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  “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.

  CHAPTER 5

  WICKFORD MANOR KENT, ENGLAND

  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 anyone had a whit of information regarding time travel, logically and his
torically 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.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE FLYING SCOTSMAN EN ROUTE TO EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  It was the longest journey of his life.

  Simon had left the compartment several times. To shake off his anger. To shake off his lust. Although he would bet his prized drafting tools that his traveling companion was a woman, and though he suspected she was someone with whom he had already been intimate . . . he could not force his attentions. She had to make the first move, or at least a slip. Even an unintentional invitation would be better than no invitation at all.

  All this angst over a kiss. And yes, this moment, a kiss was what he craved above all else. A craving more intense than any sexual desire he’d experienced in the last several years.

  It boggled the mind. Boggled the mind and vexed his patience. Yet whilst pacing the connected corridors of the train, it occurred to Simon that he was not alone in his suffering. His companion had also excused herself, frequently escaping to the primitive yet functional public loo. Either she had a minuscule bladder or she too needed space to clear her head and cool her desires. There was no mistaking her sexual interest, even though she tried to hide it. If the Canary was experiencing even a modicum of Simon’s discomfort, he would be a happy man. A spectacularly delirious man. The solution to his dilemma was suddenly clear. The more miserable her mood, the happier his.

  He reentered the compartment, surprised to find her wearing dark-tinted spectacles and fumbling with the yo-yo she’d purchased from Thimblethumper. “A little late in the evening for sunshades,” he remarked whilst closing the door.

  “I have a blinding headache,” she said, winding the string around the middle of the disks. “Light, whether natural or artificial, intensifies the throbbing.”

  Frowning at her pained expression, Simon reached up to douse the already dim sconce. “Then let there be darkness.”

  “No! I mean, that isn’t necessary. The sunshades suffice and I don’t wish to inconvenience you should you wish to continue your drafting.”

  Since the Canary had returned her rapt attention to the Book of Mods, and then to jotting notes in a journal, Simon had passed much of the time executing freehand drawings in his sketchbook—a design he’d been contemplating as an alternative to a mechanical lift. He’d yet to work out the kinks in his “mobile staircase,” and his mind was not fully invested, but anything was better than pondering Project Monorail. Would he always connect his pride-and-joy design to his father’s death? Would he always feel responsible for the disastrous explosion? Turning his thoughts from morbid images, he focused on the Canary’s miserable efforts. “What are you trying to do?”

  “A trick.”

  “Perhaps you should perfect the basics first.”

  “I know the basics.”

  “Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself.”

  Her head jerked up, and though he could not see her eyes, he was pretty sure she was glaring. “Just because you are an expert . . .”

  Simon raised a brow as she trailed off. He had indeed mastered the art of the yo-yo as a young boy. “How did you know—”

  “I assumed. Given your arrogant attitude and the fact that, by trade, naturally you would be intrigued by the workings.”

  “Mmm.”

  “No matter,” Willie said, shrugging off the moment. She glanced at her time cuff, something she did a lot. “We’ll soon be arriving at Waverley.”

  As she pushed off the wall and started to pocket the yo-yo, Simon moved in behind her and wrapped his hand over hers and the toy. “It’s all in the technique,” he said close to her ear.

  There was a moment of silence in which he noted her ink-stained hands, the scent of hair freshly soaped, and a slight, almost imperceptible, shudder of her body. A moment of delicious sexual tension . . . followed by a swift jab to Simon’s gut. Damned if her elbow didn’t strike hard and true.

  “You may be worldly in matters of free and diverse love, but I, sir, as mentioned before, am not interested.” Agitated, the Canary reached up and snagged her coats. “That is not to say I judge. I do not. To each his own,” she said whilst pulling on extraneous layers. “But I do not appreciate your attempts to shock, intimidate, or seduce, or whatever the hell your intention. I am here, with you, for one reason only, Darcy. To get a story. A story for which you will be handsomely compensated.”

  Simon bristled. First of all, he would not be the only one benefiting from this tabloid serial. The Informer would profit banking on the Darcy name, and the Canary would gain even more recognition and glory.

  Second: How long would the infuriating pressman persist with this boyish ruse? And why? The pretense and lies did not bode well and he rankled at the thought of being made a fool. Again. Simon backed away, but continued to turn the screws. “I once knew a girl whose little brother performed yo-yo tricks with ease. A yo-yo passed on to him from the mother, a gesture that injured the girl’s heart, as she coveted her mother’s yo-yo . . . and approval. I promised to teach that girl the proper technique that would enable her to master many tricks, but I never got the chance.”

  The Canary tugged her cap over her shaggy hair just as the Flying Scotsman hissed and screeched to a full stop. “Disappointed you, did she?”

  Simon nabbed his own belongings, intrigued and incensed. “Indeed,” he said, disembarking on the kid’s heels.

  Hoofing it through the bustling station, heavy bag in tow, the Canary gave Simon her back. “Something tells me the feeling was mutual.”

  • • •

  It had been many a year since anyone had discombobulated Willie so thoroughly. She was confident and competent and, out of necessity, wily. Because of an unfortunate series of events, she’d locked down her emotions years ago. Through practiced control and camouflaging trickeries, she had fooled the masses for a decade. A consummate actress, she’d successfully maintained a male persona, in part by engaging in a reclusive lifestyle. Her most frequent interactions were with her coworkers at the Informer, and prompted by professional envy, most of them kept their distance. Friendship was a foreign concept, so she was in no danger of having her cover blown due to slipping up with a chum. As a journalist, she typically narrowed her interviews to one personal visit. As a supporter of the underground efforts to garner equal rights for all Freaks, she corresponded with like-minded souls through coded Teletypes or via occasional meetings in the nearest skytown. Even then, she adopted yet another costume and persona. She thrived on anonymity. It kept her liberated and employed. Kept her motivated and useful. It kept her brother safe and her father from landing in a mental ward or poorhouse. She would not endanger any one of those things by admitting her true identity to Simon Darcy.

  Someh
ow the man had deduced who she was, and it galled that he was toying with her. Still, even if he out-and-out called her on the ruse, she would fight for all she was worth to deny the truth. As much as she would like to blast him face-to-face for jilting her because of her race and thereby tainting the love they once shared, the confrontation was not worth the cost.

  Shoulders squared and back to the infuriating man, Willie hustled through Waverley Station, breaching the doors and moving onward toward Waverley Bridge—an iron-latticed thoroughfare that would lead them to Cockburn Street and beyond to High Street, also known as the Royal Mile.

  A frigid wind and colossal snowflakes assaulted Willie as she hailed a conventional coach.

  “Cockburn Hotel is within walking distance,” Simon said as he moved in beside her. “I reserved rooms—”

  “We’re not staying at the Cockburn.”

  “We’re not?”

  Led by a blanketed horse, a hansom cab rolled in and Willie informed the coachman of their destination. Meanwhile Simon wordlessly took her valise and hoisted it up into the cab along with his. Further proof that he was aware of her gentler gender. She scrambled aboard before he could offer his hand—and raise the coachman’s brow. Once they were both seated and the coachman urged the horse forward, Willie divulged the data she’d traced from the Mod Tracker.

  “I booked lodgings near St. Giles’ Cathedral on High Street,” she said whilst massaging her throbbing temples. “There’s a pub close by. Spirits & Tales. Filmore works there during the day, dispensing pints of ale and local ghost stories. I assume he patrols an underground passage at night, supposedly protecting the clockwork propulsion engine, but I do not know which passage. The section of Edinburgh known as Old Town is comprised of many wynds, closes, and vaults.”