His Clockwork Canary

“Baltic oot there, yeah?” The Squire’s cook, known as McLaughlin, greeted him with a tray of aromatic food. “Ye might consider a cap and mitts fer the future.”

No doubt his hair was wind tossed and his fingers ice-cold as he relieved her of the tray.

“A bowl of hearty cock-a-leekie soup, a wedge of warm brown bread, and a pot of hot tea.” McLaughlin gave a curt nod, then waddled off. “Hope yer friend is up and aboot soon,” she tossed over her shoulder.

As in, hurry up and get the bloody hell out of here? Simon was aware he’d courted gossip by refusing to let the chambermaid into his room, taking the fresh linens and saying he’d fend for himself. The staff knew he’d moved Willie into his room, and they knew the kid was injured or sickly. The owner had seen Simon carrying her upstairs the day she’d been o’blasterated.

Had they been up to some criminal shenanigans?

Were they homosexual lovers?

Was Willie contagious?

Let them ponder and talk. The Darcys had been at the root of gossip for decades. Simon couldn’t care less. What he cared about was seeing Willie fit and under his protection. What he cared about was catching up to that Houdinian, making him pay for his odious attack, confiscating the clockwork propulsion engine, and winning the jubilee prize. Providing for his family and future wife and restoring honor to the Darcy name and his father’s memory. Grabbing a bit of glory and respect for himself. That was what Simon cared about.

Juggling his purchases and the food tray, Simon opened the door to his rented room and froze. What the . . . ? The bed was rumpled and empty, with Wilhelmina nowhere in sight. Heart thudding, he set the tray on a table, then noticed the closed door of the loo. Knocking instead of pounding—or, hell, bursting in—was an effort. “Willie?”

“One moment.”

Her voice sounded weak, but at least she was all right. Relatively speaking.

Simon shrugged out of his coat. He rubbed warmth back into his icy hands whilst keeping an eye on that bloody door and listening for an ominous crash or thud. He heard nothing. One moment stretched to three or four. “Willie?” No answer. “Mina?” Dammit!

The door creaked open. “Sorry.” She cradled her injured arm as she moved gingerly toward a chair. “I wanted to wash up a bit.”

“You couldn’t wait until I got back? What if you’d tripped? Passed out?”

“I managed,” she said, fumbling to tighten the sash of the robe she’d pulled on—a hideous, oversized dressing gown, manly like the rest of the Canary’s wardrobe.

Brow raised, Simon procured the newly purchased soap from his bag. “For what it’s worth, I brought you a fresh bar of soap.”

She sniffed and frowned. “It smells girly.”

“You are a girl, Mina.”

“Not outside of this room. And I prefer Willie. Mina . . . she’s not cut out for this world.”

What the devil?

She nodded toward the food. “Is this for me?”

“It is. Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign.” Simon abandoned the soap, and eased into a seat across from hers, wondering at her distant tone and manner. “Something happen whilst I was out?”

“No.”

He didn’t believe her. He wanted to pry, but he also wanted her to fill her belly. The faster she regained full strength and health, the sooner they could move on and resume their expedition. “Need help?” he asked as she tried buttering the bread, one-handed, left-handed.

“I’ll manage.”

That phrase was beginning to grate. Without asking, he poured them both a cup of tea, then sat back as she peppered her soup. She’d scrubbed her face and combed her hair, tucking the shaggy locks behind her ears and exposing creamy earlobes that he found quite lovely. He remembered suckling those soft lobes—teasing, seducing, making her squirm with desire.

Simon’s own desire flared and he stifled a colorful curse. There was nothing provocative about her attire, nothing overtly alluring about her fresh face and unfashionable hair, yet he burned to make love to this woman. Shifting, he sought distraction via the tabloid he abhorred.

“You purchased the London Informer?” she asked.

“I did.”

“But you favor the Victorian Times.”

“I bought this for you.” He peered around the newssheet, noting her look of surprise and the blush of her cheeks.

“Any news regarding the Triple R Tourney?” she asked, dipping a hunk of bread in her soup.

“Front page.”

“Headline?”

“‘Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

“Titillating,” she said around a mouthful. “Dawson’s work.”

“Who’s Dawson?”

“Artemis Dawson. Managing editor. My boss. The one who insisted I get the scoop on you and your quest, the manipulative sod.”

“Ah.”

“What else?” she asked.

Curious himself, Simon read the article aloud. “‘According to an inside source, Her Majesty Queen Victoria has embraced the Triple R Tourney sponsored by an anonymous benefactor via the British Science Museum. Celebrating inventions of historical significance not only honors Prince Albert’s passion for science, but maintains the queen’s conviction to focus on past accomplishments rather than encourage the pursuit and development of anachronistic marvels beyond our natural scope. Old Worlders celebrate any cause for the reclusive queen’s enthusiasm and therefore rejoice in the mounting excitement of the Triple R. Outspoken New Worlders continue to condemn the suppression of technological knowledge and ideological preachings of the twentieth-century Peace Rebels. Rumblings of an underground rebellion have jubilee coordinators on their proverbial toes, although they have assured our source that the threat of violence will not dampen the festivities. Voice your opinion to the editor. The Triple R Tourney—Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

Simon furrowed his brow and skimmed the article a second time. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Which part?”

“The underground rebellion part.” Simon eyed Willie closely. Since his return, she’d yet to meet his gaze. “Are you part of the Freak Fighter movement?”

“What do you know of the Freak Fighters?”

“Very little. Rumors. News bits.”

“I do not advocate violent measures.”

“But you are a part of the movement.”

That earned her full attention. “What if I am?”

“Just want to know where I stand. What I’m in for.”

“My social and political convictions have nothing to do with you, Simon Darcy.”

“Oh, but they do, sweetheart.” Simon leaned forward, his gaze intense. “You are going to marry me, Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

CHAPTER 12