Her Sky Cowboy (13 page)

Doc shifted uncomfortably.

“No offense intended toward your kin,” Tuck said. “Besides, I wasn’t referring to the vehicle itself. Rumors have been circulating for years that one of the Mods salvaged the clockwork propulsion engine and hid it away. Put that engine in the right hands and you’ve got a next-generation time machine.”

“It would take a genius.”

“Heard tell there’s a few in this world. Maximus Merriweather could do it. He’s got the twentieth-century know-how.”

“No one’s heard hide nor hair from Professor Merriweather for twenty years. Probably dead.”

“Maybe,” Tuck said. A lot of the original Peace Rebels were. He’d never been one to dwell on the time-traveling radicals and how they’d screwed up what, up until then, according to his parents, had been a normal world. He’d been one year old at the time of the invasion. The world as it was now simply was. Normal as he knew it. Like most folks, he just wanted to move forward. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t grateful for the technological information leaked by corrupt Mods—information that had escalated advances in transportation, weaponry, and communication. Those advances had helped to enable his modifications for Peg, and the designing of the blasterbeefs. It had armed his men with Annihilators and Pogo Packs. He had no wish to digress or even slow down, a difficult bullet to dodge, given the fears of Old Worlders, specifically Queen Victoria.

“Just thinking out loud,” Tuck said while returning the items to their hiding spot. “Miss Darcy is an enigma, and this supposed treasure…hell, it could be anything.”

“Whatever it is,” Doc said, “it’s in Italy. Don’t suppose there’s a map in that satchel?”

He quirked a wry grin. “That would make it too easy.”

“You plan on coercin’ Miss Darcy into sharing the location of her potential treasure?”

Sobering, Tuck hastened to return topside. “Ain’t nothing compared to what Dunkirk’ll do to get the information.”

W
ICKFORD
M
ANOR
K
ENT
, E
NGLAND

London had twisted Bingham into a knot of seething resentment. The masses craved progress, yet the queen maintained her recent repressive rule. The sooner she disappeared, the sooner his rise to global industry kingpin. Thus frequent visits to the capital were vital, if only to keep the members of Aquarius inspired and on track. He had business interests as well. His pet project of late: a London-based commercial air fleet—exclusive transcontinental sky travel for the upper echelon. Although he acted more in an advisory capacity, Bingham reaped a hefty portion of the profit.

Since returning to Wickford, he’d depleted his frustration by ravishing a voluptuous automaton in various sordid ways. If only she would’ve fought him or had the ability to show fear, his satisfaction would have doubled. Whilst taking the man-made love slave from behind, Bingham had flashed upon Amelia Darcy, knowing she would fight, knowing he would dominate. The fantasy had fueled his release.

So as not to obsess on the vexing Miss Darcy, Bingham had immersed himself in his master plan. He’d been scanning the latest reports from two of his Mod trackers, contemplating their incompetence when he’d received the telegraph from that Italian domestic. But, of course, Concetta had failed in her mission. He’d been a fool to expect
more. He’d seduced the woman, enlisting her services months prior after learning she’d hired on with the Darcys. For what he considered a pittance, she served as his eyes and ears within that curious household. Though Lord Ashford was a distant cousin to Briscoe Darcy, he was still blood and there had been an association. Bingham had thoroughly researched the matter.

In 1851 Darcy had been thirty summers old to Ashford’s eighteen, but they’d shared a common passion for science, and that passion had enticed both men to attend the Grand Exhibition. On an evening that later proved a historical milestone, Briscoe Darcy had unveiled his invention and then disappeared in a rainbow of light. Ashford, along with thousands of others, had witnessed the miraculous event. Over the years, Ashford (and the rest of the extended Darcy clan) had denied any knowledge of the time machine’s construction or any insight into its design. Bingham did not believe this claim and had purchased Wickford Manor, a large estate in a remote portion of Kent, which afforded him closer proximity to Ashford, as well as greater privacy to experiment with banned technology. He’d clung to the possibility that the bumpkin inventor was in possession of information, even a morsel of insight, regarding the creation of his cousin’s extraordinary time machine. But Concetta had learned nothing to verify this. Even Bingham’s own efforts had failed. To think he’d suffered through several dinners with that scatterbrained buffoon and his obnoxious, domineering wife. Patience spent, he’d employed drastic tactics, establishing himself as the anonymous benefactor of the Race for Royal Rejuvenation. Unbeknownst to the Jubilee Science Committee, they’d aided Bingham in pushing Lord Ashford’s offspring, as well as multitudes of other adventurous or greedy souls, into action. Yes, Bingham believed one or more of the Darcys to be his best bet, but in reality any number of people could possess vital knowledge pertaining to the outlawed time machine. Surely
the promise of a fortune was worth risking royal persecution. Someone bloody well knew something, and someone would produce!

