of a better solution. It is safe. It
is sound. And it is no longer my responsibility,” she said. “I firmly believe my mother
can now rest in peace, and that is a great comfort to me as well as to my father.”

“What of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium?” Phin asked.

“Curious, that,” Simon said. “The director of HMM was not aware that the data of the
ACC had been divided amongst three disks. Apparently the agency is in possession of
one-third, compliments of guess who?”

“Thimblethumper?”

Willie nodded. “So now only one disk is at large and they believe that disk is in
the possession of Professor Maximus Merriweather.”

Phin drummed his fingers on the scarred table. “Did the director say? Is that what
they sent Jules to procure?”

“The director and indeed the queen were loath to talk about Jules and his mission,”
Simon said. “Frustrating to say the least.”

“The best news,” Willie said after giving Simon’s hand a supportive squeeze, “is that
Queen Victoria was most pleased that Tucker and Amelia convinced Captain Dunkirk to
hand over the antiquity he’d stolen from them. Leonardo da Vinci’s ornithopter will
be returned to the Italian government and that international incident will be put
to rest.”

“She was also pleased that Gentry apprehended one of Europe’s most wanted sky pirates
within a day of being commissioned to do so,” Simon said.

“And,” Willie said, her rainbow eyes sparkling with the sensation of it all, “she
agreed to consider pardoning Captain Dunkirk of his past crimes
if
he apprehended and delivered Lord Bingham to the director of Her Majesty’s Mechanics.”

“Dunkirk only made that offer to keep himself out of the Tower,” Phin said.

“Clearly,” Simon said. “But Dunkirk’s holding a colossal grudge against Bingham, and
Gentry, who seems to hold some sort of professional regard for the pirate, thinks
he’ll make good on the promise.”

“I’m still shocked knowing Strangelove and Bingham, a titled noble who actually owns
land near Ashford and who had designs on marrying Amelia, are one and the same,” Willie
said. “I will not rest until I know the whole of his story.”

“I’ll not rest until he’s crushed,” Simon said.

“Speaking of Amelia,” Phin said. “I thought they were going to join us.”

“I daresay Tucker’s not up to socializing,” Willie said. “He received news of his
sister this morning. Unbeknownst to him Lily had been aboard the dirigible transporting
Prime Minster Madstone across the Atlantic.”

“The airship attacked by Freak Fighters?” Phin asked.

“The same,” Simon said. “Without getting into the long of it, she was badly injured
and Gentry’s former ship’s doctor was pulled into the scene.”

“Doc Blue,” Phin said. “The Freak who betrayed Gentry and his crew.”

“The Freak who saved Gentry’s sister, returning her sight and her will to live. The
Freak who married her.”

Phin blinked. “So now Gentry’s wrestling with the knowledge that his little sister
married a dubious sort?” He snorted. “You just made my day, Darcy.”

“I have faith that it will all work out,” Willie said.

Phin toasted her with his coffee. “Compliments of your newly adopted optimistic attitude.”

Simon regarded his friend with intensified interest. “Willie has given her notice
at the
Informer
. She’ll be penning a memoir, a novel about the Darcys and our past and present adventures,
whilst working diligently, peacefully,” he said, squeezing her thigh as a private
reminder, “to advance the emancipation of Freaks. A cause I support. Meanwhile I’ll
be pouring my energies in advanced prosthetics and perhaps Project Monorail.” He raised
a brow at Phin. “And you?”

The man leaned back and regarded Simon a moment before speaking, a quiet connection
that knotted Simon’s gut. “I’m leaving for Australia this afternoon,” Phin said.

“Because we’ve lost touch with Jules?” Simon asked.

“Yes. And because Bella Caro’s ship went down in Queensland. Her pilot was killed.
She’s missing.”

“How awful,” Willie said.

Simon frowned. “The director of the HMM said nothing of losing his Freak surgeon.”

“Naturally,” Phin said. “Bella’s journey was unsanctioned.” He rose, kissed the back
of Willie’s hand, then gripped Simon’s shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

A moment later he was gone and Willie leaned into Simon. “I feel awful,” she said.

