His Clockwork Canary (24 page)

Including Strangelove. Her stomach turned just thinking about that man. Now that she
was back in London, she felt that his eyes were upon her, his spies everywhere. Imagined
or not, the notion rankled.

“I cannot believe that in all these years news did not leak of the survival of the
clockwork propulsion engine. Remember my mother’s words regarding a traitor? We cannot
be the only ones searching for it.” Willie palmed her brow. “Gadzooks! Maybe the man
who shot me was looking for it! Why did
that
never occur to us?”

Simon shushed her mounting hysteria with a demanding kiss. She struggled but a moment
before giving in, giving over. She parted her lips and welcomed his tongue, reveled
in the feel of his hands smoothing down her back and squeezing her bottom. Her panic
ebbed and her passion flowed. Indeed, her heart was beating most frantically, her
desires flaring most earnestly. “Take me, Simon,” she begged whilst tugging his shirttails
from his trousers. “Take me now and completely. Ravish me. Make me forget my name.”

One night of oblivion. She was desperate to rest her mind.

He looked down at her with such fire, she was certain she felt flames licking her
most intimate places. “My dear Willie, do you know what you’re asking for?”

“Everything you have.”

In a blur of a second he had doused the wall sconces and locked the door. She was
fumbling with the front laces of her new corset, her actions slowed by her weak hand.
Simon accomplished the task with quick and nimble fingers, kissing her all the while.
Her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her eyelids. His mouth skimmed over her face with
butterfly kisses, so soft, so teasing. Astonishing that those barely there kisses
invoked such an aggressive response. She fairly ripped Simon’s shirt from his body.
She most assuredly heard fabric tearing.

“So that’s the way of it, pet.”

A statement. Not a question. The breath whooshed from Willie’s lungs as Simon backed
her against the wall and yanked up her skirt. She felt his fingers stroking her bare
inner thighs. She tensed, shocked when he homed in on her most sensitive and sensual
region, his fingers teasing, rubbing.
Good Lord.
Her back arched as an erotic ache coiled tighter and tighter. Whilst one hand worked
wicked magic on her nether region, the other hand caressed her breast whilst he kissed
her senseless. Still mostly dressed, her clothes askew, Willie felt almost as exposed
and brazen as if she were fully nude.

“Come for me, pet.”

He had never called her that. He had never been this forceful. It drove Willie deliciously
mad. Her body quivered and clenched as she acquiesced to her husband’s bidding.

“Tell me your name,” he ordered as she shuddered with a colossal climax. “Your name,
dammit.”

“Willie.”

“So we are not finished, then. Marvelous.”

Her mind grappled to make sense of his words as he swooped her off her feet.

A knock on the door. “Tea is served.”

“Leave it!” Simon bellowed over his shoulder.

“That was rude,” Willie whispered, half-dazed.

“He’ll get over it.” Simon bent her over the side of his massive bed. “Don’t move,”
he ordered whilst ridding her of her boots, her stockings, her petticoats, her skirt.

Willie shivered with anticipation as he peeled each article of clothing from her body,
and none too gently. At once she was completely naked, bare feet on the floor, torso
plastered to his feathery soft mattress, her bottom scandalously exposed.

Simon trailed featherlight fingers over her shoulder blades, her spine. “Your name?”

“Willie,” she whispered.

“Yes, well, remember you asked for this.”

One palm at the small of her back, the other brazenly gripping her bottom, Simon slid
into her from behind. The intrusion was shocking and welcome. She was slick with desire.
Delirious with need. She groaned low with the initial thrust, then moaned, mewled,
begging for harder and faster when his fingers twisted in her hair.

Scandalous.

Wicked.

She cried out in ecstasy, embarrassed by the vehemence but unable to temper her response
to Simon’s fervent and imaginative lovemaking. This was not the young, reckless man
she’d fallen in love with twelve years past, but the experienced, confident man she’d
fallen in love with all over again.

“Name?” he asked as she shuddered with yet another orgasm.

“Wilhelmina Darcy.”

“Christ.”

