His Clockwork Canary

EXCLUSIVE SCOOP—THE CLOCKWORK CANARY TO SING DARCY’S EXPLOITS!

The Informer’s star reporter has taken a sabbatical in order to chronicle the exploits of the Honorable Simon Darcy, London’s most controversial civil engineer (and relation of the infamous TIME VOYAGER), as he joins the Race for Royal Rejuvenation—now known as the Triple R Tourney! The Clockwork Canary will record a firsthand account of Mr. Darcy’s adventures, to be published in serial form upon completion of the expedition. Prepare to be dazzled by tales of risque romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue! Will Mr. Darcy dazzle and deliver like his notorious cousin? Or, like his unfortunate father, will his dreams go up in smoke?

Simon’s temper sparked and snapped like the malfunctioning turbine on the Flying Cloud. Strangling the Canary would only land him in prison—or worse. In addition, the blasted pressman possessed knowledge that Simon very much needed. Tempering the urge to kill, he glanced over the top of the paper at the red-faced sensationalist. “If I were a violent man—”

“But you are not.”

“How do you know?”

The kid’s cheeks burned even brighter. “I’ve done my research. You have no prior record or history of physical violence.”

“There’s always a first time.” Simon folded the paper and shoved it in under his arm. He leaned in, glowering down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed, ruddy-skinned bohemian. An intimidating move meant to allow him closer, intimate proximity. His body responded in a familiar, intimate way. Bleeding hell. Mina?

“I did not write it,” the kid gritted out. “That particular article, that is. My editor assigned someone to take my place. Whilst I’m away. With you.”

Simon merely watched as the Canary fidgeted beneath her coat. Her coat. Oh, yes. He would bet his comfortable town house this pressman was indeed a bird. And quite possibly his former betrothed. Question was, what was she playing at?

“Did you purchase our tickets?” Willie asked as a whistle blew and a conductor invited passengers on board.

“I said I would.”

Looking anxious to distance herself from Simon, she tightened her grip on her valise and tugged down the brim of her floppy cap. “What car—”

“The same as mine.”

“Row—”

“Compartment.”

“But—”

“My expedition. My rules,” Simon said. “I don’t want you out of my sight, Canary. Deal or no deal, I don’t trust you.”

•   •   •

Flabbergasted. That’s what she was. Flabbergasted, that fate could be so cruel. Jaw clenched so as not to spew curses, Willie moved into the private compartment, a confined area consisting of opposing upholstered bench seats, hinged doors on either side, and windows affording a view of the passing scenery. The inner door snicked shut, effectively trapping her within close quarters with Simon Darcy for the next nine hours.

Gads.

Simon’s valise was already stored in an overhead rack alongside his neatly folded greatcoat and dashing black derby. He was seated facing north.

Sitting next to the infuriatingly charismatic engineer was unthinkable. Sitting across from him was nearly as daunting. She’d be forced to look at him for the entire journey. Worse, he’d have a clear and close view of her.

Irritated, Willie eyed the rack over the empty bench and considered the difficulty of hoisting her weighty carpetbag over her head.

“Need help?” Simon asked, sounding amused.

Had he known she was a woman, he would have taken her baggage even before they’d boarded the train. Apparently, he merely thought her a puny-muscled bloke. At least her masculine ruse was secure. For now. Feeling Simon’s eyes burning into her back, she plopped the bag on the end of the bench and hunkered down next to it. “I prefer to keep my belongings within easy reach.”

His mouth quirked. “Might want to take off some of those layers,” he said, indicating her outerwear. “It’s a long ride.”

“Mind your own comfort, Darcy,” she said, even as she broke into a sweat. “As to the duration of this rail trip, if you had booked passage on a private or commercial airship, we could have cut our travel time by half, if not more.”

“Look at it this way, Canary. More time to get to know me. I assume you intend to pick my brain as part of your expose.”

Interrogation was indeed part of her plan. Not only for the serialized account that would ensure her position at the Informer, but as a way of learning more about Simon’s targeted invention of historical significance in order to appease Strangelove and to protect her family. The task was daunting, albeit exhilarating. “Indeed I do have questions,” she said as the train jerked out of the station.

“As do I.” He leveled her with a hard stare that made her weak in the knees. “What did you learn from Thimblethumper?”

Willie forced herself not to fidget or to look away. She’d spent most of the night wide-eyed and weary with thoughts regarding Simon Darcy, many of them sexual. This man had stroked her bare flesh. He’d made her body sing and soar. He’d made her weep with the beauty of their tender albeit scandalous lovemaking. The memories were vivid and mesmerizing and she’d spent several restless hours talking herself out of a rekindled infatuation . . . and failing. In the hazy delirium of near sleep she’d concocted a plan on how to deal with the man as well as her unwelcome yearnings. So far that plan was floundering.

“I reserve the right to relay that information until such a time when I trust you will not wing open the outer door of this compartment and boost me out upon the countryside. Now,” Willie said, pulling off her gloves and procuring an ever-ready pad and pencil from her coat pocket, “as to my questions.”

“After a nap.”

Willie blinked as Simon stood and shrugged out of his stylish frock coat. “But it is midmorning.”

“I kept late hours.”

“Dallying with drink and women, no doubt,” she blurted.

Another infernal twitch of his gorgeous mouth. “No doubt.” He settled back onto the cushioned bench, crossed his arms, and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes, abandoning all talk, leaving Willie hot tempered and out of sorts.

For a moment she simply stared. No waistcoat. No cravat. No scarf. Just a white muslin shirt with generous sleeves. How very Mod. The shirt lay open, exposing his neck and a hint of his glorious chest. At once she remembered cuddling with Simon upon stolen occasions. She recalled laying her cheek to that chest, hearing his heartbeat, smelling the scent of soap mingled with a tinge of manly essence. Her face burned as she remembered her youthful, brazen behavior. Adventurous, impassioned, she’d kissed his collarbone, his chin, his stubbled jaw, his . . . “Blimey,” she murmured, jerking her gaze from Simon’s mouth.

“Problem?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“It’s blooming suffocating in here.” Willie sidled over to lower the outside window.

“It’s freezing out there,” Simon said, guessing her intent. “Take off your blooming coat.”

Indeed, Willie was perspiring most uncomfortably. Between the binding, her layers of clothing, and her sizzling thoughts regarding the night she’d seduced Simon into taking her innocence, she would like nothing more than to stick her head outside in an effort to shock her system. Clearly, she was sleep deprived and delirious.

Definitely cranky.

She wrenched off her long wool duster. She shed her mismatched sack coat as well. What could it hurt? Every piece of clothing on her body bagged to conceal her feminine assets. Her trousers, her shirt, her blue velvet waistcoat—all garments one size too large. Plus, she’d bound her breasts tightly so she appeared as flat as a