His Clockwork Canary

Willie forced her knees steady and willed her tone not to spike in pitch. “I’m not partial to blokes,” she said, assuming Strangelove had a predilection for young men.

“Neither am I.” Still smiling, he gestured to her worn and faded chaise. “Do sit, Miss Goodenough.”

It was, in fact, good advice, as her legs fairly buckled at the mention of her real name. Practiced at pretending and desperate to maintain her guise, Willie slouched against the chaise in her lackadaisical boyish style, whilst contemplating potential weapons within her reach. “I’m afraid your eyesight’s impaired by that mask, sir. The name’s Willie G. and I’m a chap same as you.”

“Spare me the pretense. I’ve neither the time nor patience.” Strangelove sat in a chair with the grace of a titled gentleman. His dark clothes, cape, gloves, and top hat were of fine quality, his speech and manner refined. “Wilhelmina Goodenough,” he said, leveling her with a narrowed gaze meant to intimidate. “Daughter of Michelle and Michael Goodenough, a twentieth-century security expert and a nineteenth-century merchant. A Mod and a Vic. Which makes you, Miss Goodenough, aka Willie G., aka the Clockwork Canary, a first-generation Freak.”

She sat frozen, her lungs convulsing in trepidation. He knew who she was and, worse, what she was. Born of parents from two dimensions, all Freaks possessed various supernatural abilities that magnified and sharpened with age. Feared and/or shunned by polite society, her altered race was denied numerous rights, ofttimes including the opportunity to pursue the profession of their choosing. Hence her ten-year ruse. Strangelove knew she was a woman, knew she was a Freak. Did he know about her time-tracing skills? Did he mean to exploit her gift of tapping into people’s memories? His intent was clearly nefarious. At the very least the wretched toff had the ability to shatter her sculpted world. “If you mean to blackmail me—”

“I do.”

“Pressmen make very little money.”

“Obviously.” Strangelove glanced around the clean but cramped and cluttered living space Willie called home. “I’ve no need of your exiguous finances, Miss Goodenough, but I do require your time and skills. I have it on good authority that Simon Darcy is joining the Triple R Tourney. I want you to join him on his quest and to report to me the moment he’s acquired whatever historical technological invention he seeks.”

Willie stared. Yet another person intent on pushing her into Simon’s world. The timing was surreal, if not suspicious. “What makes you think—”

“You had an illicit affair with Darcy when you were but sixteen,” he persisted. “Surely you can charm your way back into his life. Although I suggest a gown instead of trousers. And your hair—”

“I have no intention of revealing my true identity,” she blurted. Never mind serving up her heart on a silver platter. Her gaze skipped to a sentimental keepsake propped upon a fringed pillow on the corner chair, the only girly item in the room. A doe-eyed china doll given to her by Simon. The only evidence that he’d ever been part of her life. How did Strangelove know about the brief but torrid love affair that crushed her soul? No one, aside from her parents and brother, knew.

Or so she’d thought.

“Then concoct a ruse as the Clockwork Canary. I care not how you follow and report on Simon Darcy. Only that you do.”

Willie met and held the man’s steady and unsettling gaze. A man of purpose. A man of power. She tested her limits. “And if I don’t?”

“I will obliterate your ruse, Miss Goodenough. Rob you of your reputation and livelihood, your journalistic means of perpetuating the Freaks’ emancipation, as well as your ability to support your father and to shield your rebellious brother from harm’s way.” He smiled when she tensed. “Ah, yes. Your Freak brother, Wesley. Did I fail to mention my knowledge of his gift and crimes?”

Who was this man? How was it that he knew so much about her and her family? If she could touch him and focus, she could time-trace into his past, experience his memories as though she were an invisible bystander. Learning pieces of his life, his secrets, his deeds, might help to reveal his true identity and purpose. Why was the word assassination tied to one of Strangelove’s memories? Was this a past transgression or a plotted crime? She stole a peek at her cuff watch.

One focused touch . . .

But the man kept his distance, even as he tossed her a shiny rectangular device. “This is a telecommunicator. I will brief you on the practical use and codes. It is a direct line to me. Show it to no one, especially Darcy.”

Her pulse flared. The Darcy family was famous for their association with the Time Voyager. Simon himself had garnered a fair amount of attention regarding Project Monorail. He was, in fact, quite unpopular with Old Worlders. Gaze fixed on the futuristic device, Willie feigned nonchalance. “Do you mean Simon harm?”

“Only if he stands in between me and a certain invention. You can assure Darcy’s safety by using your wiles, your gift, and my telecommunicator, Miss Goodenough.”

Oh, how she wished he’d stop calling her that. How could so much misfortune rain down upon her in one blasted day? First Dawson had threatened her job if she did not get a story on Simon, and now this man, this Strangelove, threatened her reputation, the safety of her father, her brother, and the man she had once loved.

Willie balled her fists, damned fate, and searched her soul. She would do anything to protect her father and brother. As for Simon, as much as she resented him, she did not wish him harm. Putting her heart at risk seemed a trivial sacrifice. But she was not a pawn. Never a pawn. Perhaps she could protect all those at risk and advance her own interests as well. “I’ll do as you ask, Strangelove, but considering it means a sabbatical from my regular job at the Informer, I have a price.”

The vexing toff studied her at length. “You’re in no position to bargain, but I will do what I must to advance my goal. If you cross me, however—”

“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.”

CHAPTER 3

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.