Her Sky Cowboy Part 36

GREAT BRITAIN 1887.

KENTs.h.i.+RE-THE ASHFORD ESTATE Since the day he'd been born (three and a half minutes later than his twin brother), Simon Darcy had been waging war with time. Either he had too much of it or not enough. Somehow his timing was always off. Bad timing had cost him much in his thirty-one years. Most recently, his father, Reginald Darcy, Lord of Ashford.

The proof was in his pocket.

Simon didn't need to read the abominable article-he had it memorized-yet he couldn't help unfolding the wretched newsprint and torturing himself once again. As if he deserved the misery. Which he did.

The London Informer

January 5, 1887

MAD INVENTOR DIES IN QUEST FOR GLORY.

The Right Honorable Lord Ashford, lifelong resident of Kent, blew himself up yesterday whilst building a rocket s.h.i.+p destined for the moon. Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world. Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family, Ashford's inventions paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect, wealth, or fame.

Simon's gut cramped as he obsessed on the article that had haunted him for days. For the billionth time, he cursed the Clockwork Canary, lead pressman for the Informer, as heartless. The insensitive print blurred before Simon's eyes as his blood burned. Instead of tossing the infernal sensationalized reporting of his father's death, he had ripped the article from the London scandal sheet, then folded and tucked the inflammatory announcement into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, next to his b.l.o.o.d.y tattered heart.

For all of his guilt and grief upon learning of his beloved, albeit eccentric, father's hideous demise, Simon had stuffed his emotions down deep. His mother and younger sister would be devastated. Especially his sister, Amelia, who shared their papa's fascination with flying and who'd lived and worked alongside the old man on Ashford-the family's country estate. For them, Simon would be a rock. As would his ever unflappable twin brother, Jules.

Simon had made the trip from his own home in London down to Kents.h.i.+re posthaste. He'd remained stoic throughout the constable's investigation of the catastrophic accident as well as the poorly attended funeral. He'd even managed a calm demeanor whilst listening to the solicitor's reading of the will. Unlike his dramatic and panic-stricken mother. Although upon this occasion, he could not blame the intensity of her outburst.

The Darcys were penniless.

Even after sleeping on the shocking revelation, Simon couldn't shake the magnitude of his father's folly. His mind and heart warred with the knowledge, with the implication, and with the outcome. Because of Simon's ill timing and arrogance, his mother and sister were now dest.i.tute.

"Do not a.s.sume blame."

Simon breathed deep as his brother limped into the cramped confines of the family dining room. "Do not a.s.sume to know my mind."

"Has grief struck you addled, brother?" Dark brow raised, Jules sat and reached for the coffeepot. Like their father, the Darcy twins had always preferred a brewed coffee over blended teas.

Simon flashed back on one of his father's quirky inventions-an electric bean-grinding percolator-which might have proven useful except, as a staunch Old Worlder, their mother had refused to allow Ashford to be wired with electricity.

Dest.i.tute and living in the dark ages.

Riddled with emotions, he pocketed the blasted scandal sheet and met his twin's steady gaze. But of course Jules would know his mind. The older brother by mere minutes, he always seemed to have the jump on Simon. Even so far as guessing or knowing his thoughts. Simon was often privy to Jules's notions as well and sometimes they even had what their little sister referred to as "twin conversations." Whether spurred by intuition or some bizarre fas.h.i.+on of telepathy, they often finished each other's sentences. It drove Amelia mad.

"I could've been working alongside my mentor on England's touted engineering marvel, Tower Bridge," Simon said. "Instead I chose to pursue my own brilliant idea."

"You doubt the merit of a fuel-efficient public transportation system high above the congested streets of London?"

"No." His monorail system inspired by the Book of Mods would have eased ground traffic and air pollution caused by the rising population and number of steam-belching and petrol-guzzling automocoaches. It would have provided an affordable ma.s.s transit alternative to London's underground rail service.

It would have afforded Simon the recognition and respect he craved.

"I regret that I boasted prematurely about my project. Had I not bragged, Papa would not have invested the family's fortune." Sickened, Simon dragged his hands though his longish hair. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Jules, what was the old fool thinking?"

"That he believed in you."

"Then when the project failed due to political corruption, I teletyped Papa posthaste." Simon rambled on, suddenly unable to contain his angst. "Railed against the injustice. Wallowed in self-pity. What was I thinking?"

"That he would d.a.m.n the eyes of the narrow-minded and manipulative Old Worlders. That he'd side with you. Ease your misery." Jules looked away. "He was good at that. Building us up. Making us believe we were capable of whatever our hearts and minds desired."

