His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  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.

  Si
mon’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.

  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.”