A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  “Unclean? Why, you disgusting, odious—”

  “Don’t. Move. Cornelia.”

  The use of her name turned her to stone, and her gaze flew to his while the seriousness of the situation hit home with all the subtlety of a railroad spike between the eyes. He knew her. Damn and blast, this behemoth knew her. Her name rang in her ears while her heart slammed against her rib cage so hard she had no doubt he felt every frantic beat. This changed everything. This was no perved-up lurker out to bend someone over to get his jollies, nor was he a random thief eager to snap up a few shiny trinkets to make some quick coin. No. This man knew who she was.

  That was all sorts of bad news.

  Her stillness made him smile, but there was no humor in the vicious baring of teeth. “What an outstanding reaction. Your shock is sublime, better than I’d imagined.”

  “So you’ve imagined this moment, have you?”

  “More times than I can count.”

  That did not bode well. “Then it would seem you do indeed know who I am.”

  “Of course I know who you are. Cornelia Peabody, supposedly the daughter of some fictitious wealthy merchant from New York. But you are in fact nothing more than a common thief. As for myself, I am Roderick Coddington, Professor of Engineering at Cambridge University, who plans to use this deadly little weapon—” with a shifting of weight, something cold and hard snapped around her wrist, “—to make you pay for your multitude of sins.”

  Chapter Two

  “Well, well.” Cradling the teeny tri-barreled gun in his palm, Roderick leaned back against Cornelia Peabody’s desk. His position atop the vile woman had certainly been more comfortable, but that kind of comfort was something he needed like a case of the clap, so he’d forced himself away from her once his initial objective had been achieved. Not for all the gold in the world would he admit it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “Look at this tiny package. So small, yet such a dangerous piece of work.” Then he glanced over at the woman silhouetted in firelight. “Rather like you, now that I think of it.”

  For an answer, a low snarl growled from her as her gaze slid to the gun he now held. Cornelia Peabody really was a dangerous beauty. On the surface she was pure wood bait; his continued and persistent hardness was proof of that. Diminutive but perfectly proportioned, and the chill air had hardened her nipples to dagger-sharp points against the constraints of the corset. Silken wisps of her dark gold hair had escaped the prim snood at her nape to frame a porcelain-pale face now flushed with exertion. Not for a second did he believe that deceptive color was from embarrassment. She-demons like Cornelia Peabody probably didn’t know what a proper blush was.

  “I’m dangerous, you say?” Though covered in bitter frost, her faint Irish lilt sounded like music in his ears, and it irked him no end. Vipers should hiss, not have the dulcet tones of an angel. “I do believe you’re a tad confused. You’re the one who broke into my home and assaulted me.”

  Her stab at playing the victim made his stomach churn. “Don’t tell me you never thought this day would come.”

  “Pray tell, what day would that be?”

  “I thought it was obvious. This is your day of reckoning.”

  The words rang about the still room. Then she tugged at the gleaming gold shackle. “And to celebrate my day of reckoning, you give me a shiny bauble? Aren’t you a funny one.”

  “That bauble will bring about your reckoning, one way or another.”

  Her dark gaze sharpened before she examined the shackle more closely. “It looks like one of those wristlet things. A wristlet with a lock a child could pop.”

  “Feel free to do so. Of course, you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”

  Her veiled glance bounced to the Derringer in his hand. “I’m not a fan of wristlets. Wearing a timepiece on one’s wrist is so vulgar, I daresay.”

  “I care nothing for the whims of fashion. As for that shackle, it’s not a wristlet, though it is a timepiece. It just won’t tell you the time of day.”

  “Then what good is it?”

  “I assure you, it does me a world of good. For you, however, not so much.”

  The she-devil’s stillness was remarkable. Only her eyes were alive, clinging to him in a way he would have found enthralling if it had come from any other woman. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That timepiece locked onto your wrist is a rather clever invention of mine, if I do say so myself. Rather than telling the time, its purpose is to count down the minutes and hours to midnight, Christmas morning.”

  “What happens then? You give me a gift?”

  “What you get depends on you, little thief. If you do not comply with my demands, when the clock strikes twelve on the last Christmas morning of this century, that deadly timepiece will go off and you will experience your final moment of life. However, if you’re a good girl and do exactly as I say, that shackle will be nothing more than a harmless accessory—no doubt the only accessory in your worthless life you didn’t have to steal.”

  Something wild flared in her eyes, a cunning animal hidden beneath a civilized veneer. Then she lifted a shoulder in a show of helplessness. “Professor Coddington, I’ve now played your game long enough to come to one inescapable conclusion—you’ve got the wrong person. You keep referring to me as…as some sort of thief, but that’s silly. I’m an ordinary student at Boston University—”

  “The only time you’ve ever been to a school of any sort was to strip it of its valuables, such as Shakespeare’s 1594 Titus Andronicus. Stealing that was quite a coup on your part, I must say. Astonishingly impressive.”

  “I’m a mere woman—”

  “Who carries a Derringer wherever she goes? Spare me your protestations of innocence. You’re a crime wave in a corset.”

