His Clockwork Canary (5 page)

Someone tugged on Willie’s scarf, yanking her out of the past. “Are you with me or
not, Canary?”

She blinked up at Simon’s irritated expression and realized she’d lagged behind. Without
comment Willie brushed past him and ahead, spying the balding head of a man hunched
over a desk and tinkering with some geared gadget.

“Thimblethumper?” Simon asked whilst nudging her aside.

“What can I do for ya?” the elderly man asked without looking up from his work.

Simon slid him a piece of folded paper.

Thimblethumper set aside his tool and swapped one set of loupes on his cumbersome
spectacles for another. Even with the help of thick lenses, he squinted at whatever
was written on the page. His right eye twitched; then, after a tense moment, he looked
up and frowned. “Who are ya?”

“Simon Darcy.”

Thimblethumper clenched his jaw and narrowed his milky gaze. “And your friend?”

“Associate,” Simon amended without sparing her a glance. “Mr. G.”

“A Darcy, huh?” he noted, ignoring Willie. “One of
the
Darcys?”

“Fortunately or unfortunately,” Simon said whilst sweeping off his derby, “but undoubtedly.”

“Bane of my damned existence. The lot of you,” he said cryptically, then, “Close kin
to the Darcy who blew himself up recently?”

“That would be my father,” Simon said as he shoved an impatient hand through his hair.
“And to be more precise, he blew up a rocket ship and suffered the consequences of
said accident.”

Willie bristled. Even though Simon wasn’t looking at her, she knew that correction
had been lobbed in her infernal direction. As if she hadn’t done her research properly.
She had, by gads. It was Dawson who’d spun her words for the worse.

“Sorry for your loss,” Thimblethumper grumbled, then blew out a breath. “Guess that
means you’re related to Jules, which explains this list. Damned agency’s a pain in
my tookus,” the older man complained. “I’m retired.”

“But knowledgeable. I need to speak with one of these people. Can you help?”

Thimblethumper drummed his fingers on the dusty desktop, clearly perturbed, clearly
unwilling.

What people?
Which agency?
Willie ached to touch the reluctant merchant, to trace a memory and to snag a piece
of pertinent data, but with the deep desk and a mound of gadgets and tools between
them there was no clear and natural way. Unless . . .

Willie noted the time, then took off her gloves. She pulled her worn leather wallet
from the inner pocket of her coat and procured a tantalizing bribe. Strangelove had
provided her with a significant bankroll, finances to see her through the sabbatical
from the
Informer
, finances to advance his cause. “We’d be obliged if you could aid us in our search.”
As was her usual quandary as a reporter, she was fishing for facts in a dark and mysterious
sea. She had no idea who or what they were searching for—but Thimblethumper did.

She offered the money, hoping the exchange would allow her enough time to mentally
connect and time-trace. She was focused, prepared, but then Simon shifted, his arm
brushing hers. Her concentration shattered just as Thimblethumper snatched the money.
Had the merchant touched her at all? She couldn’t be sure. She’d been compromised
by the merest connection with Simon. Not that she’d seen into
his
memories. Just like when Simon had snatched her from the path of the automocoach,
when he’d rushed her into the alley and trapped her against the wall. She’d been too
aware of the present to connect with the past. Too emotionally unsettled. Too sexually
primed.

Pocketing the bribe, Thimblethumper trailed a finger down Simon’s list, a list shielded
from Willie’s view. “Dead. Missing.” He paused, then grunted. “Underground.”

“In hiding?” Simon asked.

“On the job.”

“Where?” Willie asked just as the bell above the door tinkled, announcing a new customer.

“Edinburgh.”

“I lived in Edinburgh,” she said, pulse tripping. “Where precisely?”

“Don’t know precisely.”

“Vaguely,” Simon pressed.

“Old Town,” Thimblethumper said in a gruff whisper, flipping up the visual loupes
and casting an anxious gaze toward the three shoppers perusing a nearby collection.
“Know this, Darcy. The Houdinians swore to protect and they kill to do so. Proceed
at your own risk.”

Before Simon could comment, before Willie could blurt her next question, the man veered
off and on to his potential customers.

“We’re done here.” Simon grabbed and stuffed the paper with the list of names into
his pocket, nabbed Willie’s arm, and guided her through the clutter, toward the exit.

