Her Sky Cowboy (40 page)

Simon’s gut cramped as he obsessed on the article that had haunted him for days. For the billionth time, he cursed the Clockwork Canary, lead pressman for the
Informer
, as heartless. The insensitive print blurred before Simon’s eyes as his blood burned. Instead of tossing the infernal sensationalized reporting of his father’s death, he had ripped the article from the London scandal sheet, then folded and tucked the inflammatory announcement into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, next to his bloody tattered heart.

For all of his guilt and grief upon learning of his beloved, albeit eccentric, father’s hideous demise, Simon had stuffed his emotions down deep. His mother and younger sister would be devastated. Especially his sister, Amelia, who shared their papa’s fascination with flying and who’d lived and worked alongside the old man on Ashford—the family’s country estate. For them, Simon would be a rock. As would his ever unflappable twin brother, Jules.

Simon had made the trip from his own home in London down to Kentshire posthaste. He’d remained stoic throughout the constable’s investigation of the catastrophic accident as well as the poorly attended funeral. He’d even managed a calm demeanor whilst listening to the solicitor’s reading of the will. Unlike his dramatic and panic-stricken mother. Although upon this occasion, he could not blame the intensity of her outburst.

The Darcys were penniless.

Even after sleeping on the shocking revelation, Simon couldn’t shake the magnitude of his father’s folly. His mind
and heart warred with the knowledge, with the implication, and with the outcome. Because of Simon’s ill timing and arrogance, his mother and sister were now destitute.

“Do not assume blame.”

Simon breathed deep as his brother limped into the cramped confines of the family dining room. “Do not assume to know my mind.”

“Has grief struck you addled, brother?” Dark brow raised, Jules sat and reached for the coffeepot. Like their father, the Darcy twins had always preferred a brewed coffee over blended teas.

Simon flashed back on one of his father’s quirky inventions—an electric bean-grinding percolator—which might have proven useful except, as a staunch Old Worlder, their mother had refused to allow Ashford to be wired with electricity.

Destitute and living in the dark ages
.

Riddled with emotions, he pocketed the blasted scandal sheet and met his twin’s steady gaze. But of course Jules would know his mind. The older brother by mere minutes, he always seemed to have the jump on Simon. Even so far as guessing or knowing his thoughts. Simon was often privy to Jules’s notions as well and sometimes they even had what their little sister referred to as “twin conversations.” Whether spurred by intuition or some bizarre fashion of telepathy, they often finished each other’s sentences. It drove Amelia mad.

“I could’ve been working alongside my mentor on England’s touted engineering marvel, Tower Bridge,” Simon said. “Instead I chose to pursue my own
brilliant
idea.”

“You doubt the merit of a fuel-efficient public transportation system high above the congested streets of London?”

“No.” His monorail system inspired by the Book of Mods would have eased ground traffic and air pollution caused by the rising population and number of steam-belching and petrol-guzzling automocoaches. It would have
provided an affordable mass transit alternative to London’s underground rail service.

It would have afforded Simon the recognition and respect he craved.

“I regret that I boasted prematurely about my project. Had I not bragged, Papa would not have invested the family’s fortune.” Sickened, Simon dragged his hands though his longish hair. “Bloody hell, Jules, what was the old fool thinking?”

“That he believed in you.”

“Then when the project failed due to political corruption, I teletyped Papa posthaste.” Simon rambled on, suddenly unable to contain his angst. “Railed against the injustice. Wallowed in self-pity. What was
I
thinking?”

“That he would damn the eyes of the narrow-minded and manipulative Old Worlders. That he’d side with you. Ease your misery.” Jules looked away. “He was good at that. Building us up. Making us believe we were capable of whatever our hearts and minds desired.”