He lifted her and suddenly she was on her back, in the center of a wondrously masculine
bed. Simon’s bed. She realized in a far-off way that in all the frantic lovemaking
he had been most careful not to harm her shoulder. That, in itself, heightened her
senses. Along with the glorious feel of his tongue, lips, and hands honoring every
inch of her body, pleasuring her in ways that made her cheeks flush and her pulse
skitter. Just when she thought she would expire from the erotic sensations, Simon
ceased his avid ministrations.

Her breath caught and her mind reeled. It was as though she was perched on a precipice,
teetering on the brink of a breathtaking fall. The anticipation consumed her being,
obliterated the outside world.

There was only Simon.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded in a measured voice. “Do not deviate from my gaze.”

She nodded, incapable of words. And then . . . he did nothing. He held his magnificent
body above hers, poised, promising wondrous pleasure yet not delivering. Her breath
stalled in her chest, his gaze . . . so intent, so unsettling.

And then she felt the tip of his shaft. The breach. The friction. She felt him moving
inside of her—so slow, so controlled—and suddenly time ceased. She felt his hand moving
over her mound, his fingers teasing her folds. He increased the pressure, making her
crazy
there
as he drove into her with hard, unrelenting strokes in the other
there
. The orgasm was twofold. Earthshaking. Mind-bending.

“Name?” Simon asked in a gruff voice.

“Sorry?” Willie grappled to make sense of the query as her husband plunged deep and
shuddered.

His release was fierce and loud. “Good Christ,” he rasped.

A heartbeat later—or was it a lifetime?—Simon rolled to his side and pulled her into
his arms. “Willie,” he beckoned softly.

Body tingling, chest heaving, she struggled to engage her brain.

“Have you forgotten your name, pet?”

“Sorry?”

She thought she felt him smile as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well,
wife.”

J
ANUARY
24, 1887 Q
UEENSLAND,
A
USTRALIA

Bingham blinked up at a white ceiling, smelled antiseptic, and heard the steady thwacking
of a ceiling fan. He’d expected to wake up in purgatory or hell, but a quick glance
about confirmed that he was lying in a small, although private—thank God—hospital
room.

“Doctor said you’d rouse sooner or later this morning. Glad it was sooner,” Austin
Steele said as he pushed through the door. “Don’t fancy cooling my heels in Cunnamulla
a third day.”

Bingham tried to push himself up into a sitting position and almost passed out in
the process.

“Easy, mate. You were gutshot. Lost a lot of blood. Lucky you’re alive. If your bodyguard
hadn’t found you when he did—”

“That bitch shot me.” Bingham palmed his sweaty brow and tempered his labored breathing
as his last memories cleared. They’d been under attack. He’d commanded Renee to shoot
at the enemy and she’d bloody well shot
him
. “She’ll pay for this.”

“Something tells me she paid in spades up front.” Steele was hovering bedside now
and scowling down at Bingham. “You hired me to deliver you to Queensland and I did.
Even more so, I saved your sorry life. No need to thank me, mate, just pay me the
other half of what we agreed on and I’ll be on my way.”

Bingham fisted clammy hands at his sides. “You can’t abandon me in this godforsaken
place.”

“Cunnamulla’s not as civilized as, say, Perth or Brisbane, but it is on the map and
as close as I could get you to the last coordinates you gave me without forgoing professional
medical aid. Your bodyguard, for all the good he is, alerted your captain of your
location and situation. Northwood, I believe his name was, said to assure you he will
be here within forty-eight hours. Don’t rush recovery, do as the doctor instructs,
and you may be up and around by then.”

Bingham gritted his teeth. “My personal possessions.”

Steele opened the drawer of the tall table next to the bed, handed Bingham his thick
wallet.

“I’m surprised you didn’t help yourself,” Bingham said upon noting his booty was still
intact.

“Not my way.” Steele pushed his sweat-stained hat to the back of his head as Bingham
counted out several large banknotes. “Just so you know, as a bonus for saving your
life, I’ll be taking Renee off your hands.”

Bingham shot him a look. “She’s a menace and you’re a fool.”

“I don’t see it that way,” the insolent man said whilst he tucked away the money.
“Then again, I don’t intend to bugger Renee. I like my women warm and willing and
I sure as hell don’t abuse them.”