Her curiosity and journalistic instincts demanded more information.
Who are the Houdinians?
What do they protect?
She spied the yo-yo. “One moment.” She snatched up the nostalgic toy. “Wait here,”
she said to Simon.
No distractions.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Willie said with a gallant and apologetic smile. “I am anxious
to purchase this toy for my brother. Fascinating, yes?” she asked whilst demonstrating
the “sleeper”—one of the only tricks she’d mastered, unlike her mother, who’d been
a whiz. Tempering a wisp of melancholy, Willie blinked back to the present and Thimblethumper.
“Could you tally my purchase, sir?”

Frowning, the man rushed back to his desk, utilizing the mechanical till as he named
a ridiculous price.

Dipping into her wallet once more, Willie passed over the cash. “An invigorating purchase,”
she said, noting the time on her cuff as she offered her hand in a proper gesture
of gratitude. “I thank you. For this and for your assistance regarding the other matter,”
she added, prompting Thimblethumper to reflect on the Houdinians.

Properly focused, the moment he clasped her palm, Willie traced Thimblethumper’s past,
a semimeditative trance where she experienced a portion of the “transmitter’s” life.
A vibrant memory. It felt as though she were there, but she was not. Seemed to last
for hours, but it did not. She blinked back to the present, blinked at her cuff watch.
She’d been away but five seconds. Registering that reality, Willie breathed easier
and backed away with her yo-yo, a location, and an exhilarating discovery.

Heart pounding, Willie caught up with Simon and prodded him toward the door. “
Now
we have what we need.”

J
ANUARY
12, 1887 K
ING’S
C
ROSS
R
AILWAY
S
TATION

Oddly invigorated after yet another insomnious night, Simon approached the platform
assigned to the Flying Scotsman. The newly enhanced (and somewhat famous) steam locomotive
would speed him and his confounding
associate
from London to Edinburgh on this cold and dreary day. Given the faithfully dismal
weather in Scotland, no doubt they’d be greeted with icy rain or a snowstorm by the
time they reached Waverley Station later this evening. Simon’s valet, Fletcher—bless
his vexatious, meticulous soul—had insisted upon packing as though Simon were visiting
Antarctica.

Tickets purchased and pocketed, Simon set his overstuffed traveling valise alongside
his booted feet and checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes to boarding. Surely the
Canary was already here somewhere. Given the sensational story waiting to be told,
and the fact that the journalist’s job was at stake, Simon had every faith the kid
would show. Perhaps he was purchasing fruit for the ride or a penny dreadful to help
pass the hours.

Simon searched the mob, looking for the dark-haired bohemian with his colorful scarves
and voluminous duster. The cavernous station served as the London hub for the Great
Northern Railway, and as such teemed with a goodly quantity of travelers. Voices of
passengers and vendors mingled and bounced off the vaulted ceilings and glass panes.
Iron wheels screeched. Steam engines coughed and hissed.

Simon vibrated with the thrill of the chase and a possible colossal triumph. One of
the three Houdinians—Jefferson Filmore—was living and working “underground,” protecting
something
, hopefully, possibly, according to his brother, the Briscoe Bus’s clockwork propulsion
engine. Simon hadn’t mentioned the precious and banned time-traveling device to the
Canary, but he suspected the pressman knew precisely what he was searching for, either
from research and deduction
or
from that curmudgeon Mod Tracker.

Shortly after leaving Thimblethumper’s the previous morning, Simon and Willie had
parted ways—but not before exchanging heated words. The infuriating pressman had refused
to share whatever specifics he’d learned from the retired Mod Tracker, saying,
I’d rather not risk you embarking on this expedition whilst leaving me in the dust,
Darcy.
No offense, but I don’t trust you.

Of all the cheek. Especially since Simon now suspected the kid of a colossal lie.

They’d agreed to take the rest of the day to prepare for the journey and to meet this
morning at King’s Cross Station for the ten o’clock express. Simon had visited his
bank as well as his solicitor. Once again, he’d avoided his gentlemen’s club, although
he had slipped into Lambert’s Literary Antiquities, owned by his trusted friend Montague
Lambert, who’d reluctantly allowed Simon to borrow his banned and now rare copy of
the Book of Mods. Simon’s own treasured edition had been pinched by someone at the
Institute of Civil Engineers, a personal violation that rankled to this day.

Sequestered in his home library, Simon had burned the midnight oil, reviewing the
fascinating compilations of futuristic sketches, essays, and cautionary tales, written
by a faction of the original Peace Rebels. He had searched every page, every sentence,
hoping to find mention of the Houdinians. There had been none, although admittedly
Simon’s mind had wandered time and again. He could not shake his intense and undeniable
physical attraction to the quirky pressman who irritated and fascinated him simultaneously
and beyond measure.