Simon took a deep breath, searched his mind, his heart. He listened to his gut and
heard nothing. “As it happens, I feel hopeful. I don’t know what’s going on with Jules,
Willie. I don’t know what he’s up to. But knowing my brother, it’s something great.”

Willie smiled, then stole a brief kiss before looking out the window and across the
bustling street. “I’m glad we decided to buy Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities.
Wherever Ollie Rollins is, I’m sure he’d be most pleased to know my father agreed
to step in as the proprietor. If anyone appreciates twentieth-century wonders and
historical oddities, it is Michael Goodenough.”

Simon wrapped his arm around his wife, marveling that he felt as though he’d made
his mark upon the world simply by focusing on family. “I’m glad your father agreed
to move back to Notting Hill. And I’m relieved the queen’s gratitude extended to securing
Ashford for my mother. We may not be legal, Willie, but we’re blessed.”

“Aye,” she said, smiling and leaning into his kiss. “We are blessed.”

G
REAT
B
RITAIN,
1887 T
HIRTY-ONE YEARS AFTER THE INVASION OF THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY
P
EACE
R
EBELS

“Could you have been any more rude?”

And here I was congratulating myself for being so astonishingly polite
. “Apologies, Mother.” Repressing her frustration, Miss Amelia Darcy endured her mother’s
disapproving glare—she was well used to it—and moved to the rear of Loco-Bug, the
family’s one-of-a-kind steam-powered automocoach. Stoking the coal in the firebox,
she simultaneously praised her papa’s ingenuity and cursed the extraordinary and unreasonable
price of gasoline.

Since the Peace War, only the very rich could afford petrol for everyday use. Others,
like Papa, hoarded such fuel for special occasions or, in his case, special projects.
She supposed she shouldn’t complain about their fickle and sluggish mode of transportation.
If her mother, who resisted anything relying on cogs, pipes, and belts, had her way,
they’d be traveling by horse and buggy. The woman feared progress as though it were
the plague. The only thing that vexed her more was her daughter’s emancipated mind-set.

Whilst Amelia replenished the boiler’s water supply, her mother stood by, tugging
on her fur-lined gloves, tightening the sash of her ridiculously frilly bonnet, and
arranging her thick traveling cloak to accommodate her portly frame. “I spent two
months cultivating a relationship with the dowager Viscountess Bingham,” she grumbled
under her breath, “and you managed to ruin my matchmaking efforts in less than two
hours.”

“Proof of my restraint. Otherwise we would have earned the boot much sooner.” Not
that Lady Bingham had physically shown them the door, but she’d certainly expedited
their exit.

Speaking of which, Amelia glanced over her shoulder and saw the dour-faced woman in
all her straitlaced glory standing on the front steps of the magnificent country estate
alongside her son—the Viscount Bingham. Decorum dictated that they oversee their guests’
departure, no matter how tedious the process. Whereas Lady Bingham was no doubt scandalized
by Amelia’s determination to fire up and drive a horseless carriage like an unrefined
commoner, she could feel Lord Bingham studying her every move. She knew he was fascinated
by her passion for aviation and flair for mechanics and somewhat amused by her father’s
Frankenstein version of an automocoach. Influenced by sketches of Bollée’s La Mancelle
and a time-traveling Mod’s psychedelic Beetle Bug, Papa’s hybrid, built from available
scraps, was a visual curiosity. However, to someone like Amelia, who had not experienced
life before the invasion of the Peace Rebels, Loco-Bug just was.

What really irritated Amelia was Lord Bingham’s keen fascination with her bountiful
bosom. Even the modest and hideously constricting visiting gown she’d donned to appease
her mother had not detracted from her bothersome “fine figure.” Most women would have
been flattered by his attention, she supposed, especially since Lord Bingham was a
man of great wealth and influence. But he was also an arrogant and crafty sod, and
it was for that reason that Amelia had striven to alienate Lady Bingham and her son
with her fervent utopian ideals. Influenced by the cautionary tales of the Mods, she
took her role in policing the fate of the world most seriously.

