by Beth Ciotta
“Only if he stands in between me and a certain invention. You can assure Darcy’s safety by using your wiles, your gift, and my telecommunicator, Miss Goodenough.”
Oh, how she wished he’d stop calling her that. How could so much misfortune rain down upon her in one blasted day? First Dawson had threatened her job if she did not get a story on Simon, and now this man, this Strangelove, threatened her reputation, the safety of her father, her brother, and the man she had once loved.
Willie balled her fists, damned fate, and searched her soul. She would do anything to protect her father and brother. As for Simon, as much as she resented him, she did not wish him harm. Putting her heart at risk seemed a trivial sacrifice. But she was not a pawn. Never a pawn. Perhaps she could protect all those at risk and advance her own interests as well. “I’ll do as you ask, Strangelove, but considering it means a sabbatical from my regular job at the Informer, I have a price.”
The vexing toff studied her at length. “You’re in no position to bargain, but I will do what I must to advance my goal. If you cross me, however—”
“You will crush me.”
“Cheeky and smart.”
Oh, but she despised the Vics who thought to manipulate her kind. In spite of her foul mood, Willie smiled. “Aye. I am.”
CHAPTER 3
By the time Simon had made the journey from Pickford Field into London, it had been too late to visit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. It had also been too late to visit pertinent libraries in order to research the Peace Rebels and any mention of the Houdinians, the Briscoe Bus, or the clockwork propulsion engine.
Instead of visiting his gentlemen’s club for dinner or popping into a neighborhood pub for a pint and a chat with friends, Simon had retired directly to his town house in Covent Garden. The vexing failure of Project Monorail was too fresh, as was the sensationalized report of his father’s death. Presently Simon would be the talk of his circle and not in a way he fancied or craved. He loathed being the center of pity or scorn or a source of curiosity—most assuredly and especially in cases based solely on his connection with the Time Voyager. For the umpteenth time in several days, Simon damned the Clockwork Canary for shining a light upon that showboating and infamous inventor whilst diminishing the life and death of Reginald Darcy and by extension dragging Simon, as well as Jules and Amelia and their mother, Anne, through the mud. The more Simon heaped his anger upon the Informer and that bloody, unfeeling journalist, the less he focused on his own guilt regarding his father’s ghastly death. The less he obsessed on the corrupt Old Worlders who’d damned his epic engineering marvel.
By narrowing his scope of fury and frustration, Simon had hoped to recoup the sleep that had eluded him since enduring the double blows of crushing loss. Instead he’d wrestled with new and additional quandaries. Foremost, the knowledge that his brother was a Mechanic. A legendary and esteemed post. Yet again, and even with a bum leg, his older twin had exceeded any accomplishment Simon had yet to make. Yes, he was proud of Jules, but he was also damned envious. Knowing his brother plotted the improbable—traveling into the future, absconding with Briscoe’s original time machine, and traveling back home—filled him with wonder and hope but also, dammit, envy.
On top of that, one of the Houdinians’ names dogged Simon like a tenacious foxhound.
Mickey Goodenough.
Goodenough alone, although unique, would not have rattled Simon, but for the fact that Thimblethumper’s Shoppe was in Notting Hill. A neighborhood he used to frequent and now avoided, as it conjured memories of Wilhelmina Goodenough—Mina—his first and only love. Her father’s first name had been Michael. Mickey for short? Except he’d been a Vic merchant, not a Mod rebel. At least not to Simon’s knowledge. If one parent had been a Mod and the other a Vic, that would make Mina a Freak. Yes, she’d been a bit of an enigma, but a Freak? Surely he would’ve sensed if he’d made love to an altered being. And her eyes . . . They’d been a solid and seducing flash of meadow green, not the rainbow of swirling colors indicative of a Freak. Perhaps this Mickey Goodenough was a distant cousin or, more likely, no relation at all.
Regardless, the possibility haunted Simon throughout the night and throughout his morning routine. By the time he left his town house in Covent Garden and, via the underground, traveled to Paddington Station, he was in a foul mood indeed.
He’d waited for her. Here. At this railway station. Their agreed-upon meeting place. They were to elope to Gretna Green. Only Mina never showed.
Simon navigated the crush of morning travelers whilst shoving aside the smarting memories of the redheaded sprite’s betrayal. His heart had long since healed, but there was a lingering sting to his pride. He’d been so sure of their love, so sure of her. True, she’d been young—sixteen to his nineteen—but her keen mind, adventurous nature, and worldly views had rendered the two of them kindred souls.
Or so he’d thought.