At least he’d managed to deduce that he was not, in fact, attracted to a boy. During
their parting row, Simon had taken intense notice of certain physical details. The
Canary possessed no stubble, no signs of shaving, and the kid was certainly old enough
to have facial hair. At one point the fabric of the kid’s scarf had slipped enough
to reveal a slender neck—no Adam’s apple. Not to mention the kid’s feet were overly
small for a man. The more he thought about it, the greater his certainty.

Willie G. was a fraud. A woman passing as a young man. But why? Androgynous? Gender
confused? Or perhaps simply motivated by a desire to excel in a man’s world, earning
a man’s wages and rights. Simon could think of a few reasons and he mulled over each
one. He also contemplated the niggling feeling that he’d met the Canary before. Something
about him . . .
her
. The way she’d exclaimed,
“Cheese and crackers!”
The vision of her finessing that yo-yo with shaky skill. Just prior to dawn and in
a state of delirious exhaustion, Simon had entertained a bizarre speculation.

The physical attraction he felt toward Willie G. was much like the instinctual and
intense pull he’d felt toward Wilhelmina Goodenough. Could they be one and the same?
The hair and eye color were wrong. The skin tone was off as well. Mina’s complexion
had been most pale, whilst Willie’s was ruddy. Mina had also been shorter in stature,
although, at sixteen summers, perhaps she had not reached her full height, or perhaps
Willie had inserted lifts inside her boots.

Willie had a slight Scottish lilt and a crude vocabulary, whereas Mina had spoken
eloquently—her most vulgar expression being the infamous “Cheese and crackers!” Then
again, Mina had moved to Scotland with her family. Depending on how long she’d lived
there, that could account for the odd and wholly undefinable accent of the Canary.
If they were, indeed, the same person. It boggled the mind, and yet Simon could not
rid himself of the possibility.

Another glance at his watch. Five minutes to boarding.

A newsboy appeared hawking the morning edition of the
London Informer
. Unable to resist, Simon purchased a copy. Just as he unfolded the wretched tabloid,
someone snatched it out of his hands.

The Clockwork Canary.

“You don’t want to read this,” the kid said.

“Oh, but now I must.” Simon retrieved the newspaper and focused on the front page.

EXCLUSIVE SCOOP—THE CLOCKWORK CANARY TO SING DARCY’S EXPLOITS!

The
Informer
’s star reporter has taken a sabbatical in order to chronicle the exploits of the
Honorable Simon Darcy, London’s most controversial civil engineer (and relation of
the infamous TIME VOYAGER), as he joins the Race for Royal Rejuvenation—now known
as the Triple R Tourney! The Clockwork Canary will record a firsthand account of Mr.
Darcy’s adventures, to be published in serial form upon completion of the expedition.
Prepare to be dazzled by tales of risqué romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue!
Will Mr. Darcy dazzle and deliver like his notorious cousin? Or, like his unfortunate
father, will his dreams go up in smoke?

Simon’s temper sparked and snapped like the malfunctioning turbine on the
Flying Cloud
. Strangling the Canary would only land him in prison—or worse. In addition, the blasted
pressman possessed knowledge that Simon very much needed. Tempering the urge to kill,
he glanced over the top of the paper at the red-faced sensationalist. “If I were a
violent man—”

“But you are not.”

“How do
you
know?”

The kid’s cheeks burned even brighter. “I’ve done my research. You have no prior record
or history of physical violence.”

“There’s always a first time.” Simon folded the paper and shoved it in under his arm.
He leaned in, glowering down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed, ruddy-skinned bohemian.
An intimidating move meant to allow him closer, intimate proximity. His body responded
in a familiar, intimate way. Bleeding hell.
Mina?

“I did not write it,” the kid gritted out. “That particular article, that is. My editor
assigned someone to take my place. Whilst I’m away. With you.”

Simon merely watched as the Canary fidgeted beneath her coat.
Her
coat. Oh, yes. He would bet his comfortable town house this pressman was indeed a
bird. And quite possibly his former betrothed. Question was, what was she playing
at?

“Did you purchase our tickets?” Willie asked as a whistle blew and a conductor invited
passengers on board.

“I said I would.”

Looking anxious to distance herself from Simon, she tightened her grip on her valise
and tugged down the brim of her floppy cap. “What car—”

“The same as mine.”

“Row—”

“Compartment.”

“But—”

“My expedition. My rules,” Simon said. “I don’t want you out of my sight, Canary.
Deal or no deal, I don’t trust you.”

