His Clockwork Canary

handsome. Sinfully handsome. She blocked several inappropriate thoughts and frowned at the infuriating devil. “I thought you were nursing breakfast.”

“You thought wrong. Don’t let me stop you,” he said as she hesitated on the threshold.

Willie considered fleeing, but she had not been to Edinburgh in ages, and the lure to celebrate her father in his better days was much too strong. Turning her back on Simon, she entered the dimly lit holy place and hustled past monuments, stone pillars, and tucked-away chapels. The interior was massive, comprising several arches and vaulted ceilings. She did not need to look to know that Simon was assessing the magnificent architecture. Intending a thoughtful moment of silence for her father, Willie sat in a simple wooden chair several rows from an unoccupied pulpit. She ignored Simon, hoping he’d continue on, losing himself in one or another engineering aspect of the renovation.

As her dismal luck would have it, he perched on the chair next to her.

“Religious?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“Not particularly,” she whispered. “Although I am tolerant of all religions just as I am tolerant of all nationalities and races.”

He slid her a look and she cursed herself for sounding bitter. “You think I am not?” he asked softly.

“I think, like most people, you have boundaries.”

“But you do not?”

“I do not.”

“You’re an arrogant one,” Simon said.

Dawson had made the same accusation. She had never thought of herself as thus. The notion rankled. “As are you,” she retorted. Although she had made it clear that she did not appreciate the way he encroached on her personal space, he continued to do so.

“You claim we’ve never met,” he said, shifting and staring hard at her profile. “Yet you profess to know my beliefs and practices. Tell me, Canary, are you psychic? Do you possess some sort of mental telepathy or trickery that helps you tap into another person’s thoughts? Is that what makes you such a keen interviewer?”

He was being sarcastic, trying to provoke her, but he was also quite close to the mark.

Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. “Can you read my thoughts?’

“I cannot,” she answered honestly, edging away and cursing the rapid pace of her pulse.

“That is good. This moment they would not be to your liking. Or perhaps they would,” he added with a wicked smile.

As chilled as she was, Willie heated from head to toe. “You are insufferable, Darcy. Depraved and . . . irreverent,” she said, indicating their holy surroundings.

“And you, Canary, are a dichotomy. Dodgy and heartless.”

“Heartless?”

Someone shushed them.

Slouching lower in her seat, Willie glared at Simon. “And that harsh assessment is based on what?” Did he think Freaks were without feelings? Without a soul? Many Vics did.

He started to say something, then reconsidered. “Why are we here?”

“I am here to honor my father.”

“Did he pass?”

“Not in body, no. But his mind . . .” She shook her head. “His mind wanders.”

“And this disgusts you?” Simon asked, sounding irritated.

“Of course not,” she snapped in a hushed voice. “Why would you say that?”

“‘Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world,’” he recited from the Informer. “‘Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family, Ashford’s inventions paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect, wealth, or fame.’”

Simon glared down at her. “You intimated that my father was a failure and featherbrain when he was indeed quite brilliant, just unfocused. His mind wandered as well. On to the next great idea before perfecting the last. Clearly such folly must frustrate or disgust you; otherwise why would you sneer at a good man’s efforts?”

She had not sneered. Dawson had sneered, revising her initial words in order to sell more newspapers. Yet, defending herself was not an option. She could not afford to expose herself by expressing regret over that article. She could not afford any intimacy whatsoever. She braced her spine and sniffed. “I do what I must to survive,” she said in a tight voice. “For instance, I am here, with you, on this suspect expedition because I was given no choice. Clearly you find my company offensive. Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

He blinked.

Willie buttoned her coat. “My time here is ruined.” Staying in character, she regarded Simon with irritation whilst adjusting her scarves in anticipation of the cold. “You, sir, are a selfish . . . knob. You squandered the power of the Darcy name, focusing on your own glory, much like your cousin. I cannot believe I have been saddled with touting the adventure of a Flatliner.” With that, she stood and left the cathedral. It was not the confrontation she craved, but it was one of importance. The Simon Darcy she had known and loved had evolved into a self-absorbed man. She’d kept tabs on him over the years. How could she not? He was a Darcy and, by virtue of his heritage, influential in global matters . . . or at least he could be. On numerous occasions she’d convinced herself that her obsessive interest in Simon was social and political, and not of the amorous nature. She did not appreciate the rekindling of her old affections. She did not welcome the physical attraction or the feminine quirks he inspired.

She had spent far too long this morning lingering in a bath. Trying to scrub the ever-present ink from her fingers, soaping the grime and scents of the city and the pressroom from her person. She’d fussed with her hair in an effort to soften the boyish style. All because, for the first time in years, she’d longed to be pretty. She’d realized her folly whilst almost forgetting to bind her breasts. She’d been set to sabotage her male cover in order to look more appealing, more feminine.

For Simon.

Fortunately, the insanity had quickly passed and she’d gone out of her way to alter her appearance more than ever. In doing so, she had applied too much of the tanning agent. Now her face had an orange tint and the creases of her fingers and palms were stained. Hence she’d brushed her hair forward and kept her hands busy, balled, or gloved. Never had the ruse been so exhausting. Although who was she fooling? Certainly not Simon. At the very least he knew she was a woman.

Just then he appeared at her side and she realized she’d faltered at a lamppost. As if she didn’t know which way to turn or where to go. Indeed, she’d been lost in her thoughts.

“Here.” He offered her a pair of gloves. An exquisite set of dark blue wool gloves that looked as if they had never been worn.

“Is this where you slap me and challenge me to a duel for attacking your integrity?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Don’t be absurd. Last night I noticed that your gloves are quite worn, and I happened to have an extra pair. Actually, Fletcher packed three spare pair in addition to far too many other clothes. I do believe he equates Scotland with the North Pole.”

“You employ domestics?” she asked, still staring at the gloves. Given his more-than-comfortable lodgings, she should not have been surprised that his income allowed him the luxury. Still, it only accentuated the social and financial gap between them.

“One. Fletcher acts in the capacity of valet and cook, although I do not think of him as a domestic so much as a pesky caretaker. Of my home. Of me. Take the damned gloves, Canary.”

She knew not what to think of the gesture of goodwill, but she had been raised not to snub a kindness. “If you’re sure you won’t need them.”

“I’m sure.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She quickly traded her own gloves for his, her eyes widening upon realizing they were lined with . . . cashmere? They must have cost a pretty pence. “I’ll return them when—”

“Consider the gloves a gift. Albeit an ill-fitting one,” he said.

“I do not mind that they are too large.”