For a moment, Simon set aside his own heavy remorse and focused on his brother, who had always been darker in coloring and nature than the more fair and frivolous Simon. Though presently residing in London, where he worked as an author of science fiction novels, Jules Darcy was retired military, a decorated war hero. Details revolving around the skirmish that had mangled his legs and left him with a permanent limp were classified. The period of rehabilitation had been extensive and also shrouded in secrecy. Even Simon was clueless as to those peculiar days of Jules’s mysterious life. Although he was often privy to his brother’s moods and inclinations, he’d never been able to read Jules’s mind regarding the covert nature of his service to the Crown.

“Coffee’s bitter,” Jules said, setting aside his cup and reaching for the sugar bowl.

Everything had tasted bitter to Simon for days, but he
knew what his brother meant. “Eliza made the coffee. Be warned: She cooked as well.”

Frowning, Jules glanced toward the sideboard and the steaming porcelain tureens. Though an excellent housekeeper, Eliza was famously ill equipped in the kitchen. “What happened to Concetta?”

The skilled though crotchety cook who had been in their mother’s employ for months. “Mother dismissed her this morning. Said we could no longer afford her services.”

“Did she not offer the woman a month’s notice?”

“She did. Along with excellent references. But Concetta’s prideful. She ranted in her native tongue, and though I do not know Italian, I understood the intention. She’s leaving today.”

“Damnation,” Jules said.

In this instance, Simon knew the man’s thoughts. Things were indeed dire if Anne Darcy, a conservative woman obsessed with old ways and upholding appearances, was dismissing servants. Another kick to Simon’s smarting conscience.

Just then Eliza’s husband, Harry, appeared with two folded newspapers in hand. “As requested,” he said, handing the
Victorian Times
to Simon, then turning to Jules. “And the
London Daily
for you, sir.” The older man glanced at the sideboard, winced, then lowered his voice. “I could fetch you some fresh bread and jam.”

If anyone knew about the poor quality of his wife’s cooking, it was Harry.

Simon quirked a smile he didn’t feel. “We’ll be fine, Harry. No worries.” The man nodded and left, and Simon looked at his brother. “We’ll have to sample something, you know. Otherwise we’ll hurt Eliza’s feelings.”

“I know.” Distracted, Jules seemed absorbed with the front page of the
Daily
.

Simon immediately turned to the headlines of the
Times
—a respectable broadsheet unlike the
Informer
.

Simon absorbed the significance, the possibilities. “Bloody hell.”

“I assume you’re reading what I’m reading,” Jules said. “News like this must have hit the front page of every newspaper in the British Empire.”

“And beyond.” Simon fixated on the headline, specifically the words “FAME AND FORTUNE.” He wanted both. For his family. For himself.

“Pardon the interruption, sirs.” Contrite, Harry had reappeared with three small envelopes. “It would seem sorrow regarding the loss of Lord Ashford has muddled my mind. These were in my pocket. I picked them up at the post whilst in the village this morning.” He handed an envelope to each of the brothers, then placed the third near their sister’s place setting. “This one is for Miss Amelia,” he said. “That is, if she joins you this morning.”

Since their father’s death, Amelia had been grieving in private.

“We’ll see that she gets it,” Jules said. “Thank you, Harry.”

The man left and Simon struggled not to think of their young sister locked away in her bedroom, mourning, worrying. Yes, she was a grown woman, twenty years of age, but she’d led a sheltered life, and though obstinate as hell, Amelia was tenderhearted. At least half of Simon’s worries would end if she’d relent and marry a good and financially stable man. Alas, Amelia’s fiery independence was both a blessing and a curse. Frustrated, Simon focused back on what appeared to be an invitation. “No return address.”

He withdrew the missive in tandem with Jules and read aloud. “Given your family’s reputation as innovators, adventurers, and visionaries—”

“—you have been specifically targeted and are hereby enthusiastically invited to participate in a global race for fame and fortune,” Jules finished.

“Royal rejuvenation.”

“Colossal monetary prize.”

“Legendary technological invention,” they said together.

“Is your missive signed?” Simon asked.