•   •   •

Flabbergasted. That’s what she was. Flabbergasted, that fate could be so cruel. Jaw
clenched so as not to spew curses, Willie moved into the private compartment, a confined
area consisting of opposing upholstered bench seats, hinged doors on either side,
and windows affording a view of the passing scenery. The inner door snicked shut,
effectively trapping her within close quarters with Simon Darcy for the next nine
hours.

Gads.

Simon’s valise was already stored in an overhead rack alongside his neatly folded
greatcoat and dashing black derby.
He
was seated facing north.

Sitting next to the infuriatingly charismatic engineer was unthinkable. Sitting across
from him was nearly as daunting. She’d be forced to look at him for the entire journey.
Worse, he’d have a clear and close view of
her
.

Irritated, Willie eyed the rack over the empty bench and considered the difficulty
of hoisting her weighty carpetbag over her head.

“Need help?” Simon asked, sounding amused.

Had he known she was a woman, he would have taken her baggage even before they’d boarded
the train. Apparently, he merely thought her a puny-muscled bloke. At least her masculine
ruse was secure.
For now.
Feeling Simon’s eyes burning into her back, she plopped the bag on the end of the
bench and hunkered down next to it. “I prefer to keep my belongings within easy reach.”

His mouth quirked. “Might want to take off some of those layers,” he said, indicating
her outerwear. “It’s a long ride.”

“Mind your own comfort, Darcy,” she said, even as she broke into a sweat. “As to the
duration of this rail trip, if you had booked passage on a private or commercial airship,
we could have cut our travel time by half, if not more.”

“Look at it this way, Canary. More time to get to know me. I assume you intend to
pick my brain as part of your exposé.”

Interrogation was indeed part of her plan. Not only for the serialized account that
would ensure her position at the
Informer
, but as a way of learning more about Simon’s targeted invention of historical significance
in order to appease Strangelove and to protect her family. The task was daunting,
albeit exhilarating. “Indeed I do have questions,” she said as the train jerked out
of the station.

“As do I.” He leveled her with a hard stare that made her weak in the knees. “What
did you learn from Thimblethumper?”

Willie forced herself not to fidget or to look away. She’d spent most of the night
wide-eyed and weary with thoughts regarding Simon Darcy, many of them sexual. This
man had stroked her bare flesh. He’d made her body sing and soar. He’d made her weep
with the beauty of their tender albeit scandalous lovemaking. The memories were vivid
and mesmerizing and she’d spent several restless hours talking herself out of a rekindled
infatuation . . . and failing. In the hazy delirium of near sleep she’d concocted
a plan on how to deal with the man as well as her unwelcome yearnings. So far that
plan was floundering.

“I reserve the right to relay that information until such a time when I trust you
will not wing open the outer door of this compartment and boost me out upon the countryside.
Now,” Willie said, pulling off her gloves and procuring an ever-ready pad and pencil
from her coat pocket, “as to my questions.”

“After a nap.”

Willie blinked as Simon stood and shrugged out of his stylish frock coat. “But it
is midmorning.”

“I kept late hours.”

“Dallying with drink and women, no doubt,” she blurted.

Another infernal twitch of his gorgeous mouth. “No doubt.” He settled back onto the
cushioned bench, crossed his arms, and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes,
abandoning all talk, leaving Willie hot tempered and out of sorts.

For a moment she simply stared. No waistcoat. No cravat. No scarf. Just a white muslin
shirt with generous sleeves. How very Mod. The shirt lay open, exposing his neck and
a hint of his glorious chest. At once she remembered cuddling with Simon upon stolen
occasions. She recalled laying her cheek to that chest, hearing his heartbeat, smelling
the scent of soap mingled with a tinge of manly essence. Her face burned as she remembered
her youthful, brazen behavior. Adventurous, impassioned, she’d kissed his collarbone,
his chin, his stubbled jaw, his . . . “Blimey,” she murmured, jerking her gaze from
Simon’s mouth.

“Problem?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“It’s blooming suffocating in here.” Willie sidled over to lower the outside window.

“It’s freezing out there,” Simon said, guessing her intent. “Take off your blooming
coat.”

Indeed, Willie was perspiring most uncomfortably. Between the binding, her layers
of clothing, and her sizzling thoughts regarding the night she’d seduced Simon into
taking her innocence, she would like nothing more than to stick her head outside in
an effort to shock her system. Clearly, she was sleep deprived and delirious.

Definitely cranky.

She wrenched off her long wool duster. She shed her mismatched sack coat as well.
What could it hurt? Every piece of clothing on her body bagged to conceal her feminine
assets. Her trousers, her shirt, her blue velvet waistcoat—all garments one size too
large. Plus, she’d bound her breasts tightly so she appeared as flat as a crepe.