Bingham made a mental note to eviscerate this man at some point in time. Just now
he simply wanted him out of his sight. “I don’t suppose you garnered the information
I asked for.”

“Did better than that,” Steele said as he strode to the door. “Found your Mod Tracker
and roped him in. Job complete. Wish I could say it was nice knowin’ you, Bingham.”

He blew out the door and a second later another man crossed the threshold. “Lord Bingham.”

“Crag.” Finally something was going right. Maybe. “Can you adjust this bed, these
pillows? Something to elevate me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Crag was every bit as rugged, weather-beaten, and common as Steele, but he, at least,
was respectful. After cranking the top portion of the bed so that Bingham was no longer
lying flat out, he poured Bingham a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

Bingham took the glass, vexed that his hand was shaking and rattled by the severe
pain in his abdomen. Fortunately Renee hadn’t aimed higher or, God help him, lower.
Considering, he supposed he was lucky she hadn’t shot off his manhood. “What of Professor
Merriweather?”

Crag swiped off his hat and sleeved sweat from his brow. “Sure you’re up to hearing
this?”

Bingham braced and soothed his parched throat with the cool water. “I take it you’ve
lost him.”

“More like someone stole him.”

“Excuse me?”

Crag fingered the brim of his hat. “Merriweather was holed up in a makeshift compound
with his daughter. That compound sits in the middle of a barren tract of land. Man
nor beast could approach from any direction without being seen. Using a high-powered
telescope, I kept watch from a secluded copse of trees. Traded shifts with my partner,
Boyd. No one got past that fence without the gate being magically opened from the
inside of the house. Merriweather must be some sort of technological wizard.”

“Go on,” Bingham said, fairly salivating at the thought of picking Merriweather’s
genius brain.

“Day before yesterday, a dark-haired man limped up to the gate.”

Jules Darcy.

“I don’t know where he came from. No land or air transport that I could see. He just
appeared at the gate. Then . . .” Crag scratched his jaw, gave a nervous chuckle.
“This will sound crazy. Next thing I knew . . . he disappeared before my very eyes.”

“You’re right,” Bingham said, palming his bandaged stomach. In addition to the pain
he was beginning to feel ill. “That is a preposterous statement.”

“I scanned the area with my telescope, with my naked eye, and then with my binoculars.
Know where I found the cripple? In the house. Speaking with Merriweather. Have no
idea how he got in there. But I can tell you one thing. He never left.”

“But you insinuated Merriweather is missing.”

“He is. Along with the professor’s daughter and the cripple. They were all in that
compound. Now they’re not. Boyd and I kept watch. Never saw them leave the grounds.
But then as of yesterday, there wasn’t a lick of activity within the house. Boyd and
I even approached the fence, skirted the grounds, used our optical scopes to spy in
every window. Either those three are dead on the floor or they’re gone.”

“Why didn’t you go inside?”

“Can’t get past that electrified fencing.”

“Find a way,” Bingham said. “Either they’re in there or they got past you in the dead
of night. Secure Merriweather, Crag. If you’ve lost him, find him. At the very least
secure the contents of that compound. I intend to inspect that house for myself as
soon as I’m on my feet.”

Crag tugged his hat back on. “Whatever you say, Lord Bingham.”

“Open that drawer,” Bingham told the man, pointing to the table where Steele had procured
his wallet. “Do you see my telecommunicator?”

Crag handed him the device, then moved to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

“See that you are.” He waited until Crag was gone, then thumbed a threatening coded
message. He hadn’t flown halfway around the world and survived a deadly storm, cutthroat
bushrangers, and a gunshot wound to lose this race. If Jules Darcy had indeed absconded
with Professor Merriweather, then it was time to light a fire under Wilhelmina Goodenough’s
sweet arse.

