Like Clockwork

by Bonnie Dee

  Like Clockwork

  By Bonnie Dee

  Victoria's work with automatons has gained her renown and changed the face of London. But her concern that the clockworks are taking too many jobs away from humans, creating social unrest, is ignored. Given the ugly mood of the underclass, she fears more outbreaks of violence similar to the murder spree of the notorious Southwark Slasher.

  Dash, unemployed thanks to the clockworks, has pledged fealty to The Brotherhood, a group determined to bring about the downfal of the automatons by any means necessary. His plan to kidnap Victoria goes awry when the unorthodox scientist pledges her assistance to their cause.

  Despite their opposite social classes, a bond grows between them, and Victoria begins to feel emotions she never expected for the passionate Dash. But when the Slasher strikes close to home, Dash and Victoria realize that the boundaries of polite society are far from the only threat to their happiness...

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  Dedication

  To my mom, who at one time drove a bookmobile in rural areas.

  She never imagined a day when an entire library could fit on an electronic reading device.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  London, 1898

  If he slit the body from sternum to groin and peeled back the flesh, he could see what made a woman tick. If he probed a little deeper into that steamy, sticky mess, he could remove her pulsing heart and examine it. Maybe at last he could understand what made him different.

  Precision. That was the key. Each cut, each motion must be meticulous, fol owing a careful order he'd designed for himself. It was akin to a schematic, an exquisite plan. Unfortunately the insides of a woman were so messy. There must be a way to suction off the blood. He should figure that out. It would make his work so much easier.

  He watched the woman's eyes as she beheld her beating heart in his hand and continued to gaze into them until they went from wide and horrified to blank and glassy. Then he knew her workings ticked no longer.

  He positioned her body in his pre-arranged pattern, keeping her heart for himself. Removing his gloves, he packed them into his black satchel and clicked the latch closed. He rose, removed his smock and stowed it too in the case. Then he checked his overcoat for traces of blood--wouldn't do to take the messiness away from the scene with him. After brushing away a spot of dirt from the broadcloth, he decided he was in as pristine a condition as when he'd arrived. He strode away from the sprawled body in the al ey, swinging his satchel lightly and whistling a tune.

  It was a pleasant night and he had accomplished much.

  Chapter One

  Late for her appointment with the Commission for Animatronic Affairs, Victoria desperately searched her overflowing desk for the files she'd intended to present today. How was it possible she'd mislaid them? True she wasn't the most orderly person, but she wasn't that careless, especial y not when her proposal was so very important.

  She practiced her speech aloud as she continued to look for the file.

  "Gentlemen, I address you today not as a scientist, inventor or col aborator on the Automaton Project, but as a concerned citizen of this fair country. In the past few years, amazing technologies have brought us to the brink of a new world. I myself have been a part of that movement, a member of the creative team that developed the labor-saving automatons. But while there are many useful applications for the machines, should we plunge over the edge of a precipice without looking? As society becomes increasingly dependent on the animatronic workers, we must ask ourselves--at what cost?"

  Heartfelt as her words might be and as unblemished as her credentials were, given that she was one of the inventors, Victoria's presentation would be useless without evidence to back up her claims. Where was that damnable file? A glance at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist told her it was later than she'd thought. She cursed again and hurried from the room.

  Her butler waited in the front hal with her hat, coat, handbag and umbrel a. He bowed with mechanical precision and offered them to her. "Madam, you are leaving the house seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds later than the time required to reach your appointed destination by rail car. There is a ninety-nine point nine percent chance that you wil arrive ten minutes late for the meeting. Perhaps eleven."

  Victoria jammed her hat on and slung her coat around her shoulders. She took the purse but waved away the umbrel a.

  "Thank you, Patterson, I'm very aware of the time."

  Patterson nodded his head, his poly-blend black hair gleaming in the foyer gaslights. "You should take the umbrel a. There is an eighty-seven percent chance of precipitation. Shal I tel Mrs.

  Rose to expect you home in time for tea?"

  She fought back her annoyance at his insistence on planning for every moment of her day. But she could hardly fault him. It was what he'd been programmed to do. "I real y have no idea. Tel her not to plan for me."

  Victoria rushed out the door, hooking her heel on the hem of her day dress as she descended the steps. She tripped to the bottom before catching her balance. She glared in dismay at the torn hem, but there was no time to repair or even pin it now.

  Somehow she must make her way clear across the city to Bloomsbury and the Royal Courts of Justice in less than a half hour. Her butler was correct. Even by steam rail it was an impossible feat.

  Victoria drew a deep breath of the coal-scented air and exhaled.

