His Clockwork Canary (6 page)

Or a boy.

As long as she maintained her slouching posture, blunt vocabulary, and lowered pitch,
she could maintain the ruse. She’d fooled thousands of people over ten long years.
She could fool one ancient lover.

Breathing somewhat easier, Willie tugged off her cap and sleeved sweat from her brow.
Looking over her shoulder, it appeared as though Simon had indeed drifted. She heaped
her coats upon the rack, although she laid her cap nearby and kept her long purple
scarf looped around her slender neck. She did not, under any circumstances, want to
fall prey again to staring at Simon’s person and fantasizing.

Distraction was vital.

Carefully, quietly, Willie dipped into her carpetbag and procured her cherished Book
of Mods. She’d painstakingly re-covered the journal and its treasured contents so
that it appeared to be a novel written by Mary Shelley.

“
Frankenstein
?”

Willie started as Simon shifted to her side and snatched the book from her hands.
Her heart thudded due to his close proximity and the delectable smell of soap. “I
thought you were sleeping.”

“Resting.” He flipped through the pages. “Biological and nuclear weapons? Civil rights
riots? Antiwar protests?” He cut her a glance. “Monstrous indeed, but not Shelley.
Where did you get this?”

“I own it.” She snatched back the one thing her mother had bequeathed her and hugged
it to her chest.

“The reprinting and selling of that book was outlawed long ago.”

“It’s a first edition and I did not buy it. Nor did I pinch it,” she added, striving
not to squirm under his intense regard.

“The content is considered dangerous.”

“Old Worlder propaganda,” Willie said with a snort. “Considering the progressive nature
of Project Monorail and your family’s fascination with futuristic marvels, I’m surprised
you don’t own a copy of the Book of Mods.”

“I did. Until someone pinched it.” He nodded to the book. “Pleasure? Research?”

“I was looking for a mention of the Houdinians.”

“You won’t find it.” He thumped a finger to the spine. “This was the source of my
restless night.”

He’d spent the night with a book, not a woman? She shouldn’t care, but she did. She
almost smiled. “You said your copy was stolen.”

“I borrowed one from a friend.”

Still clutching the book and the hidden keepsake inside, Willie unleashed her curiosity.
“What do you know about the Houdinians?”

“That there were three. That one is dead, another missing, and”—his lip twitched—“the
last one underground.”

“Where did you get the list?”

“Classified.”

“I know the third name, the man we’re looking for in Edinburgh. Jefferson Filmore.
I learned that much from Thimblethumper.” She learned much more, but, for now, chose
to withhold the information. Instead, she sought to pick Simon’s brain in hopes of
filling some mysterious gaps. “What are the other two names?”

“Classified.”

Willie snorted. “Top secret? Do you moonlight as a spy, Darcy?”

“No. But I know someone who does.” He angled and leaned back, his arms folded over
his chest. Apparently he would not be returning to his own bench seat any time soon.
“What else did you learn from Thimblethumper?”

“That the Houdinians protect an engine. The engine that catapulted the Briscoe Bus
through time. Although of course that can’t be true.”

“Because according to legend—”

“And the Book of Mods.”

“—the Peace Rebels destroyed the bus soon after arriving in this century.”

“In order to prevent anyone from using it to hop into yet another dimension and creating
further havoc.” Willie had heard the story a million times.

“What if they destroyed the bus, but not the engine?” Simon asked.

“But they did. They blew up the entire time-traveling vehicle, including the clockwork
propulsion engine.”

“How can you know that for sure unless you were there?”

Because her mother had witnessed the detonation and explosion firsthand.

When the fire died out, the Briscoe Bus was nothing more than a burned-out, melted
mass of charred metal.

Willie shook off the memory of her mother’s voice, her face. “Why would they salvage
the engine?”

Simon shrugged. “Insurance? In case they wanted to return home? The bus was but a
shell, easily re-created by many a skilled Vic or Mod. But the engine . . .”

“Was as unique as the one built and utilized by your distant cousin Briscoe Darcy.
A significant invention indeed,” Willie said. “But the original time-traveling engine
is trapped in the twentieth century and therefore unattainable.”

“It would take a miracle,” Simon said.

Willie narrowed her eyes. “I have never heard of the Houdinians.” And her mother had
told her and Wesley many a tale about the 1960s, as well as the Peace Rebels’ mission.
“Thimblethumper mentioned an agency. What agency? And he mentioned your brother, Jules.
As if he was somehow connected.” She frowned, considered. “The spy you spoke of. Is
it your brother? A decorated war hero would no doubt qualify. Although one would think
his injured leg a hindrance.”