  Cornelia Peabody’s charmingly flustered expression flashed again with that hint of cunning animal before she turned her face to the fire. “If you’re so convinced of that, why haven’t you called the police?”

  “So you can run circles around them? Slip away with a helpless batting of your eyes? Oh, no, little thief.” He shook his head while watching the firelight paint intriguing shadows across her cameo-perfect face. “We both know you’re much too smart for the likes of them. Besides, what fun would it be if I couldn’t punish you personally?”

  “With this? A piece of jewelry?” The contempt dripping from her words was far more appealing than the helpless female act, Roderick decided. This, at least, was a glimpse of the real Cornelia Peabody. “You must think I’m daft to believe such a crooked tale of a killer timepiece, Professor Coddington. It’s so laughable I’m not even going to bother asking what it is you want of me. All I’m going to do is the one thing you undoubtedly won’t be able to tolerate. I’m going to ignore you and your ridiculous shackle of death.”

  “Then you’ll be dead in seven days, and I’ll get what I want.”

  “I thought you wanted me to dance to your tune.”

  “I’m happy either way.” He shrugged. “In fact, I’d be perfectly content if my invention malfunctioned and you dropped dead this very moment.”

  The honesty in his tone seemed to bother her far more than any of his threats. She turned back to consider him, that unnatural stillness once again settling over her while the fire popped and hissed in the grate behind her. Then her chin angled upward. “What is it you want of me?”

  He smiled. “It’ll be easier to show you. Get dressed.”

  Cornelia’s stomach was in knots as she sat beside her intruder in his horseless carriage, a sleek Locomobile Steamer with the latest enclosed cab. She studied him out of the corner of her eye as he guided his vehicle into Cambridge with expert ease. Despite her best efforts at bewildered innocence, she had known from the start there was no getting around him. This man had broken into her stronghold, found her hidden office, and somehow managed to convince her that the house was empty.

  Whatever else he was, this Professor Roderick Coddington was no ordinary
person.

  “I don’t understand how you hid the fire in my office, much less your presence,” she said as the thought finally crystallized. She glanced away from her brooding inspection of the puffs of steam belching from the Locomobile’s gleaming long hood to the man behind the wheel. “I have certain ways of detecting anomalies within my home, yet I didn’t detect you.”

  “You mean your periscopic setup? That was child’s play,” he said, and seemed to enjoy the momentary widening of her eyes. “I took celluloids of your office for a panoramic view and spent several days coloring them, down to the last book on the shelves. After they were finished to my satisfaction, it was easy to place them in front of the periscope feeding into your office.”

  Cornelia knew it was suicide to show the enemy any emotion, but that was hard to do when the man pulled the rug out from under her. “How…several days? But that would mean you’ve been in my office before this evening, and that’s…impossible. I would have known.”

  “You mean that warning flag system you have? Talk about child’s play.” The glance he sent her glittered with cool contempt. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’ve been going in and out of your house for the past month without you being the wiser. I chose to let you know about it now because it was the most expedient way of making you understand the seriousness of my intentions.”

  Cornelia managed to keep her jaw from hitting the floor, but only just. What was more, for the first time that evening she was afraid. Deep down afraid, so much so it made her earlier fear of being molested seem like a piddling concern. Because he had outsmarted her. Nobody had done that before. Did that make her an arrogant fool? No. It made him that good.

  Forget about this man being no ordinary person. There was no doubt now. Professor Roderick Coddington was the most dangerous man she had ever encountered in her misbegotten life.

  “Here we are.” They came to a smooth stop, and he turned to her with a hard smile. “Welcome to my home, Cornelia Peabody. Or perhaps I should say, welcome back.”

  With her defenses slamming up all the higher, Cornelia slid from her seat and looked up at the stately Georgian façade with a growing sense of dread. Well, well. Now things were beginning to make sense.

  Welcome back, indeed, Cornelia.

  This had been one of her more lucrative jobs. She had spent a solid month working out the schedules of the people housed within the venerable university property, memorized down to the square foot how much of her entry point, a back window leading to a mudroom, was visible to the neighbors. But the score had been worth the trouble.

  Or so she thought at the time.

  “Though it seems somewhat superfluous at this stage, allow me to show you inside.” Roderick rounded the vehicle and caught her elbow in an uncompromising grip. “I’m curious. How does it feel to be back at the scene of the crime?”

  “This is Cambridge University, yes? I’m sure I’ve never been here before.”

  A sound of contempt huffed out of him as he opened the front door and all but shoved her in. “I almost believe you mean that. After all, there have been so many places, so many victims. They must all blur together.”

  “How diabolical you make me seem.” With a practiced eye she took in the Tiffany chandelier overhead, the gleaming mahogany staircase, the Chinese rug covering the foyer floor. University treasures too big for her to have carried out six months ago. “Honestly, Professor. Do I really strike you as a criminal mastermind?”

  “More so than anyone I’ve met.” He took her cloak and hung it up along with his topcoat. “Do your best to keep your hands to yourself while you’re here. My mother hasn’t had a restful time of it recently, so there’s no need to bring further upset to this household.”