  If she was going to be late, she should at least not arrive sweating and harried. Besides, she was less likely to twist an ankle if she slowed her pace.

  As she walked toward the tube station, she slipped her arms into her sleeves but left the light coat unbuttoned. It was a lovely day in late spring. The flowerbeds in the park were in bloom and the sky was a pale blue. Later in the afternoon there would no doubt be rain as Patterson predicted, but for now it was as fine a weather as one could want. Victoria realized she'd become so overworked she'd lost sight of the simple joys of nature. Her crusade for more stringent monitoring of the automaton work force--an untested technology stil in its infancy--was important but it wasn't everything.

  There were flowers to be smel ed and admired and she rarely
took the time these days.

  Victoria smiled at a nanny and her charge as she passed them on the walkway. The little girl in a white taffeta frock clung to the hand of the uniformed woman pushing a black perambulator. A closer look at the nanny's face told Victoria she was nonhuman, her skin slick and her eyes lifeless. No amount of engineering could place true emotions or a soul inside an automated creation. Underneath the frock and the human form, the thing was only mechanical after al .

  When Victoria had helped design the humanoid covers for the animatronics, she'd never intended such a scenario. It was one thing to have mechanized workers in hazardous factory jobs or as menial laborers, but designing one to look after children had never been her intent. Little ones were too precious to place in the care of a clockwork figure. What if their caretaker broke down, leaving them unattended? Or in the long term, what if the nanny's emotionless nature molded the children into remote and detached adults? There was no substitute for real human interaction where children were concerned.

  It was Victoria's opinion society had quickly become far too dependant on cheap animatronic labor at the expense of human workers. But it was hard to prove the dangers she feared. There was no data on the long-term effects of the sudden influx of automatons into society. Since she'd lost her file containing the very few reported cases of automatons run amok, she would be speaking to the Commission today with no facts to back her opinions.

  She could recite the tales from memory. A worker that short-circuited on a factory floor and caused hundreds of pounds' worth of damage to the mil machinery. Another that blew up while col ecting tickets on a train. The shrapnel injured several people.

  There were other cases of automatons simply breaking down and stopping during the performance of their tasks. But the most disturbing case was of a worker in a flower shop that attacked a customer with pruning shears for no apparent reason. When the mechanical body was dissected, they'd found nothing faulty in the complex circuitry to indicate anything was wrong with the automaton. The random attack was a mysterious anomaly.

  As Victoria neared the tube station, a shadow blocked the sun.

  She glanced up at a dirigible gliding almost silently overhead. It was coming into port, flying just above the tops of the buildings.

  The great bal oons captured her attention every time she saw one even though they were no longer uncommon. The majority of people traveled long distances by train so the floating behemoths were stil rare enough to awe her every time she beheld one.

  Descending the steps to the underground train, Victoria wrinkled her nose at the smel s that emanated from beneath the street--

  coal smoke, of course, but also human smel s of body odor, urine and waste. Many of the city's homeless dwel ed in the labyrinth of tunnels, which were sheltered in the winter and a little cooler in the summer. Constables kept them away from the stations and the railway travelers but couldn't seem to completely chase the poor from the underground kingdom they'd claimed for their own.

  Victoria stopped on the platform, fumbling through her handbag in search of her pass while she waited for the next train to arrive.

  Suddenly she became aware of a presence at her side, the heat of a body, the smel of a man. The platform was almost empty, the other two passengers at the far end faced the approaching locomotive, and the man stood a little too near for her liking.

  She sidled away and the man moved with her. She glanced sideways at him, taking in a threadbare burgundy waistcoat, white shirtsleeves rol ed to the elbows, a pair of muscled forearms and the V of his shirt where skin and dark hair showed.

  Her gaze traveled higher to a stubble-shadowed jaw, a grim mouth, high-bridged nose and two glittering dark eyes beneath a shock of rumpled black hair.

  "Miss Victoria Waters?" His low voice vied with the rumbling wheels of the oncoming steam engine.

  "Yes?" She answered automatical y, forgetting the adage about not speaking to strange men.

  "Would you come with me, please?" Strong fingers wrapped around her arm, gripping tightly as he pul ed her toward him.

  "Let go." She struggled against his grasp, but his hand was like an iron band clamped around her upper arm.

  "Sorry, miss." Before she could open her mouth to scream for help from the other passengers, the man pressed a handkerchief to her nose and mouth. She fought for breath, but one deep inhalation of the sickly sweet, medicinal odor on the cloth was enough to make her vision go dim. A second breath ushered her into oblivion.

  ***

  The woman's body sagged against his. Dash supported her slight weight while casting a glance at the other passengers on the platform. Both were looking down the rail toward the train, unaware of the scene taking place behind them. He'd counted on that when he'd fol owed the Waters woman into the underground station.