For a moment, Simon set aside his own heavy remorse and focused on his brother, who had always been darker in coloring and nature than the more fair and frivolous Simon. Though presently residing in London, where he worked as an author of science fiction novels, Jules Darcy was retired military, a decorated war hero. Details revolving around the skirmish that had mangled his legs and left him with a permanent limp were cla.s.sified. The period of rehabilitation had been extensive and also shrouded in secrecy. Even Simon was clueless as to those peculiar days of Jules's mysterious life. Although he was often privy to his brother's moods and inclinations, he'd never been able to read Jules's mind regarding the covert nature of his service to the Crown.

"Coffee's bitter," Jules said, setting aside his cup and reaching for the sugar bowl.

Everything had tasted bitter to Simon for days, but he knew what his brother meant. "Eliza made the coffee. Be warned: She cooked as well."

Frowning, Jules glanced toward the sideboard and the steaming porcelain tureens. Though an excellent housekeeper, Eliza was famously ill equipped in the kitchen. "What happened to Concetta?"

The skilled though crotchety cook who had been in their mother's employ for months. "Mother dismissed her this morning. Said we could no longer afford her services."

"Did she not offer the woman a month's notice?"

"She did. Along with excellent references. But Concetta's prideful. She ranted in her native tongue, and though I do not know Italian, I understood the intention. She's leaving today."

"d.a.m.nation," Jules said.

In this instance, Simon knew the man's thoughts. Things were indeed dire if Anne Darcy, a conservative woman obsessed with old ways and upholding appearances, was dismissing servants. Another kick to Simon's smarting conscience.

Just then Eliza's husband, Harry, appeared with two folded newspapers in hand. "As requested," he said, handing the Victorian Times to Simon, then turning to Jules. "And the London Daily for you, sir." The older man glanced at the sideboard, winced, then lowered his voice. "I could fetch you some fresh bread and jam."

If anyone knew about the poor quality of his wife's cooking, it was Harry.

Simon quirked a smile he didn't feel. "We'll be fine, Harry. No worries." The man nodded and left, and Simon looked at his brother. "We'll have to sample something, you know. Otherwise we'll hurt Eliza's feelings."

"I know." Distracted, Jules seemed absorbed with the front page of the Daily.

Simon immediately turned to the headlines of the Times-a respectable broadsheet unlike the Informer.

The Victorian Times

January 10, 1887

ROYAL REJUVENATION-A GLOBAL RACE FOR FAME AND FORTUNE In celebration of Queen Victoria's upcoming Golden Jubilee, an anonymous benefactor has pledged to award a colossal monetary prize to the first man or woman who discovers and donates a lost or legendary technological invention of historical significance to her majesty's British Science Museum in honor of her beloved Prince Albert. An additional 500,000 will be awarded for the most rare and spectacular of all submissions. Address all inquiries to P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee.

Simon absorbed the significance, the possibilities. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l."

"I a.s.sume you're reading what I'm reading," Jules said. "News like this must have hit the front page of every newspaper in the British Empire."

"And beyond." Simon fixated on the headline, specifically the words "FAME AND FORTUNE." He wanted both. For his family. For himself.

"Pardon the interruption, sirs." Contrite, Harry had reappeared with three small envelopes. "It would seem sorrow regarding the loss of Lord Ashford has muddled my mind. These were in my pocket. I picked them up at the post whilst in the village this morning." He handed an envelope to each of the brothers, then placed the third near their sister's place setting. "This one is for Miss Amelia," he said. "That is, if she joins you this morning."

Since their father's death, Amelia had been grieving in private.

"We'll see that she gets it," Jules said. "Thank you, Harry."

The man left and Simon struggled not to think of their young sister locked away in her bedroom, mourning, worrying. Yes, she was a grown woman, twenty years of age, but she'd led a sheltered life, and though obstinate as h.e.l.l, Amelia was tenderhearted. At least half of Simon's worries would end if she'd relent and marry a good and financially stable man. Alas, Amelia's fiery independence was both a blessing and a curse. Frustrated, Simon focused back on what appeared to be an invitation. "No return address."

He withdrew the missive in tandem with Jules and read aloud. "Given your family's reputation as innovators, adventurers, and visionaries-"

"-you have been specifically targeted and are hereby enthusiastically invited to partic.i.p.ate in a global race for fame and fortune," Jules finished.

"Royal rejuvenation."

"Colossal monetary prize."

"Legendary technological invention," they said together.

"Is your missive signed?" Simon asked.

"No. Yours?"

"No." He glanced from the mysterious note to the Times. "Apparently the anonymous benefactor thought us worthy of a personal invitation. Do you think it is because of our a.s.sociation with Briscoe Darcy?"

"Yet again it's a.s.sumed that because Papa knew the Time Voyager, he must have had significant knowledge regarding the infamous time machine."

"Also natural to a.s.sume Papa would have pa.s.sed along that information to us," Simon said, "which he did not."

"No, he did not."

"Unless..." Simon looked at the envelope next to Amelia's empty plate.

"If Papa had pertinent information regarding the construction and design of Briscoe's time machine, he wouldn't have burdened Little Bit with such knowledge," Jules said. "Too dangerous."

