Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

But wait.

Waddington had said nothing of a time-traveling device being submitted to the committee. Perhaps da Vinci’s ornithopter had indeed been Amelia’s booty. Knowing her obsession with flying, he could well imagine an obsession with flying machines. Bingham would not overthink this. However, he would be questioning that lying bastard Captain Colin Dunkirk.

Hearing booted heels striding in his direction, Bingham quickly decoded the last message. At first he smiled. One of his sources with International ALE had news of Jules Darcy. Finally. A lead on the elusive science fiction writer. But then he swore.

J. Darcy over Gulf of Carpentaria.

An inlet of the Arafura Sea. The northern coast of Australia. Damnation! Was Darcy en route to Professor Merriweather? How did he learn of the Peace Rebel’s whereabouts? Bingham had the wealth and resources to track the brilliant recluse. Darcy did not. Regardless, the man could well foil Bingham’s plans. Darcy was exactly where he would have been if that damned storm hadn’t blown Mars-a-Tron so wretchedly off track!

“Your grog, Lord Bingham. No chance of gettin’ spiffed on this spiked Lolly Water, but it’s a cool one. As requested.”

The man’s sarcasm grated, but Bingham held his tongue. His back to the cretin with a thick Aussie accent and the scent of grease and tobacco upon his person, Bingham disconnected and pocketed his telecommunicator, tore the coded page from the teleprinter, and stuffed that as well. Shoulders squared, expression calm, Bingham turned and faced a giant of a man resembling a down-under cowboy. “You don’t look like a server,” he said. More like an outlaw. A heavily armed outlaw wearing a sweat-stained slouch hat and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that dangled from his lower lip.

“Just deliverin’ the goods and offerin’ my services,” he said as smoke curled into the air and into Bingham’s eyes. “That’s if the price is right.”

“I require safe and speedy passage to the southwestern corner of Queensland.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can but I won’t. Not as of yet. Are you my man?”

“Let me put it this way, mate. You wouldn’t want to make this trek with any scout but me.”

“You’re merely a scout?”

“I’m not merely anything. They call me the Rocketeer.”

Bingham looked down his nose at the man. “What should I call you?”

The Aussie’s mouth twitched. “Name’s Austin Steele. I answer to Austin or Steele or Rock.” He tugged at the brim of his hat by way of a handshake. “Own and pilot my own transport. The Iron Tarantula .”

“A rocket-fueled airship?”

“A monster. No one screws with the Tarantula .” He squashed his cigarette beneath his mud-caked bootheel. “Or me. You’re lookin’ to cover wild territory, Bingham. The harsh elements, ballsy bushrangers, a few hostile aboriginals, not to mention the starving dingoes and poisonous reptiles.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “This is my price. Half now. Half on arrival.”

A hefty price that reeked of arrogance and instilled confidence. Bingham withdrew his wallet from his inner pocket, obsessing on the fact that he hadn’t heard from Crag in days. Was Merriweather still on the fringes of the rain forest? Or had he been spooked and moved on? Did Crag have the professor in his sights or had the brilliant Mod, once again, fallen off the proverbial map? Had Crag sighted Jules Darcy? Crazed now, Bingham thumbed through several banknotes with multiple zeros. “I answer to ‘Lord Bingham’ or ‘sir’ or ‘Kingpin of the Universe.’” He slapped a juicy stack of bills into the reprobate’s beefy hand. “You’re hired.”

JANUARY 21, 1887 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

“Rise and shine, lover boy.”

Simon’s eyes flew open at the sound of a gruff baritone voice. “What the hell, Phin?” Shrugging off a sleepy haze, Simon dragged his hair off his face and focused on Phineas Bourdain, pilot and machinist extraordinaire. “How did you get in here?”

The cocky airman quirked a teasing brow. “Your pretty lady friend let me in on her way out.”

Head clearing, Simon pushed up into a sitting position. “That was no lady—not in the sense you’re suggesting. That was my wife.”

“The devil you say.”

“Where was she going?”

“Didn’t ask. But, ah . . .” He leaned over Simon and plucked a folded paper from Willie’s empty pillow. “A clue perhaps.”

Simon snatched the note from the man’s hand and squinted to decipher the wretched scrawl, obviously penned with her bad hand.

Returning bridal gown to Fantasy Farm. Back soon with breakfast.

Though enormously pleased that his wife was indeed returning and not bolting—he’d fully braced himself for marriage remorse—Simon still felt a pang of disappointment. Her note lacked the fiery passion of the night before. No endearments. No poetic pledge. Not that there’d been any mention of or reference to love whilst they’d singed the satin linens with their honeymoon sex-capades. Still, this morning, he felt different. At the very least he’d expected to be awakened by Willie’s sweet kisses, not Phin’s cocky mug.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“What?” Simon frowned at his brother’s closest friend. “No.” He rolled out of bed and stabbed his legs into a pair of trousers. “Thought we agreed to rendezvous at eight.”

“We did. It’s half past.”

“What?” Reeling, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Damnation.” Granted, he’d slept very little. Willie had been most keen on exploring the sensual realm and Simon had been more than thrilled to comply. And yes, they’d indulged in champagne. Two bottles, in fact, but damn. Never had he felt so foggy. Was there such a thing as a sexual hangover?

“Time factor aside,” Phin said. “Bring me up to speed, man. You’re bloody truly matched for life?”

“Yes.”

“Were you tricked? Coerced? Blackmailed?”

“No.”

“Drunk?”

“Not until after vows had been exchanged.”

“You’re a hound, Simon. A rake.”

“Not anymore.”

“Are you saying you’re in love?”

Was he? He paused in his frantic dressing and absorbed. He was deeply affected. Entranced and seduced. Love surely circled in his emotional realm, but so did mistrust. “I’m obliged.”

Phin crossed his arms and raised a dark brow.

“As I stated in our communication, I entered the Triple R Tourney. In my quest, I encountered a dangerous man. There was an incident. Wilhelmina saved my life.”

“So you forfeited your freedom in exchange?”

“It’s complicated.” Simon poured cool water into a basin and splashed his face. “Did the upgrades go smoothly on the Flying Cloud ?”

“She won’t plummet from the sky midjourney, but she won’t break any speed records either. Only so much I could do with that boat given your restricted budget. I’m a machinist, not a miracle worker.”

Simon had contacted Phin four days prior, enlisting his mechanical and piloting skills. From this point on in his efforts to retrieve the clockwork propulsion engine, Simon preferred to dodge any complications or dicey encounters via public transportation. Utilizing private transport would also afford Willie a chance to adjust to living as a woman and enable Simon to distance her from harm. He couldn’t banish the image of her being o’blasterated in the catacombs. Even now he worried about her being accosted on her trek from the Fantasy Farm back to this suite. Another glance at his watch. Too soon to be alarmed. Even so . . .

“I appreciate your efforts, Phin, and your willingness to pilot the Cloud ,” Simon said as he shoved the last of his belongings into his valise. “Flying is not my forte and in this instance I prefer to focus my attention elsewhere.”