J
ANUARY
24, 1887 G
REATER
L
ONDON

Willie had been astounded by the enormous number of underground passages they’d discovered
whilst scouring Montague Lambert’s vast collection of maps. Phin had been right. London
teemed with tunnels—ancient and new—as well as viaducts, catacombs, and subterranean
crypts and vaults. Simon had been acquainted with random locations and specifics,
and she’d soon realized it was because of former research and surveys he’d done in
relation to his work as a civil engineer. One could not design and construct a building,
bridge, road, canal, or railway without knowing the lay of the land. She had gotten
a strong sense of his passion and experience when she’d first entered his library
the morning after he’d pleasured her into forgetting her name.

“It’s magnificent.”

“It’s a mess,” Simon countered. “According to Fletcher.”

“That is because he’s so painfully neat,” Willie said as she moved inside. “He does
not understand the comfort of chaos. I do.” Wide-eyed and charmed, she slowly toured
about the dark-paneled library. A massive room with massive clutter. The floor-to-ceiling
shelves were so crammed with books that many volumes were stacked on their sides.
There were also piles of books on his ornate desk as well as on the floor. One wall
boasted a huge and extensive map of the city, whilst another wall was covered in sketches
and paintings of famed global architecture such as St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Vatican,
and Notre-Dame. Willie also recognized several international engineering marvels—the
Great Pyramid of Giza, the Great Wall of China, the Roman Colosseum, Stonehenge.

Along with multiple pencils and drafting tools, Simon’s own sketchbooks were strewn
everywhere—the desk, the chaise, two tables. Some journals were wide open, some closed,
and a few lone sketches stood on easels. One in particular caught her eye. “Project
Monorail?” she asked.

“Mmm.”

She angled her head and studied the detailed sketch. An elevated railway system running
through the heart of Westminster. Aside from the futuristic aspect of a smooth-nosed,
streamlined train practically floating over the streets and gardens below, the attention
to detail regarding Parliament, Clock Tower, and Westminster Abbey was quite astonishing.
She’d never known Simon had such a flair for art.

He moved in behind her, the scent of fresh soap as potent as an aphrodisiac. Willie
tried her best to ward off wanton thoughts. Most difficult considering their recent
bout of lovemaking. All she could think was,
More shocking variations, please,
and
How can I pleasure you, husband?
Simon had unwittingly unleashed a wild streak within her that she had no wish to tame.

“What do you think?”

“Sorry?” Willie flushed and blinked out of her naughty musings.

“My design,” he said. “Do you think it ridiculous? Intriguing? An eyesore?”

“Intriguing, to be sure.” The train possessed no wheels and seemed to glide over a
single track. “How does it operate?”

“A complex system based on magnetic levitation. I’ll explain it someday if you like.
When we’re not rushed for time.”

“I would like that very much.” She turned in his arms and peered up at him with awe.
“You are quite the visionary, Simon Darcy.”

“My father thought so.”

“Your father was right. Hang the Old Worlders who sabotaged this project. You must
not give up.”

“Yes, well, one challenge at a time, eh?”

And hence they’d spent several hours at Lambert’s Literary Antiquities studying maps
and making notes and thereafter almost two full days trudging through dank underground
passages. Aside from several claustrophobic encounters, they had withstood everything
from mud to cobwebs to spiders to rats. And of course dead people. Hordes and hordes
of dead people. Not for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Phin and Simon were not easily
spooked. Nor was Willie, for that matter. She was, however, discouraged.

“I don’t see it,” she said, studying another iron gate as well as peeking through
the bars at the four coffins stacked on the shelves of two walls.

“Perhaps if you’d use the battery-charged torchlight I offered you,” Phin said.

“I told you, I can see fine.”

“Night vision,” he said irritably. “Right, then. And how does that work exactly?”

“She told you before,” Simon snapped. “She doesn’t know exactly.”

“We need to change tactics,” Willie said, slumping back against a cold brick wall.
“We need to narrow our focus. We’re only two days into this search and we’re already
sniping at one another.”

“I don’t snipe,” Phin said.

“The hell you don’t,” Simon countered.

“What? You think you’re a ball of sunshine, Darcy?”

“It’s the constant anticipation of being attacked like we were in Edinburgh,” Willie
said. “That’s what has us on edge. Plus the constant dark and gloom. The tight spaces
and odious smells. It’s oppressive. Suffocating. Not to mention being surrounded by
so much death. How did they stand it?”