Indeed. No invention was more historically significant than the one constructed by their distant cousin Briscoe Darcy. A time machine used to catapult Briscoe into the future (1969), thereby enabling a group of twentieth-century scientists, engineers, and artists known as the Peace Rebels to dimension-hop back to the past (1856) in a similar device dubbed the Briscoe Bus.

Intending to inspire peace and to circ.u.mvent future atrocities and global destruction, the Peace Rebels preached cautionary tales throughout the world, most notably in America and Europe. Unfortunately, a few Mods (twentieth-century Peace Rebels) were corrupted and soon leaked advanced knowledge that led to the construction and black market sales of anachronistic weapons, transportation and communications. The globe divided into two political factions-Old Worlders and New Worlders. Those who resisted futuristic knowledge and those who embraced it. The Peace War broke out and the nineteenth century as it should have been was forever changed.

The Victorian Age meets the Age of Aquarius.

For years and for political reasons, Simon and Jules resisted the urge to explore anything to do with Briscoe Darcy or time travel. Not to mention time travel had been outlawed. However, this Race for Royal Rejuvenation, coupled with their family's unfortunate circ.u.mstance, motivated Simon to break their childhood pact. "It is true Papa never shared any secrets with me regarding Briscoe. However, I do have an idea of how to get my hands on an original clockwork propulsion engine."

Jules raised a lone brow. "As do I."

"Are we in accord?"

"We are. But first, let me teletype this P. B. Waddington as well as a personal contact within the science museum. I want verification that this treasure hunt is indeed official."

Simon's heart raced as his brother left the room. With every fiber of his being, he knew the response would be affirmative. His brain churned and plotted. Only one of them needed to find and deliver the clockwork propulsion engine in order to avenge their father's name and secure the family's fortune. But, by G.o.d, Simon wanted it to be him.

CITY OF LONDON.

THE LONDON INFORMER.

"Willie!"

Wilhelmina Goodenough, known socially as Willie G and professionally as the Clockwork Canary, refrained from thunking her forehead to her desk at the booming voice of her managing editor. She did, however, roll her eyes. She could always tell by the timbre of Artemis Dawson's bellow if she was being summoned for a good reason or bad. This was bad. Given her foul mood of late, this could well mean a b.l.o.o.d.y ugly row.

As lead journalist for the London Informer, Britain's most popular tabloid, Willie had a desk in close proximity to Dawson's office. Lucky her. Or rather him, as was public perception.

For the past ten years, Willie had been masquerading as a young man. Sometimes, she was amazed that she'd gotten away with the ruse for so long. Then again, she was slight of frame as opposed to voluptuous. What womanly curves she did possess were easily concealed beneath binding and baggy clothing. Her typical attire consisted of loose linen s.h.i.+rts with flouncy sleeves, a waistcoat one size too big, and an Americanized duster as opposed to a tailored frock coat. Striped baggy trousers and st.u.r.dy boots completed the boyish ensemble. When outdoors, instead of a bowler or top hat, Willie pulled on a newsboy cap and tugged the brim low to shade her face. She'd chopped her hair long ago, a s.h.a.ggy style that hung to her chin and often fell over her eyes. She was by no means fas.h.i.+onable but she did have a style all her own.

And not a bustle, corset, or bonnet to her amended name.

Once in a great while, she yearned for some kind of feminine frippery, but she was far more keen on surviving this intolerant world rather than feeling pretty.

"Willie!"

Blast. "Right, then. Best get this over with," she said to herself, because no coworkers were within earshot of her somewhat sequestered and privileged works.p.a.ce, and even if they had been, she wasn't chummy with any of the blokes. Willie had two confidants in this world: her father and her journal. One hidden away and one locked away-respectively.

Abandoning her research on significant technological inventions, Willie pushed away from her scarred wooden desk. Her home away from home, the desktop was crowded with stacks of books, piles of doc.u.ments and files, scores of pens and pencils, her typewriter, and her personal cup and teapot. Dawson often wondered how she found anything, but she did in fact know the precise whereabouts of any given item. Organized chaos-just one of her many gifts.

On the short walk to her boss's office, Willie breathed deep, seeking solace in the familiar scents of the newsroom-ink, paper, oil, cigarette smoke, sweat, and a.s.sorted hair tonics. Scents she a.s.sociated with freedom and security. This job enabled her to pursue her pa.s.sion as well as provide for herself and her addle-minded father. Forsaking her gender and race had seemed a small price to pay in the beginning. But lately she teemed with resentment. Bothersome, that. She had no patience for self-pity.

To her own disgust, she stalked into her boss's office with a spectacular chip on her shoulder. "You bellowed?"

Dawson looked up from his insanely neat and orderly desk. "Where's the story on Simon Darcy?"

b.u.g.g.e.r.

Certain her palms would grow clammy any second, Willie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and slouched against the doorjamb. "What story?"