Bingham’s boot heels clicked against the multicolored marble floor as he moved across the crimson drawing room to peer out the window. He willed control. Summoned focus. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed across the vast, lush lawn, now white with a dusting of snow, and beyond to the aero-hangar where he shielded
Mars-a-tron
—his spectacular modified zeppelin—and various other dirigibles from the elements. Had his initial meeting with Miss Darcy gone otherwise, he would have toured her about, seducing her with his superior aerostats, perhaps stealing a touch when she’d been distracted by his state-of-the-art gyrocompass. But alas, the woman had surprised both him and his mother with her utopian balderdash and sharp tongue. Oh, to curb that tongue with his own.

Control! Focus!

“Any news yet, son?”

“Not yet.” Bingham nodded in greeting as his mother moved in beside him. Upon learning Concetta’s disappointing news, he’d confided in the dowager viscountess, as was often his practice. A valuable sounding board, his mother had a mind as keen and a goal as lofty as his. He would succeed where other men of great vision, yet inferior determination, had failed. Global technological and industrial domination. One world under one business mogul. It could be done, and he would do it. “Dunkirk assured me he would find and procure Miss Darcy.” After Concetta’s coded telemessage informing him Amelia was now with the Sky Cowboy, a disgustingly moral man in spite of his alleged crime, Bingham had reached out to Captain Colin Dunkirk, an associate of dubious reputation.

If indeed Amelia was in pursuit of an outlawed time machine, an invention that had been declared a threat to the natural progression of mankind, Gentry might somehow
interfere, thwarting Amelia’s search or preventing her from sharing the discovery. Dunkirk would act according to Bingham’s orders, ensuring Amelia reached her destination and then bypassing the science committee and delivering the treasure directly to Bingham. As to Amelia, her fate depended on the ferocity of her adventurous spirit. She had only to abandon her utopian mind-set, and Bingham would allow her to jump dimensions with him in order to build his empire. She could do so as his lover or his wife—he cared not which. But she would do as he bade, in life and in bed.

“Perhaps I should’ve striven harder to smooth the way toward a union between you and Miss Darcy and thereby a more…pleasurable means to your triumph, but I will not apologize. There are other ways to get what you deserve, my dear. Marrying that headstrong New Worlder is too great a sacrifice. Not to mention,” she added with a sniff, “she is below your station.”

Bingham afforded his conservative mother a quick glance. “At present Miss Darcy is indeed unacceptable, although not because of her station. Were she to alter her views and embrace my goals…” He shrugged, preferring to keep his more salacious thoughts to himself. “Let us just say I have not dismissed the possibility of uniting with Miss Darcy.” He was in fact keen on her high intellect and daring spirit. Having her in his home and bed, enabling him to indulge his insatiable fetishes at will, would be an additional and welcome boon. His cock hardened as prurient thoughts stormed his mind.

For now Amelia Darcy was in Dunkirk’s hands.
Do what you must
, he’d told the man,
to secure and deliver her lost invention
. Above the woman, Bingham prized a functioning time machine. The engineering plans alone would escalate his chances of visiting the twentieth century in order to gather the futuristic knowledge that would enable him to monopolize the technological market of his own time.

Meanwhile, in order to cover every angle, he’d coerced
another associate to report on Amelia’s brother Simon. Jules Darcy was another matter—a man who lived in the shadows and was, therefore, difficult to track. Still, Bingham had ears and eyes everywhere. In times when so many were desperate for coin, or vulnerable because of their genetic aberrations, information was easily attained. If any one of the Darcy siblings attained the master designs or a prototype or any other pertinent information that would allow the re-creation of Briscoe Darcy’s machine, he would know it.