“No. Yours?”

“No.” He glanced from the mysterious note to the
Times
. “Apparently the anonymous benefactor thought us worthy of a personal invitation. Do you think it is because of our association with Briscoe Darcy?”

“Yet again it’s assumed that because Papa knew the Time Voyager, he must have had significant knowledge regarding the infamous time machine.”

“Also natural to assume Papa would have passed along that information to us,” Simon said, “which he did not.”

“No, he did not.”

“Unless…” Simon looked at the envelope next to Amelia’s empty plate.

“If Papa had pertinent information regarding the construction and design of Briscoe’s time machine, he wouldn’t have burdened Little Bit with such knowledge,” Jules said. “Too dangerous.”

Indeed. No invention was more historically
significant
than the one constructed by their distant cousin Briscoe Darcy. A time machine used to catapult Briscoe into the future (1969), thereby enabling a group of twentieth-century scientists, engineers, and artists known as the Peace Rebels to dimension-hop back to the past (1856) in a similar device dubbed the Briscoe Bus.

Intending to inspire peace and to circumvent future atrocities and global destruction, the Peace Rebels preached cautionary tales throughout the world, most notably in America and Europe. Unfortunately, a few Mods (twentieth-century Peace Rebels) were corrupted and soon leaked advanced knowledge that led to the construction and black market sales of anachronistic weapons, transportation and communications. The globe divided into two political factions—Old Worlders and New Worlders. Those who resisted futuristic knowledge and those who embraced it. The Peace War broke out and the nineteenth century as it should have been was forever changed.

The Victorian Age meets the Age of Aquarius.

For years and for political reasons, Simon and Jules resisted the urge to explore anything to do with Briscoe Darcy or time travel. Not to mention time travel had been outlawed. However, this Race for Royal Rejuvenation, coupled with their family’s unfortunate circumstance, motivated Simon to break their childhood pact. “It is true Papa never shared any secrets with me regarding Briscoe. However, I do have an idea of how to get my hands on an original clockwork propulsion engine.”

Jules raised a lone brow. “As do I.”

“Are we in accord?”

“We are. But first, let me teletype this P. B. Waddington as well as a personal contact within the science museum. I want verification that this treasure hunt is indeed official.”

Simon’s heart raced as his brother left the room. With
every fiber of his being, he knew the response would be affirmative. His brain churned and plotted. Only one of them needed to find and deliver the clockwork propulsion engine in order to avenge their father’s name and secure the family’s fortune. But, by God, Simon wanted it to be him.

C
ITY OF
L
ONDON
T
HE
L
ONDON
I
NFORMER

“Willie!”

Wilhelmina Goodenough, known socially as Willie G and professionally as the Clockwork Canary, refrained from thunking her forehead to her desk at the booming voice of her managing editor. She did, however, roll her eyes. She could always tell by the timbre of Artemis Dawson’s bellow if she was being summoned for a good reason or bad. This was bad. Given her foul mood of late, this could well mean a bloody ugly row.

As lead journalist for the
London Informer
, Britain’s most popular tabloid, Willie had a desk in close proximity to Dawson’s office. Lucky her. Or rather
him
, as was public perception.

For the past ten years, Willie had been masquerading as a young man. Sometimes, she was amazed that she’d gotten away with the ruse for so long. Then again, she was slight of frame as opposed to voluptuous. What womanly curves she did possess were easily concealed beneath binding and baggy clothing. Her typical attire consisted of loose linen shirts with flouncy sleeves, a waistcoat one size too big, and an Americanized duster as opposed to a tailored frock coat. Striped baggy trousers and sturdy boots completed the boyish ensemble. When outdoors, instead of a bowler or top hat, Willie pulled on a newsboy cap and tugged the brim low to shade her face. She’d chopped her hair long ago, a shaggy style that hung to her chin and often fell over her
eyes. She was by no means fashionable but she did have a style all her own.