“Who?” Simon asked.

“The Houdinians.
This
was my mother’s life? Patrolling a dank catacomb? Trading shifts with Filmore and
Rollins? Hiding in the shadows and staring at a bloody coffin for hours, primed to
o’blasterate any person who ventured too close?” Willie heard the hitch in her voice
and cursed her lack of control. But by
God
. “How wretchedly pathetic.”

“Or noble,” Simon said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And perhaps they
did not and do not guard the engine around the clock, sweetheart. Perhaps that is
precisely why they chose underground crypts as their
safe house
. Few people venture into these places.”

Phin slouched against the wall next to her, flashed his torchlight on another gated
vault. “You’re quite sure you’d recognize it. The conveyance housing the clockwork
propulsion engine,” he clarified in a calmer tone.

“Aye,” Willie said. “Filmore’s memory was most vivid. Perhaps they utilize a different-looking
conveyance in each city—whether it be a lone crypt or a coffin stacked into the walls
like these—but the locking mechanism is constant and quite specific.”

This moment they were in South London, exploring the catacombs beneath West Norwood
Cemetery. They’d already tackled another catacomb this morning and had another two
ahead of them. Willie’s stomach cramped with the projected futility. Deep in thought,
she gasped when she felt a strong vibration. Her coat pocket. The telecommunicator.
Strangelove.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

“Nothing. I just . . . I need fresh air.”

“We’ll come with you,” Simon said.

“No!” Willie instantly regretted the outburst. “Please,” she added in a softer voice.
“I need but a moment and there are still several vaults along this corridor. I’ve
described the lock to you and Phin. Continue on. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I catch
my breath.”

Simon balked.

Phin nudged him. “She’s safer up there than down here.” He looked to Willie then.
“Are you wearing the stun cuff I gave you?”

She flashed her left wrist.

“Don’t hesitate to use it,” Simon said.

Indeed, she would not. Willie left without another word and hurriedly backtracked
until her lungs filled with fresh air and her eyes gazed upon blue skies. She grappled
with the telecommunicator, the code, her pulse revving when she deciphered the message.

LEST YOU DOUBT MY SINCERITY, CONTACT YOUR EDITOR.

Willie collapsed against the cool stone of an aboveground crypt. So. Strangelove had
done something to prove he could and would crush her should she fail him. She didn’t
need to telephone Dawson to establish the damage, but she would. Eventually. For now
she accepted on faith that Strangelove was a motivated bastard. Motivated and perplexing.
Astonishing that the man had such unflinching faith that Simon would indeed locate
and procure an invention of historical significance. The mystery hoodlum was fast
becoming a source of intense vexation. Had he conspired against other Triple R entrants
in this manner? Was he a rabid and slightly mad appropriator of rare antiquities?
Did he mean to steal away famous artifacts for a private collection or perhaps to
sell them upon the black market? Or was he simply after the monumental prize money
and global glory? Surely he had not set his sights upon Simon alone. Surely he could
not know for certain what invention Simon sought.

Or could he?

Willie massaged her aching heart, wishing she’d never buckled under Strangelove’s
threats. Yearning to come clean with Simon, but fearing he would never forgive her
for setting out to betray him, no matter the reason. One thing was certain. He would
never trust her again. Whatever it was between them that burned so bright would be
forever dimmed.

She could not bear it.

At sea with her quandary, she caressed the wings of a stone angel. In a desperate
plea for guidance, Willie prayed to someone, anyone, for direction.

One word, one name, flashed in her brain, a divine intervention. Heavenly direction.

Thimblethumper.

Stiffening her spine, Willie typed her coded reply into Strangelove’s telecommunicator.

EXPEDITION FRAUGHT WITH MYSTERY. ATTEMPTING TO SOLVE.

A message meant to intrigue and pacify, affording her precious leeway. Strangelove
had demanded an invention of historical significance. And that’s what he would get.
Somehow. Some way. But
not
the time-traveling engine.

A heartbeat later, Phin and Simon joined her aboveground. Their coats were smudged
with grime and they smelled of dirt. Their dour expression spoke of yet another failed
venture into yet another catacomb.