“I worry about your obsession with the Time Voyager.”

Though the remark cut, Bingham calmly poured them each a sherry. “Obsession is a harsh and erroneous assumption.”

“You’ve exhausted and promised enormous resources hoping to find or re-create a similar machine that will catapult you to the future.”

“You say that as if you think I’m intent on a frivolous jaunt. What I seek is advanced knowledge in order to build my empire.”

“You could get that here, in our time, through those infernal Mods.”

“Not just any Mod. Certainly not a creative artist or militant activist.” Upon their arrival, the Peace Rebels had numbered sixty-nine-plus, a mix of Brits and Yankees, a combination of men and women—mostly men—and a few smuggled babies (who constituted the plus). All rebellious fanatics of peace from several fields of expertise, all under the umbrella of the arts and sciences.

“A physicist or an engineer,” she said. “Someone of keen intellect.”

“As you know, many were killed in the Peace War. The corrupt ones—those we have to thank for the few anachronistic advances we do have—were assassinated by their own kind. The stubborn pacifists have been in hiding for years, several, according to my trackers, now dead. As far as
constructing a working time machine, there is but one Mod who can aid me in my mission.”

“Professor Maximus Merriweather. Yes, yes. I know.” His mother grunted. “More myth than man.”

“Hence all the more difficult to locate.” But Bingham was not averse to a challenge. He had a goal and he would stop at nothing to reach it. He’d purposely plotted options in his quest to obtain twentieth-century knowledge. Merriweather, a twentieth-century physicist/cosmologist, would be a wealth of information if coerced or bribed. Unfortunately, the brilliant professor had thus far escaped Bingham’s Mod trackers. Rumors had placed Merriweather in the Highlands of Scotland, then Switzerland, and then Tibet. Presently he was off the map, although Bingham had issued orders to track the professor to the end of the world.

Another source, hidden somewhere in this century, was the legendary Aquarian Cosmology Compendium—the collective notes of the scientific faction of the Mods. And last, the designs or components of a time machine, the century and make of which were unimportant as long as it functioned properly.

To pave the way, he’d even finessed his way into Aquarius, encouraging the secret society’s nefarious plan to ease technological restrictions. Obsession be damned. He was methodical.

Just as he passed a glass of sherry to his mother, someone announced his or her presence with a curt knock. Bingham turned to find his newly acquired housekeeper, Renee—an automaton with a fetching face and figure specifically designed to his liking—hovering on the threshold. “Yes?”

“Mr. P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee to see you,” she announced in her tinny, monotone voice. A voice that grated, though her body pleased.

“Show him in,” Bingham said. He’d been waiting for this detailed report for two days. Respecting his wish for
anonymity, and grateful for an invitation to tour Bingham’s collection of airships, Waddington had agreed to visit Wickford.

“I’ll leave you to your business,” his mother said as she swept out of the room. She must’ve assumed he’d fill her in later. He was not so sure he would. Her censure of late chafed.

Waddington entered and Bingham shook his hand. “Thank you for traveling to Kent, good sir.”

“My pleasure, Lord Bingham. Thank you for the invitation.”

Anxious, he cut to the chase, though he did, for the sake of pretense, affect an amiable smile. “What news of the contenders?” he asked whilst pouring the man a drink.

Waddington smiled back. “I daresay the race is off to an extraordinary start. Your generosity and dedication to preserving and celebrating mankind’s technological genius is unparalleled. You do Prince Albert proud.”

“I only wish to serve queen and country,” Bingham lied as he passed the man a sherry. After settling in for their clandestine meeting, he proposed a toast whilst quelling a sneer: “Long live the queen.”

“The captain requests the pleasure of yer company for dinner and insists ya dress for the occasion.” Cromwell tossed a delicate gown and slippers upon the narrow bunk of Amelia’s appointed cabin.

“What occasion is that?” she asked.

Cromwell smirked. “The pleasure of the captain’s company.”