Her Sky Cowboy (26 page)

“Dammit.” Tuck kept his head down and steered clear of the bar. He couldn’t, however, avoid hearing the heated conversation coming from Doc’s friends. Something about a protest.
Well, hell.
Doc had mentioned a brewing rebellion among Freaks, but he hadn’t mentioned being a part of that cause. Given Doc’s pacifist mind-set, more likely he was exploring this avenue as yet another way to connect with his brother—a man he hadn’t heard from in more than three years. Tuck wished he could say it wasn’t his business, but if Doc somehow brought trouble to the
Maverick
…

He snagged the retracted brass cane from the table and glanced toward the bar. Only Doc was no longer with the plotting Freaks. The supernaturally gifted doctor was immersed in a conversation with a lone person. A woman, he assumed from a glimpse of stocking and skirt. Hidden in the shadows, Tuck couldn’t make out whether she was Vic or Freak. Whoever she was, Doc was agitated. Given the younger man’s normally docile character, Tuck’s first
impulse was to step in, but he resisted, knowing Doc wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion amongst his own kind. Still, Tuck wouldn’t be forgetting this.

He slipped outside, a bad feeling churning in his gut. Anxious to distance Amelia from brewing trouble, he handed her the walking stick, then finessed her toward the air dinghy. He hoped to hell the
Maverick
was up and running and in good order. The sooner they were on their way to Italy, the better. Skimming the clouds always cleared his head. Right now his brain was jammed tight with a dozen puzzles. Amelia. The ornithopter. Doc. To name three.

As they neared the first swinging gangway, Amelia glanced over, her brow scrunched in concern. “You okay?”

Hearing one of his phrases laced with her British accent, he almost smiled. “Spectacular.”

B
RITISH
S
CIENCE
M
USEUM
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

An emergency meeting.

Bingham had been at Wickford, locked in his bedchamber, indulging in a rather sadistic fetish with a beautiful but unemotional automaton, when he’d received a coded Teletype from Aquarius summoning him to London.

Three hours later, he sat in a dimly lit room surrounded by the secret society’s members. Keen minds. Forward-thinkers. Yet they lacked his genius. His ruthlessness. They thought themselves bold because they plotted to assassinate the queen. He thought them pretentious knobs. Visually and conceptually, they blended. Self-important New Worlders with a noble cause.

Delving for patience, Bingham pretended concern whilst Saturn explained that a valuable inside source was no longer willing to cooperate. Faces and voices blurred—a panicked muddle.

“How can we proceed with our plans if we are uninformed?”

“The Golden Jubilee is several months away. Surely the day’s scheduled events will change between now and then.”

“Did you offer our man more money?”

“Of course. Unfortunately fear overrides greed in this matter.”

“Meaning?”

“Apparently his conscience got the better of him,” Saturn said. “He’s been haunted by nightmares where he is accused of treason and imprisoned in the Tower. Or worse.”

Bingham suppressed a disgusted snort.
Coward
.

“Any chance his guilty conscience will prod him into confessing his sins to an associate or the queen’s adviser?”

“And bring his nightmare to life? I think not.”

“Yet the possibility exists, in which case an investigation would lead to us.”

“I am his only contact,” Saturn said. “If anyone should worry, it is I.”

“Who’s to say you won’t buckle under pressure and reveal our society and plot?”

“You dare to question my allegiance!”

Bingham closed his eyes as a heated argument ensued. Eight titled men hurling insults and exaggerated scenarios. How easily they were deterred. How easily frightened.
How revolting
. This past week had been fraught with incompetence and disappointment. Concetta. His Mod trackers. Dunkirk. Anger and frustration fueled his ruthless mind-set. Ah, yes. Some things he could control. He opened his eyes. “Eliminate the source.”

He hadn’t shouted, yet his words cut through the chaos.

Silence.

Saturn angled his head. “Say again, Mars?”