The steam engine finally puffed to life and Amelia burst with joy. The sooner she
distanced herself from Wickford Manor and the pompous Binghams, the better. She’d
been duped into believing Lord Bingham was a fellow utopian, a New Worlder. After
an hour in his company Amelia suspected he was, in fact, a Flatliner, someone who
cared only for his future—and not the future of mankind.

Learning that he’d employed an entire staff of domestic automatons had singed Amelia’s
bustle. How insensitive to purchase robotic domestics at a set cost when so many living,
breathing Vics were desperate for employment! It was just one of the things that had
soured Amelia on the man her mother had envisioned as her husband. Not that Amelia
had any intention of marrying. Ever. Why tie herself down when there was so much of
the world to see? Why bend to a man’s will and agenda when she possessed her own dreams
and goals? As she lived and breathed, someday she would pilot her own airship and
experience grand adventures! She imagined her exploits being reported alongside the
colorful escapades of the Sky Cowboy, an American outlaw who flew the fastest airship
in all of Europe. If only her mother would match her with that fearless aviator. Horrid
husband material to be sure, but since she had no designs on being a wife—ever—she
cared not about his notorious and scandalous reputation and only for his superior
knowledge in aeronautical engineering.

Sighing, Amelia shoved aside that whimsical scenario and helped her mother up into
the rear seat of the six-person cab. As the prim woman fussed and fidgeted, Amelia
gathered her own bothersome skirts, compounded by the added layer of her leather duster,
and climbed aboard the open-air driver’s throne. She pulled on her leather gauntlets
and tinted fur-rimmed goggles, then tugged her worn top hat, a gift from Papa, over
her blond coiled braids. Unfashionable perhaps, but comfortable. Sensible as well—which
was more than she could say for bustles and bonnets. Grasping the steering wheel,
she rolled back her shoulders, feeling deliciously in control. Why anyone would prefer
the role of passenger to pilot was beyond her imagination. Loco-Bug vibrated and puffed,
primed for action—same as Amelia. She would have smiled were she not conscious of
Lady Bingham’s scorn and her own mother’s disappointment; were she not repelled by
Lord Bingham’s lecherous attention, damn his eyes. “Are you going to glare at me for
the entire journey home, Mother?”

“Quite possibly.”

At least she knew what to expect. Unlike with Lord Bingham. She’d expected—or, perhaps
more accurately, hoped for—a tour of his collection of aerostats and aeronefs—flying
machines of all manner, each a technological marvel—but she’d never gotten farther
than the drawing room, and tea and watercress sandwiches. Her own fault, true. Still . . .
Blast
.

“You are a beautiful young woman, Amelia, in spite of your peculiar taste in fashion.
Well educated. Charming, when you strive to be. Yet you are twenty summers old and
without a husband.”

Smiling now, Amelia breathed in the crisp winter air and engaged the clutch, setting
them on a course for home. “Life is good.”

“Why in heaven’s name did you even agree to this meeting, only to sabotage it? You
could have saved me the humiliation by simply refusing.”

“If I had refused you would have pressured me until I relented,” she said reasonably
as they rolled through the ornate iron gates. “I know this, since you have tried to
match me six—”

“Seven.”

“—times before. This time I bypassed prolonged misery by giving in at the outset.”

“I would have preferred an outright refusal. At least it would have saved me the embarrassment
of being tossed from the grounds.” Her mother sniffed, and Amelia knew without looking
that she was using a dainty handkerchief to dab away tears. “Honestly!” she said,
choking back a dramatic sob.

Since her back was to the woman, Amelia indulged in a disrespectful eye roll. She’d
never outwardly insult her mother, but blooming hell, it was difficult to hide her
frustration. Anne Darcy possessed the extraordinary skill of crying at the drop of
a hat. It was a weapon she used quite often against Amelia’s father, Reginald Darcy,
a baron by happenstance, an inventor by choice, and it drove Amelia to distraction,
because her papa always relented. Always. Whatever Anne wanted, which was faithfully
more than was reasonable, given the family’s status and moderate wealth, her dear,
sweet, brilliant, yet ofttimes scatterbrained husband strove to deliver.

Amelia, who could scarcely remember the last time she’d cried, rarely put stock in
her mother’s tears. This time, however, she acknowledged a morsel of guilt. True,
she’d hoped to circumvent her mother’s nagging by giving in and agreeing to at least
meet with the viscount. But she’d also been driven by her desire to see and to perhaps
climb aboard his magnificent zeppelin.