“Willie,” Simon said.

She grasped and squeezed his hand. “I have a plan.”

•   •   •

“I don’t like it.”

“So you said.” Phin dropped a sugar cube into his coffee, looking annoyingly relaxed
now that they’d emerged from the dank crypts and rejoined the living.

Simon, on the other hand, still bristled with ill humor. His own chipped crockery
sat before him, the steaming bitter swill untouched. When they’d entered McSteam’s
Coffeehouse, Simon had requested a table near the window, where he could have a clear
view of Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Willie was just now entering the cluttered
store and Simon hated that he wasn’t with her.

“Listen, good man, feeling protective of your wife is natural, but this need to be
at her side twenty-four hours a day borders on obsession.”

“Less than two weeks ago,” Simon said, his gaze intent on the storefront across the
street, “someone o’blasterated Willie.”

“Yes, well, we’re not down in the tunnels now.”

“Two days ago she was mocked for being a Freak.”

“Today she’s wearing corneatacts,” Phin reminded him whilst lighting a cigar. “She
looks like any other Vic woman strolling the streets of London. If anyone bothers
her, it will be to ask for the time. I’ve never seen so many bloody timepieces on
one person.”

“She’ll need those if she time-traces Thimblethumper.”

“I personally hope that she does,” Phin said. “If she can glean more intelligence
on Filmore and his habits, anything at all having to do with the Houdinians, then
it could increase our chance of locating the man and the engine in a timelier fashion.”

“I agree with the intent and goal,” Simon said, ruffling his hair in agitation. “I
simply wish I was with her.”

Phin blew out a heady stream of smoke, whilst skimming a complimentary newspaper.
“We’re only across the street and she is armed with a stun cuff. Willie’s a resourceful
sort and damned smart. Give her some credit. I think her assessment of the situation
was bang-on. From what you both said, Thimblethumper associates you with your brother
and for whatever reason he feels hassled by the Mechanics. She stands a better chance
of garnering information on her own using her tried-and-true methods.”

“Maybe,” Simon said, finally indulging in the piquant brew. But he couldn’t shake
the feeling that something was off with Willie. Something beyond her anxiety regarding
her mother and the Houdinians. It made him question her judgment. Made him suspicious
and restless.

“What a pungent and appallingly frowsy establishment,” came a pinched, feminine voice.

Simon glanced up, saying, “Dr. Caro,” at the same time Phin said, “Bella.”

Never mind that Simon was surprised by the Freak doctor’s personal visit, the informality
of Phin’s greeting was doubly intriguing. “You know one another?” Simon asked as he
stood to greet the woman.

“Unfortunately,” Caro said with a tight expression.

She looked exactly as she had when she’d visited Simon’s room in Edinburgh. Ghostly
complexion, bold red lip stain, glossy ebony hair twisted into a severe and complex
knot. Purple-tinted spectacles shielded her kaleidoscope eyes, her riding hat sat
a jaunty tilt, and she was buttoned neck to ankle in that black leather duster with
the gleaming brass fasteners. Hauntingly beautiful, Simon thought, in a severe and
repressed way.

Although with a delay, Phin stood out of respect as well. “Should have known you were
Simon’s contact within the agency.”

“Indeed,” the young woman said. “Then again, you were always slow at putting together
two and two, Phineas. May I join you, Mr. Darcy? My time is limited.”

Since Phin was Jules’s closest friend and since Caro had been Jules’s personal surgeon,
it made sense that they’d met at some point, Simon supposed. The white-hot tension
between them, however, was baffling. Although Phin offered her a seat, she instead
chose to sit on the same side of the table as Simon.

Whilst those two traded steely glares, Simon glanced over to Thimblethumper’s, his
mind on Willie even though he was anxious for news of his brother. “I didn’t expect
a personal report,” Simon said honestly as he moved in beside the stiff-backed woman.
Much as Phin had advised Simon to trust that Jules was in control of his situation,
he’d been unsettled by his inability to contact his twin via the tele-talkie. Yesterday
Simon had buckled under an intensifying discomfort and had, after consulting the calling
card she’d given him, telephoned Dr. Bella Caro.