His Clockwork Canary (4 page)

“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.”

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.