Bingham sighed as if his suggestion burdened his soul. “Think of all who will benefit should we succeed in silencing the woman who insists on halting progress. Think of the future. Of your fellow man. Beastly business, I confess. But it is our duty to proceed.” He nearly choked on his feigned sincerity. “Eliminate the weak link. The cowardly inside source who could ultimately destroy us and, in turn, mankind.” He waited a dramatic beat, then added, “Meanwhile, let us recruit a new source. Someone more…reliable.”

More silence.

Knowing the power of patience, Bingham waited.

“How would we go about…eliminating the problem?”

They all looked to Bingham. Not wanting to reveal the full force of his devious side, he remained cryptic. “I know someone.”

“Do you trust this person?”

“Implicitly.” Bingham, or Mars, as they called him, looked to Saturn. “Write down the source’s name and I shall ensure our anonymity and cause.” He looked to the other seven, as if he truly valued their opinions. “Are we in accord, gentlemen?”

Venus, the spineless worm who fed off the boldness of others, raised his goblet. “To Aquarius.”

After a few traded glances, all repeated the toast. “To Aquarius!”

Bingham drank deeply, then stood and procured the unofficial death warrant from Saturn. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

He left the room, anxious to distance himself from men who considered themselves his allies. He considered them pawns, but extremely valuable. Hence he would protect them to the best of his ability, in the name of Aquarius. In the name of his own selfish goals.

Speaking of…Since he’d been summoned to the British Science Museum, he’d scheduled a meeting with Mr. P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee. The man’s office was in this very building, albeit three flights up, but since Bingham wished to keep their relationship quiet he’d arranged to meet the exhibitions and displays manager in Kensington Gardens. A chance meeting in a public area. Since he had an hour to kill, he ducked into a private club to make a discreet telephone call regarding the elimination. Thereafter he indulged in a smoke and a brandy whilst perusing the London newspapers and eavesdropping on a conversation regarding commercial flight. He left the club congratulating himself on investing in a profitable air
transport company six months prior. He fairly rubbed his hands together in wicked delight. “Fearless and forward-thinking. The gateway to success.”

The winter air was frigid, the skies hazy and gray, thick with smoke from the city’s numerous steam stacks, yet nothing blighted the verdant hills and dales and stately trees of Kensington Gardens. Strolling well-kept footpaths, Bingham bristled each time he spied a horse-drawn carriage. The queen had prohibited steam- and petrol-fueled cabs—even private automocoaches—from any of the parks. With luck, it would not be thus by summer. There was a fortune to be made on noiseless electric recreational coaches. Just one of the inventions he hoped to develop and introduce into society.

Mind racing, he nodded in greeting at the fashionably attired pedestrians he passed along the way, his adrenaline spiking as he neared the Albert Memorial. It seemed fitting to meet a key employee of the science museum in the shadow of the prince consort, a progressive thinker who had championed technology. Were Prince Albert alive today, Bingham had no doubt the British Empire would be embracing instead of shunning twentieth-century technology.

Bingham approached the monument precisely on time. Anxious for an updated report on the global race, he hoped Waddington was equally punctual. Indeed the man waited on the designated park bench nearby. Bingham smoothed his greatcoat and eased down on the bench next to his scholarly-looking associate. “Beautiful day,” he said by way of a formal greeting.

“Indeed.”

“How fares the Triple R Tourney?”

Waddington dipped into the inside pocket of his frock coat. “I have a list of participants. Some mentioned the invention they are seeking. Some did not. Do you know one man bragged he would return with Noah’s Ark? Extraordinary.” He discreetly passed Bingham three sheets of
typed notes. “We have almost two hundred official documentations. Then, of course, there are those who merely inquired but did not commit.”

Like Jules Darcy. In an earlier meeting Waddington had mentioned the eldest brother as one of the first to call. The science fiction writer had asked specifics and offered nothing in return. Always in the shadows, that man. Bingham had learned easily enough that the other Darcy siblings had joined the race, although, skimming the list, he saw neither had officially registered. What did catch his eye were at least two scores of competitors citing the Briscoe Bus’s clockwork propulsion engine as their target invention. The bus itself had been destroyed soon after arriving in this century; however, it was rumored that a rogue Peace Rebel had absconded with and hidden away the precious time-traveling engine. That engine alone would be enough to advance Bingham’s personal agenda.