“Fascinating.”

“What?”

“The way your mind works. You’re quite clever, Canary. Undoubtedly gifted in finessing
people to talk about themselves or to perhaps unintentionally share information.”

She averted her gaze, returned her BOM to her carpetbag. “It’s a gift.”

“What else did you learn from Thimblethumper? Something specific to Filmore’s whereabouts?”

Indeed she did. She eyed the outer door and the scenery whizzing by as the train chugged
north.

“I’m not going to toss your bloody hide once you tell me,” Simon said, losing patience.
“Who would write my dazzling tales of risqué romance, high drama, and nail-biting
intrigue?”

She smirked. Just then the train lurched, and off-balance, Willie toppled into Simon’s
lap.

He steadied her by her forearms, his strong hands searing her skin through the thin
fabric of her shirt. He searched her face, her eyes. “Who are you?”

Willie blinked into his mesmerizing gaze. “Don’t be daft. You know who I am.”

“Do I?”

“The Clockwork Canary.”

His gaze slid to her mouth. “I venture you are more than you seem.”

Willie’s heart fairly burst through her ribs. He suspected her true gender. He would
not hold another man this close for so long. At least he did not know her true identity.
Instead of shielding her kaleidoscope eyes with green corneatacts, she’d switched
to brown. Her hair was chopped short and now black, not cherry red. And she’d darkened
her pale skin, at least all visible skin, using a Mod-enhanced lotion that she’d bought
on the black market, a tanning agent called QT.

“Ever kiss a man before, Canary?” Simon asked in a low, dangerous tone.

“No,” she lied, deciding to brazen it out. “You?”

“No.” He righted her then and pushed to his feet, looking down at her as though he
couldn’t decide whether to ravage or throttle her. “But there’s always a first time.”

With that, he nabbed his frock coat and exited the compartment, leaving Willie alone
with her traitorous yearnings and sizzling blood. “Cheese and crackers,” she whispered
in her own higher-pitched voice, lowering the window and pressing her face into the
icy fierce wind.

Tales of risqué romance, indeed.

W
ICKFORD
M
ANOR
K
ENT,
E
NGLAND

Strangelove.

The name echoed in his ears along with the tinny grunts emitting from Renee, his voluptuous
robotic domestic who doubled as his housekeeper and sex servant. Taking the lifelike
automaton from behind, he envisioned two very human women—both vexing in nature, both
whetting his sordid appetite. Miss Amelia Darcy and Miss Wilhelmina Goodenough. The
latter more easily manipulated and most fresh in his devious mind.

Ridding Miss Goodenough of those mannish clothes would have pleased him. Feasting
his eyes upon her naked flesh. Forcing her onto her knees. Bingham had never fornicated
with a Freak. Surely it would be more stimulating than pumping the greased and geared
Renee. The automaton, though fetching in face and figure, was far too submissive.
Surely a Freak, especially one as feisty as Miss Goodenough, would put up a fight.

The mere thought of a struggle in which he would dominate triggered an explosive release.
With a guttural growl, he smacked the synthetic flesh of Renee’s lush arse and shoved
her face forward upon his massive bed.

Without a word, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Still and naked.
Quiet and waiting for her next order. In many ways, Renee was the perfect woman. Especially
for a man with sadistic fetishes. Most especially for a man who despised opinionated
women with utopian ideals. New Worlders like Amelia Darcy.

“To think I’d contemplated marrying that outspoken liberal,” he said aloud, then sneered.
“Although I would not mind taming her.” Not wanting to obsess over the female Darcy
and her role in the Triple R Tourney, he fondled Renee’s pleasing assets whilst contemplating
the latest developments in London.

“Maintaining anonymity and multiple aliases is essential to my well-being and master
plan,” he said to the cold-skinned robot. “But I confess I sometimes wish that I had
a confidant. Someone with whom to share my assessments and brilliance. My impatience
and frustration.”

“Confidant,” she repeated in a monotone. “The Dowager Viscountess Bingham.”

“Ah, yes. Mother. Indeed I trust her with my secrets, but her intrusive manner and
incessant nagging grows tiresome.” He rolled to his side and propped on one elbow,
looking down at Renee’s attractive albeit engineered face. “I, Lord Bingham, viscount
and visionary and, it might be said, nefarious entrepreneur, appoint you, a programmed
minion and acceptable lover, as my number two confidant.” He quirked an arrogant grin.
“I do not know why this did not occur to me before, as
you
, my dear, are the perfect sounding board.”