Leaving Paddington, Simon signaled an automocab, and a scant few minutes later abandoned the foul-smelling, gear-grinding vehicle, choosing to walk the remaining distance rather than waste time in congested traffic. Glancing up, he briefly envisioned the tracks of a monorail system and mentally calculated the advantages the alternate mode of transportation would have upon this thriving area.
There were times, by God, when Simon felt as though fate had deemed him undeserving and schemed to rob him of notable success. Resentful, he shut down his dream and focused on his immediate goal. Unfortunately, navigating the cobbled streets of Notting Hill threw him back in time, intensifying his prickly mood. He envisioned Mina’s playful smile, her long vibrant red tresses, and brilliant green eyes. Taking her innocence before marriage had been reckless and irresponsible, but blimey, she’d stirred his blood, seducing him with her striking beauty and kinetic spirit. This moment his senses sparked as though she were hot on his heels. Absurd, as she had moved to Scotland years ago with her parents. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.
Simon pulled his derby low over his brow, then glanced at the shop’s display window to his right. Indeed, he spied a familiar reflection. Familiar because he’d noticed the ill-tailored bohemian when he’d stopped to purchase the morning newspaper and then again on the train, slouched in a seat close to his own. Dipper? Newshound? Or perhaps the disgruntled brother of a woman Simon had dallied with. Indeed, he had no shortage of lovers.
Even though Thimblethumper’s was just ahead on the corner, Simon crossed to the other side of the street. Sure enough, the peculiar chap followed.
Simon stopped and whirled, attacking the puzzle head-on. “What’s your game, boy?”
“I . . .” The bloke met Simon’s gaze and dithered, stumbling back two paces and into the path of a steam-powered automocoach.
Cursing, Simon yanked the flustered chap from harm’s way and into a sheltered alcove. “Get a grip, man,” he said, although it was his turn to falter. His body responded to their close proximity in a curious and bothersome manner. In a heartbeat, Simon assessed the smooth skin and slight bone structure of the face all but hidden beneath a floppy newsboy cap and obscured by shaggy ink black hair. “I say, are you a man?”
The kid shoved at Simon’s shoulders, pushing him back whilst tugging his cap even lower. “I’m no Miss Nancy, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Indeed it was not, but that would explain the effeminate aura. It did not, however, explain Simon’s keen sexual awareness. Although adventurous in the bedroom, he had never been attracted to another man. “Why are you following me?”
The kid fussed with his colorful scarves, stealing a glance at his bronze time cuff. “I have a proposition.”
Simon raised a brow.
“Not that kind of proposition.”
“Do I know you?” Simon couldn’t shake the sense of familiarity even though he was most certain he’d never met this dark-eyed bohemian. A pretty boy with an intense, caged energy. A source of increasing fascination.
> “Undoubtedly, you know of me.” He offered a worn gloved hand in greeting. “The name is Willie G.,” he said in a clipped, gruff tone. “Known professionally as the Clockwork Canary.”
Simon ignored the proffered hand and grabbed the Canary by his ridiculous lapels.
“Cheese and crackers!” the kid exclaimed.
Simon froze. He hadn’t heard that particular curse in a long time, Another reminder of Mina. Damnation. Shaking off a bout of déjà vu, Simon whisked the Canary into the alley. Blood boiling, he pinned the focal point of his fury against a brick wall and glared. “You made a laughingstock of my father.”
“I apologize.”
“Not accepted.” Simon stared into the Canary’s wide eyes. The damnable pressman trembled beneath his touch. Was he a coward as well as a nance? Meanwhile, Simon’s own heart pounded with something more troublesome than rage. He couldn’t get that curse, Mina’s curse, out of his mind. Unsettled, he released the lad and distanced himself posthaste. “What do you want?”
“I have it on good authority that you are joining the Race for Royal Rejuvenation.”
“So?”
“I want to tag along.”
“To report my misadventures?”
“To chronicle your journey. Your success.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I’ll succeed?”
The Canary gave a cocky shrug. “You’ll have me as your secret weapon.”
Simon snorted. Of all the cheek.
“If you need answers, I can get them. Information? Scoop? I can be of service. It is what I do. What I am good at. Ferreting out data. Have you never read one of my candid interviews?”
“I prefer respectable broadsheets to the Informer.” He had in fact skimmed random accounts. And if he hadn’t, they were often the subject of tavern gossip. The Clockwork Canary, though sensationalistic, was a perceptive interrogator and a gifted writer.
“I’ll pay you,” the Canary blurted. “That is, the Informer will pay you a generous sum if you allow me to experience and chronicle your expedition. A serialized version highlighting the more adventurous and romantic elements.”
Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “Romantic?”
The Canary copied his stance and cocked his head. “Your endless affairs and scandalous liaisons are almost as famous as your engineering flop.”
The insult would have stung more if Simon had been less intrigued by the cutting delivery. By God, the kid sounded jealous. “How much?”
The Canary blinked and then mumbled a hefty sum.
“That much?”
“You are a Darcy. Therefore, you command great interest and high payment.”
Difficult to ignore a lucrative offer that would greatly benefit his mother and sister. Still, of all the pressmen. The damnable Clockwork Canary? Did Simon’s recent ill luck know no bounds? “Your condescending tone suggests this feature is not of your choosing.”
“My job was threatened, if you must know.” The kid stared daggers into Simon’s skeptical gaze. “Secure a posh story on Simon Darcy or else, I was told.”
That snagged Simon’s attention, if not sympathy. Knowing he was a person of interest buffered many a recent sting. He shifted his gaze from the arrogant pressman to Thimblethumper’s Shoppe. “Advance my cause with a certain merchant, Willie G., and you have a deal.”
• • •
Astounding.
Willie was still shaking in her boots minutes after Simon had pinned her to a wall. She’d been so stunned by his aggression that she’d blurted a curse from her youth. It was as if the physical interaction with Simon had thrown her back in time. Gads! She hadn’t expected their first encounter in years to be easy, but she’d been knocked arse over teakettle and blown to the moon and back. How could one manage combustible feelings of anger, resentment, and knee-buckling ardor whilst maintaining a calm and cheeky facade? A most difficult challenge, although not as difficult as maintaining her boyish guise. Simon Darcy seduced every fiber of Willie’s feminine being. Much like a moth to the proverbial flame—only this time she refused to get burned.
She’d suspected trouble the moment she’d spied him loping down the steps of his modest yet keenly located Georgian town house. When she’d last seen him, twelve years prior, he’d been a free-spirited, handsome young college student. Now he was a devastatingly gorgeous, finely built man who emitted an arrogant streak and a dash of danger. She’d fairly swooned when he’d smiled and chatted up a ragamuffin newsboy hawking papers on the corner. That smile. Those lips. The lips that had whispered endearments into her ears. The mouth that had brushed over hers, melting her limbs and searing her difficult world with tender passion.
After boarding the train, she’d slumped in her seat, feigning interest in the business pages of the stuffy London Daily whilst sneaking peeks at Simon, who’d been reading the equally stuffy Victorian Times. How dashing he looked in an unconventional though precisely tailored suit. A daring style that bordered on ModVic—Victorian attire influenced by the futuristic threads of the “love” generation. Pointy-toed Beatle boots, black and burgundy striped trousers, an embroidered velvet Nehru frock coat featuring gold buttons and a stand-up collar. His black wool greatcoat and matching derby were more conventional, though the paisley winter scarf hinted of a rebellious nature. His longish unkempt golden brown hair clashed slightly with his darker, impeccably and closely trimmed beard and yet somehow matched his overall roguish style.
But mostly Willie was mesmerized by Simon’s sinfully handsome face.
When he’d whirled and she’d locked gazes with him, up close and dead on, the breath had whooshed from her lungs. Her traitorous heart had swelled and raced, and her world had tilted in a most fierce and troubling manner.
Astonishing.
Appalling!
How could she be so disgustingly attracted to a man who’d rejected her based upon her race? As someone who’d grown more aware of prejudice and injustice as she’d come of age . . . as someone who worked surreptitiously yet vehemently to obliterate intolerance, she felt that ancient snub sting with blinding ferocity. How disconcerting that her stomach fluttered and her pulse skipped with amorous yearnings. How massively revolting.
Balled fists stuffed deep in the pockets of her oversized duster, Willie warred with her conflicting emotions as she followed Simon inside his point of destination. Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities was a curious place indeed. She glanced around the tiny store, noting various antiquities and peculiar collectibles. On any other day she might have been fascinated by what looked to be a seventeenth-century lantern clock or the doll-sized clockwork automaton that, when activated, scrawled a message with her quill pen upon the page of her vintage lap desk. However, this moment a replication of a Mod toy captured Willie’s rapt attention. The palm-sized double-disk and string device, known by many as a bandalore, had been around for centuries, although it would not gain vast popularity until the 1960s, and by then would be called a yo-yo. Willie’s mother had traveled back in time with one—something she’d fiddled with to alleviate stress or when she was puzzling through a problem. Willie had been charmed by the toy and had been severely disappointed when her mother had passed the yo-yo down to her son. Then again, Wesley had always been Michelle Goodenough’s favorite.
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.