He smiled.

Waddington nodded. “As I said. Extraordinary.”

“You’ll alert me the moment any participant contributes a significant invention for the committee’s approval.”

“Before or after we examine and authenticate the item?”

“Upon delivery. Mr. Waddington,” he said, prompting the man to shift and meet his gaze. “Given my position as benefactor and as a loyal servant of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, surely you can understand why I would want to be involved in the entire process regarding authentication and merit.”

The man blinked, his voice quiet but animated. “But of course, of
course
.”

Just then Bingham’s telepager vibrated in his inner vest pocket. Someone had important news. He returned the list to Waddington. “You have my contact information.” When the man nodded, Bingham stood. “Thank you for meeting with me.” He forced an easy and amiable smile. “Good day to you, sir.”

Without looking back, Bingham circled the monument, then set off down a deserted footpath. He pulled the wireless telepager from his pocket. An ingenious contraption he’d purchased on the black market and spent weeks customizing. There were still glitches and bugs, but the communications device worked more often than not. He flipped open the brass cover and stared at the incoming code. The first digit indicated that the message was from an informant. The next segment—the phone number to call for details. The final portion of the code relayed the reason for the page.

Bloody hell,
yes!
A Freak informant had knowledge of Miss Darcy’s whereabouts.

Bingham snapped shut the cover and set off at a brisk pace. His day was looking up, and Captain Dunkirk, the insolent bastard, was about to earn his money.

Upon boarding the
Maverick
, Amelia had been greeted by a very vocal and seemingly happy Leo. The falcon had flown out of the surrounding woods and swooped in, eager for her attention. Whilst she was stroking her friend’s feathers, Tucker had brushed past her, motioning to StarMan and Axel and demanding a report regarding the airship’s condition.

Considering he’d just returned from a recreational visit to Paris, she sensed that his terse mood took his men by surprise. Not Amelia. The tension between them had been building all morning. He’d admitted to caring about her, which had rattled her far more than she’d let on.

What confused her most was that he had once again made it clear that he could offer no more than a momentary dalliance, yet he seemed irritated that, as of this morning, she’d initiated a physical and emotional retreat. For all his intelligence did he not recognize forward, logical thinking? Because of her liquor-induced ramblings, she’d intimated she was falling in love. Never mind that she had already fallen deeply and madly. Did he not see the wisdom in ending a casual affair that now involved caring and fervent affection? Did he
want
to crush her heart?

Crikey
.

How arrogant she’d been. How ignorant of true love. Foolishly she’d believed she could keep company with a man she’d worshiped for years and then walk away at a moment’s notice with an unscathed heart. She’d realized her
folly in that honeymoon bed. After a restless night, she’d awoken with one clear thought:
Preserve your integrity and heart by establishing a professional relationship
.
No romping
.
Just business
.

Unfortunately, he’d stalled when she’d suggested they strike an agreement regarding his transport and courier services. Heart-pounding intimacy still sizzled between them, even though she’d erected a mental wall, even though she’d embraced each and every reason to find fault or to pick a fight with the man. She’d just have to push harder, stand stronger.
I no longer wish to explore the sensual universe with you. Thank you most kindly. Moving on.

The tricky part was that she could not alienate Tucker entirely. She needed him. She needed the
Maverick
.
Focus, Amelia, focus
. Mount Ceceri. The workshop. The ornithopter. She had to win the jubilee prize for the sake of her family. In the name of her father.

Amelia jerked straight and Leo flew away, watching over her from Birdman Chang’s iron-grilled crow’s nest. She knew the falcon sensed her agitation as she reviewed her agenda and focused on a timeline. Had it been only ten days since Papa had passed? Less than two weeks, and yet she’d savored an adventure of a lifetime and the attentions of a famous outlaw?

Flushed with guilt, Amelia stalked past Tucker, StarMan, and Axel. She circumvented Eli, merely nodding at his “Welcome back, miss.” Nearly tumbling down the ladder in her haste to get to the lower deck. The kitecycle. Never had she been so determined to conquer the impossible. She had to resurrect Bess.