His Clockwork Canary

That snagged Simon’s attention, if not sympathy. Knowing he was a person of interest buffered many a recent sting. He shifted his gaze from the arrogant pressman to Thimblethumper’s Shoppe. “Advance my cause with a certain merchant, Willie G., and you have a deal.”

•   •   •

Astounding.

Willie was still shaking in her boots minutes after Simon had pinned her to a wall. She’d been so stunned by his aggression that she’d blurted a curse from her youth. It was as if the physical interaction with Simon had thrown her back in time. Gads! She hadn’t expected their first encounter in years to be easy, but she’d been knocked arse over teakettle and blown to the moon and back. How could one manage combustible feelings of anger, resentment, and knee-buckling ardor whilst maintaining a calm and cheeky facade? A most difficult challenge, although not as difficult as maintaining her boyish guise. Simon Darcy seduced every fiber of Willie’s feminine being. Much like a moth to the proverbial flame—only this time she refused to get burned.

She’d suspected trouble the moment she’d spied him loping down the steps of his modest yet keenly located Georgian town house. When she’d last seen him, twelve years prior, he’d been a free-spirited, handsome young college student. Now he was a devastatingly gorgeous, finely built man who emitted an arrogant streak and a dash of danger. She’d fairly swooned when he’d smiled and chatted up a ragamuffin newsboy hawking papers on the corner. That smile. Those lips. The lips that had whispered endearments into her ears. The mouth that had brushed over hers, melting her limbs and searing her difficult world with tender passion.

After boarding the train, she’d slumped in her seat, feigning interest in the business pages of the stuffy London Daily whilst sneaking peeks at Simon, who’d been reading the equally stuffy Victorian Times. How dashing he looked in an unconventional though precisely tailored suit. A daring style that bordered on ModVic—Victorian attire influenced by the futuristic threads of the “love” generation. Pointy-toed Beatle boots, black and burgundy striped trousers, an embroidered velvet Nehru frock coat featuring gold buttons and a stand-up collar. His black wool greatcoat and matching derby were more conventional, though the paisley winter scarf hinted of a rebellious nature. His longish unkempt golden brown hair clashed slightly with his darker, impeccably and closely trimmed beard and yet somehow matched his overall roguish style.

But mostly Willie was mesmerized by Simon’s sinfully handsome face.

When he’d whirled and she’d locked gazes with him, up close and dead on, the breath had whooshed from her lungs. Her traitorous heart had swelled and raced, and her world had tilted in a most fierce and troubling manner.

Astonishing.

Appalling!

How could she be so disgustingly attracted to a man who’d rejected her based upon her race? As someone who’d grown more aware of prejudice and injustice as she’d come of age . . . as someone who worked surreptitiously yet vehemently to obliterate intolerance, she felt that ancient snub sting with blinding ferocity. How disconcerting that her stomach fluttered and her pulse skipped with amorous yearnings. How massively revolting.

Balled fists stuffed deep in the pockets of her oversized duster, Willie warred with her conflicting emotions as she followed Simon inside his point of destination. Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities was a curious place indeed. She glanced around the tiny store, noting various antiquities and peculiar collectibles. On any other day she might have been fascinated by what looked to be a seventeenth-century lantern clock or the doll-sized clockwork automaton that, when activated, scrawled a message with her quill pen upon the page of her vintage lap desk. However, this moment a replication of a Mod toy captured Willie’s rapt attention. The palm-sized double-disk and string device, known by many as a bandalore, had been around for centuries, although it would not gain vast popularity until the 1960s, and by then would be called a yo-yo. Willie’s mother had traveled back in time with one—something she’d fiddled with to alleviate stress or when she was puzzling through a problem. Willie had been charmed by the toy and had been severely disappointed when her mother had passed the yo-yo down to her son. Then again, Wesley had always been Michelle Goodenough’s favorite.

Someone tugged on Willie’s scarf, yanking her out of the past. “Are you with me or not, Canary?”

She blinked up at Simon’s irritated expression and realized she’d lagged behind. Without comment Willie brushed past him and ahead, spying the balding head of a man hunched over a desk and tinkering with some geared gadget.

“Thimblethumper?” Simon asked whilst nudging her aside.

“What can I do for ya?” the elderly man asked without looking up from his work.

Simon slid him a piece of folded paper.

Thimblethumper set aside his tool and swapped one set of loupes on his cumbersome spectacles for another. Even with the help of thick lenses, he squinted at whatever was written on the page. His right eye twitched; then, after a tense moment, he looked up and frowned. “Who are ya?”

“Simon Darcy.”

Thimblethumper clenched his jaw and narrowed his milky gaze. “And your friend?”

“Associate,” Simon amended without sparing her a glance. “Mr. G.”

“A Darcy, huh?” he noted, ignoring Willie. “One of the Darcys?”

“Fortunately or unfortunately,” Simon said whilst sweeping off his derby, “but undoubtedly.”

“Bane of my damned existence. The lot of you,” he said cryptically, then, “Close kin to the Darcy who blew himself up recently?”

“That would be my father,” Simon said as he shoved an impatient hand through his hair. “And to be more precise, he blew up a rocket ship and suffered the consequences of said accident.”

Willie bristled. Even though Simon wasn’t looking at her, she knew that correction had been lobbed in her infernal direction. As if she hadn’t done her research properly. She had, by gads. It was Dawson who’d spun her words for the worse.

“Sorry for your loss,” Thimblethumper grumbled, then blew out a breath. “Guess that means you’re related to Jules, which explains this list. Damned agency’s a pain in my tookus,” the older man complained. “I’m retired.”

“But knowledgeable. I need to speak with one of these people. Can you help?”

Thimblethumper drummed his fingers on the dusty desktop, clearly perturbed, clearly unwilling.

What people? Which agency? Willie ached to touch the reluctant merchant, to trace a memory and to snag a piece of pertinent data, but with the deep desk and a mound of gadgets and tools between them there was no clear and natural way. Unless . . .

Willie noted the time, then took off her gloves. She pulled her worn leather wallet from the inner pocket of her coat and procured a tantalizing bribe. Strangelove had provided her with a significant bankroll, finances to see her through the sabbatical from the Informer, finances to advance his cause. “We’d be obliged if you could aid us in our search.” As was her usual quandary as a reporter, she was fishing for facts in a dark and mysterious sea. She had no idea who or what they were searching for—but Thimblethumper did.

She offered the money, hoping the exchange would allow her enough time to mentally connect and time- trace. She was focused, prepared, but then Simon shifted, his arm brushing hers. Her concentration shattered just as Thimblethumper snatched the money. Had the merchant touched her at all? She couldn’t be sure. She’d been compromised by the merest connection with Simon. Not that she’d seen into his memories. Just like when Simon had snatched her from the path of the automocoach, when he’d rushed her into the alley and trapped her against the wall. She’d been too aware of the present to connect with the past. Too emotionally unsettled. Too sexually primed.

Pocketing the bribe, Thimblethumper trailed a finger down Simon’s list, a list shielded from Willie’s view. “Dead. Missing.” He paused, then grunted. “Underground.”

“In hiding?” Simon asked.

“On the job.”

“Where?” Willie asked just as the bell above the door tinkled, announcing a new customer.

“Edinburgh.”