  “I suppose she would find it upsetting to discover her dear son Roderick has a murderous streak, wouldn’t she?”

  “Not if that streak was aimed at the thief who broke this family’s heart. And don’t feel free to address me as Roderick.”

  “Oh?” Just to see how far she could push him, Cornelia offered him a sweet smile with a dash of bitters. “What shall I call you, then? Rod? Roddy?”

  In a heartbeat he had her by the shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh as though his greatest wish was to shake her until her head popped off. With the breath backing up in her lungs she stared up at him, watching him wrestle with the twitchy violence she could sense prowling through him. In the serene light of the chandelier overhead she searched his classic, handsome face with deep-set eyes and a wide, mobile mouth with a defined indentation in his upper lip. Other than conservatively trimmed sideburns he was clean-shaven, and the sweep of his high cheekbones and smooth, squared-off brow combined to lend him a studious look that suited his profession well.

  Though she rather doubted his students had ever glimpsed the savage lurking beneath the dignified professor’s mask.

  “Lady,” he gritted at last, tossing the label out like an insult, “don’t imagine for even a moment you’re capable of toying with the likes of me. I’m no simple pushover you can have your merry way with. Is that clear?”

  She tried not to wince under his grip, and nodded. No, he was definitely no pushover.

  “Excellent.” With an abruptness that almost made her stumble he released her, then wiped his hands as though to rid himself of something dirty. “While we’re at it, let’s get another thing out in the open. It’s all I can do to stomach your presence, but hearing my name come from that filthy hole you call a mouth makes me want to forget I’m a gentleman and knock you on your pert little ass.”

  “I see.” The momentary flash of fear his leashed fury spawned was more than enough to cover the random thought that he’d noticed her bum. “Well then, let’s make a simple pact, shall we? You’ll call me Peabody and I’ll call you Coddington. No need for us to feign familiarity, now is there?”

  “No need at all, Peabody.” With an abrupt nod, he moved toward the staircase. “Now, allow me to show you the one room you never rifled through the last time you were here—my attic workroom.”

  With the cloak of violence still clinging to him like a tangible thing, Cornelia kept her mouth shut as she followed him up two flights to a spiral staircase leading to the attic. The blueprints she had managed to snag of this Cambridge University property had shown an attic that, once viewed from the outside, had clearly been converted to act as some sort of greenhouse-cum-observatory. Since her goals were neither roses nor celestial bodies, she had ignored the staircase six months ago, opting for her trademark signature of a surgical, speedy strike.

  Never had she imagined the easy ten-minute heist would be responsible for giving her such a headache now.

  “Though I had double panes installed, the greenhouse is still a bit chilly this time of year,” her hard-eyed host told her as he pushed through a door. “But we won’t be in here too long.”

  “I’m cheered to hear it.” A quick sweep of the room uncovered dormant planting beds and a few straggly Boston ferns on one side of the room, and a more enclosed work space on the other. Instinct told her this was Roderick’s personal space, complete with cluttered workbenches, a freestanding telescope near the windows, a sagging sofa with rumpled blanket and pillow, and for some reason a scorched dressmaker’s dummy. “Tell me, however did you stumble your way across my path? I’m curious as to why you’re so certain I’m your thief.”

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to that.” He shot her a grim smile. “I found a single footprint made by a custom-made leather moccasin outside the mudroom’s window—your entry point—and it led me right to you.”

  Damn and blast, the man had to be a Conan Doyle fan. “There you have it. Moccasins aren’t worn by anyone in Boston.”

  “The Boston Tea Party was initially blamed on the natives, but you won’t get away with that here. You are correct in saying it’s almost impossible to find such odd footwear in all of Boston, especially a moccasin in such a small size. But I did find a dotty ol
d shoemaker who specializes in custom jobs, including native footwear. You’ve been his loyal client for years, haven’t you, Peabody?”

  She swallowed a curse at how her desire to never leave a patterned, and therefore identifiable, footprint behind had actually tripped her up. “One does one’s humble best. By the by, you said you wanted to show me something, but so far I’m seeing nothing of interest.”

  “Perhaps that’s because you took everything of interest the first time around. Don’t bother denying it,” he added when she opened her mouth. “You wouldn’t have come along so docilely if you were innocent. An innocent person would have insisted on bringing in the police, but your determined lack of mentioning them make the authorities conspicuous by their absence.”

  He had her there. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

  “This.” With a dark enthusiasm that unnerved her, he led the way to a workbench and turned on an overhead light. “It took me five months to perfect this prototype’s design. I finally had success when I read about Edison’s more stable bamboo filament in his latest electric bulb. Once I had that final piece to the puzzle I was able to create this beauty, as well as its twin now locked to your wrist. What do you think?”

  Cornelia moved in for a closer look. It was a tiny clockwork, with an odd configuration of twin miniature pendulums on either side of the filament he had mentioned. Behind the swinging pendulums was a copper backing that seemed to glow with a strange bluish light. “What am I looking at?”

  “It’s a type of battery that gets its charge from perpetual motion.”

  “Perpetual motion is a myth. Rudolf Clausius’s laws of thermodynamics prove that categorically.”