“Sounding board,” she said. “Experiment to test new idea.”

“Indeed. Let us see how you do. I shall now sound off, as I have much on my mind,
much to assess. I would ask that you at least nod occasionally to indulge my venting.”

She nodded.

“Well done.” Bingham smoothed a hand over his impeccable hair and considered the last
two days filled with surreptitious deeds. He was most pleased and impressed with his
efforts. “Given the nature of my ambition, I am not often at liberty to conduct business
as myself. I’ve been
Mars
as well as
Strangelove
for two different yet connected reasons: to dominate the global market of Modified
products. Weaponry, communications, and transportation. Thus far, my plan is on target.
Although this latest trip to London taxed my patience on many levels. Shall I tell
you why?”

His number two confidant nodded.

“Let us start with Aquarius.”

“Eleventh astrological sign in the zodiac, originating from the constellation Aquarius,”
Renee recited from her data resource implants. “Age of Aquarius. Mod terminology pertaining
to period of transition—inventions, machines, worldwide organizations, international
collaboration, and the fellowship of humankind.”

“Or in this case,” Bingham said, “a secret society, comprised of nine titled men of
science and industry, united in an effort to embrace and cultivate Mod technology.
Men of peace, all but me, yet they plot to assassinate the queen. A nasty but necessary
endeavor.”

“Queen. Queen Victoria—”

“A simple nod would suffice.” When she complied, Bingham pushed on, his annoyance
rising. “Queen Victoria remains rigid and polices progress with an iron fist. She
continues to blame the Peace Rebels for the death of her beloved Prince Albert, banning
time-traveling devices and other Mod products. As if by slowing time, she could go
back in time,” he snapped in disgust. “Romantic rubbish.

“The divide between Old Worlders and New Worlders widens by the day,” he went on.
“Meanwhile, a Freak rebellion brews in the background. Astonishing that an altered
race believes themselves worthy of equal rights,” he said with a derisive snort.

Renee jerked her head right, narrowed her eyes.

By Christ, had he hit a nerve? Automatons had no nerves. No feelings. Surely he was
mistaken.

“Old Worlders,” she said. “Conservatives who shun futuristic knowledge and the technology
that, according to the Book of Mods, steered mankind toward the brink of destruction.
New Worlders. Liberals. Utopians. Knowledge is power.”

“Indeed. And knowing what ‘could be,’ they choose an alternate path, using technology
only for good. Or so they profess.” A staunch Flatliner, Bingham cared only about
what futuristic knowledge could do for him. As far as he was concerned, this assassination
was long overdue. The sooner Her Majesty Queen Victoria bit the dust, the sooner his
rise to global industry kingpin. Stacking the odds in his favor, Bingham had set his
sights on personally traveling into the future in order to garner progressive ideas
beyond the scope of the Book of Mods or the elusive and legendary Aquarian Cosmology
Compendium. If
any
one had a whit of information regarding time travel, logically and historically it
would be a Darcy.

Bingham fell back on the bed, bored with Renee, who struck him this moment as little
more than a voluptuous encyclopedia. Of course she couldn’t understand the magnitude
of his handiwork. Exhausting civil measures, he’d employed drastic tactics, establishing
himself as the anonymous benefactor of the Race for Royal Rejuvenation. Unbeknownst
to the Jubilee Science Committee, they’d aided Bingham in pushing Lord Ashford’s offspring,
as well as multitudes of other adventurous and greedy souls, into action. True, any
number of people could possess vital knowledge pertaining to the outlawed time machine,
particularly an original Peace Rebel. Although most of the PRs were dead or in hiding,
he’d employed Mod Trackers to sniff out the whereabouts of Professor Maximus Merriweather—a
twentieth-century physicist and cosmologist and the most qualified contender. As for
the Darcys, Bingham had eyes and ears everywhere. Including Wilhelmina Goodenough.

He smiled as confidence and arrogance pumped through his blood, fueling a fantasy
and the swelling of his shaft.

Rolling on top of Renee, he pinned the automaton’s hands above her head. “You serve
me well, number two.” He entered her swiftly, and looking into her vacant eyes wondered
what it would be like peering into the kaleidoscope eyes of Miss Goodenough. He imagined
and indulged most vigorously.