  He knew her destination, had been waiting in the shadows of the park across from her house for her to emerge so he could intercept her on the way. She hadn't disappointed him as she fol owed her expected route to the Courts of Justice--a misnomer if ever he'd heard one, for there was no justice in London these days. Never had been for the poor and powerless.

  Dash slipped his arm around the woman's waist and half dragged her from the platform into one of the side tunnels leading from the terminal. His pulse raced and a little voice in his head screamed that he was making a huge mistake. Mr. Brownlow would not have approved. He hushed the berating voice with a punch, knocking it toward the back of his consciousness. No time for qualms now, the deed was halfway done.

  The moment they reached the shadows out of sight of the platform--where a casual observer watching them together might simply think the woman had fainted and he was helping her--he scooped up Victoria Waters's body to carry her. Her head lol ed against his shoulder and her hat fel off her high-piled hair. He kicked the hat into the darkness.

  Dash glanced into the Waters woman's heart-shaped face, prettier than in the newspaper daguerreotype he'd seen. Her features were delicate--nose pointed, lips bowed, eyebrows slanted in a questioning tilt. Thick eyelashes rested against her cheeks and he wondered what color her eyes were.

  He laid her down on the ground for a moment while he lit a carbide lamp attached to a miner's cap, which he carried with him for traversing the il -lit tunnels. Wearing it left his arms free to carry the woman.

  Although she was petite, the weight of her unconscious body quickly grew heavy and he sweated from carrying her. Or maybe it was her body heat and her femininity fil ing his arms that made him perspire. Holy Christ, kidnapping! Anyone seeing him carry her off down this tunnel might think he was the Southwark Slasher.

  Really, Dash, does this seem like a good idea to you?

  Brownlow's voice, the voice of reason, echoed in his head. Once more Dash punched it in the face and threw it down the cel ar steps of his consciousness.

  "Al for the cause," he muttered aloud. Sometimes a man had to risk imprisonment or even hanging to draw attention to an untenable situation. That was what al his reading about rebel ion and change had taught him. Society needed a slap in the face to force them to listen to the Brotherhood's demands. Kidnapping the woman who'd helped create the automatons was one way to get the world's attention.

  Peaceful gatherings, demonstrations and marches had been ignored by the press and had done nothing to further the protestors' cause. Others in the Brotherhood were ready to bomb the factories where the automatons were created. They'd settled on trying to gain public interest by asking ransom for Victoria Waters. Of course, Dash didn't intend to hurt her, but her disappearance, fol owed by a demand for reorganization of the Commission for Animatronic Affairs, would be certain to draw notice to their issues at last.

  Dash hefted the woman to a more comfortable position in his arms. Her head fel back, exposing her pale throat above the high starched col ar. Some of her auburn hair fel loose from the elaborate coiffure to tumble around her face. A hot stab of lust shot through him at the sweet vulnerability of her sleeping
face.

  He frowned at his body's inappropriate reaction. This was about a political agenda, not him growing a stiff one because of an unconscious female in his arms.

  He stopped looking at her and concentrated on navigating the system of tunnels that burrowed beneath London. Most were cut-and-cover railway trenches that ran paral el to the streets above, built near the surface with venting for the steam engines. Others were deep level tube lines that ran far below the city. Over the years, plans had been proposed and attempted to tunnel under the Thames, but so far al had failed. There were lines that had been abandoned half finished, others that were obsolete and closed off, and there were tunnels navigated solely on foot that led to various buildings in the city. Those who were powerless in the above-ground world had a sub-city of their own where they lived by their own rules.

  Up above, Dash may have been only a bloke with a criminal record and no prospects. Down here, he was a leader of the rebel ion, someone people listened to.

  And down what path are you leading them, Dash? Mr.

  Brownlow's insistent drone was real y starting to anger him. The old booksel er had been both a mentor and a thorn in Dash's side when he'd lived. Now he was a constant, nagging fishwife, stil trying to curb Dash's impulsive nature and guide his footsteps even after death. Maybe this wasn't the best plan he'd ever had, but at least he was taking action and instigating change.

  The woman in his arms moaned and moved. The chloroform was wearing off sooner than he'd expected. He'd dosed her lightly for fear of giving her too much and accidental y kil ing her. That most definitely was not the plan. They were nearly to the Warren and he wanted to confront her alone before everyone on the committee, each with a different idea of justice, took up their incessant arguing in front of her. Not the impression he wanted to make on Miss Waters. He preferred to keep her isolated until they could present a united front to her, an image of solidarity she could take back to the world at large when they let her go.