Oh, to pilot an airship of superior design, one that stayed afloat for longer than
thirty minutes. Amelia had been obsessed with flying since she was a little girl.
Thanks to her papa, who shared her obsession, she’d had the opportunity to sample
the skies in his assorted flying machines. Unfortunately, like most of his inventions,
his aerostats malfunctioned with extraordinary regularity, and her flights were thus
often quite short.

“He was perfect for you, Amelia.”

Meaning Lord Bingham. Although she wished her mother would dismiss the thought, she
could not wholly disagree. His worldviews, or lack thereof, aside, she supposed he
was perfect in that she could discuss aviation with him for aeons and he wouldn’t
grow bored. He could expose her to advanced technology and she would be mesmerized,
but other than that, she saw no sense in the union. She did not love, nor was she
even physically attracted to the man—in spite of his handsome features. Not to mention
their extreme social and political differences. She didn’t bother to explain those
differences to her mother. She wouldn’t understand. As an Old Worlder, Anne expected
Amelia to conform to convention. She had no interest in technology or saving the future
from chaos and destruction. She wanted everything to move forward with the natural
march of time, the way things used to be, before the Peace Rebels.

As they chugged along, the vibrations from the engine invigorating Amelia’s good senses,
she cursed herself for giving in to her mother. For giving over to her curiosity regarding
Lord Bingham’s personal air fleet. Instead, she could’ve spent the morning assisting
Papa, who, day by day, had become almost psychotic in his mission to fly to the moon.
Although he’d promised not to tinker with
Apollo 02
(his second attempt at a futuristic rocket ship) until she returned, she didn’t wholly
trust his word or judgment of late.

“Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” Anne asked, sounding suddenly anxious to
return home.

“Regrettably, no,” Amelia said as Loco-Bug’s iron wheels rolled over the pitted, snow-dusted
road. As with most of the shires, Kent had fallen upon hard times, and the much-traveled
roads had fallen into ill repair. Not to mention that Loco-Bug was simply not made
for great speed. “For what it’s worth, the journey would have been half the duration
if we had taken Bess.” Her papa’s one-of-a-kind kitecycle. Unfortunately, among other
things, Anne Darcy was aerophobic.

“If people were meant to fly,” she said with a sniff, “we’d have been born with wings.”

If only
, Amelia thought with a wistful sigh.

They fell into a sullen silence. Really, what was there to say? Old Worlder and New
Worlder, fatalist and utopian, repressed and emancipated. They would never see eye
to eye. For the next hour they rode in tense silence—Amelia contemplating her papa’s
moonship obsession whilst her mother no doubt plotted her next marriage match.

A short mile from their home, Loco-Bug stalled for the second time in thirty minutes.

Anne ridiculed her husband’s automocoach as Amelia hopped out to inspect the engine.
Unlike her mother, she had faith in Papa’s inventions. Sometimes it just took a lot
of positive thinking and a bit of elbow grease. And in this case, a hair ornament.
Pulling a decorative comb from her braided hair, Amelia probed and unclogged a valve.
Though pleased when Loco-Bug coughed back to life, she glanced at the sky, thinking
how much more enjoyable it would have been to soar the seamless air as opposed to
driving along rutted roads.

A deafening boom blasted her eardrums, tripping her pulse and stealing her breath.

Pushing her goggles to her forehead, Amelia gaped at a large plume of smoke and fireworks
marring the near horizon—a mushrooming cloud littered with fragments of brass, iron,
and clockwork.

It came from Ashford. The Darcy estate.

Her mother gasped. “What in heaven’s name?”

Apollo 02
, Amelia thought, stifling a scream as she imagined Papa tinkering, then . . .

Please, God, no.

Refusing to think the worst, Amelia scrambled back into Loco-Bug, intending to push
the machine to its limits. Upon reaching Ashford, she would find Papa singed and discombobulated
but very much alive. She willed it with all her heart.

Amelia refitted her goggles, then engaged the clutch. “Hang on to your bonnet, Mama.”