Her Sky Cowboy (4 page)

“As you requested, Miss Amelia. The newspaper, first thing.”

She bolted upright and grabbed the inked rag from Eliza’s hands. Every morning their housekeeper and her husband, Harry, Ashford’s groundskeeper, rode into town to procure fresh food, the mail, daily newspapers, and, when available, the latest fashion and scientific periodicals. Amelia had specifically requested a copy of the
Informer
. As it was one of London’s most popular newspapers, she wanted to know whether they’d printed a hideous follow-up on Papa, or perhaps Simon. Upon reflection, Amelia had been perplexed by the lack of publicity regarding the corruption surrounding her brother’s high-profile project. In particular, why would the Clockwork Canary forgo a chance to sing of the further failures of the Darcys?

“Thank you, Eliza.” Amelia shivered against the morning chill while focusing on the front page.

The older woman moved to the fireplace, using a bellows to fan the burning coals. “Your brothers are dressed and in the dining room, miss.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Regardless, it would be polite….” Eliza trailed off as Amelia shot her a venomous look.

“You mean it is expected.” Had she not buckled so easily regarding her mother’s conventional matchmaking agenda, Papa would still be alive. Amelia would have been there to make sure of it. “As I live and breathe, never again will I cross my sensibilities and bend to polite or expected behavior.”

“As you wish, miss.” Clearly confused, the housekeeper hastened to leave.

Blast
. “Wait.” In the fifteen years that she’d been with the Darcys, Eliza had shown Amelia nothing but kindness. Embarrassed by her curt manner, Amelia softened her tone and expression. “I apologize for being churlish. Be assured my discontent does not lie with you, Eliza.”

“You are in mourning, Miss Amelia. We all are. Some withdraw while others lash out. I suspect that will be the way of things for a time.” With a kind smile and a nod, the woman withdrew, leaving Amelia alone with the morning news.

She got no further than the lead article on the front page.

Blinkin’ hell!

Unable to believe her eyes, Amelia read the article twice. Last night, between bittersweet dreams of working alongside her father and heart-wrenching nightmares of dreams going up in smoke, she’d tossed and turned, praying for a miracle that would bring Papa back, scrambling for a way to replenish the family fortune. Now this! Amelia launched out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, then dashed downstairs. Heart racing, she burst into the dining room, a cramped area made even smaller by her twin brothers’ bigger-than-life presence. Forgoing pleasantries, she waved the paper and blurted her news. “I know how to rescue the family name and fortune!”

“By discovering a lost invention?” Jules asked.

“Winning a global race?” Simon added.

“How…”

Each of her brothers flashed a missive.

“‘Given your family’s reputation as innovators, adventurers, and visionaries,’” Jules read aloud from his letter, “‘you have been specifically targeted and are hereby enthusiastically invited to participate in a global race for fame and fortune.’”

“‘Royal rejuvenation,’” Simon said, skimming his own missive. “‘Colossal monetary prize…legendary technological invention…’”

“Yes, yes!” Amelia smacked the rolled newspaper to her palm. “It’s all here. In the
Informer
!”

“As well as the
London Daily
,” Jules said, tapping the newspaper next to his plate.

Simon held up a third newspaper. “And the
Victorian Times
.”

Encouraged, Amelia paced between the ornately carved china cabinet and the matching ten-seat dining table, the
paper now tucked beneath her arm. “So the contest
must
be authentic.” Unlike the
Informer
, the
Daily
and the
Times
were respected newspapers. They’d verify the story, and they wouldn’t embellish the facts. “How extraordinary!”

“Indeed,” Jules said.

“Even more extraordinary is the fact that you both received personal invitations,” she went on. “But from whom?”

“That, dear sister, is a mystery,” Simon said. “No signature. No return address.”

“Just a contact name,” Jules said. “P. B. Waddington.”

Amelia stopped in her tracks as a vexing thought occurred. “As a member of this family and something of an adventurer myself, why did I not receive a personal invitation?”

Her brothers glanced at her seat at the table. There, next to her place setting—an envelope. Amelia beamed as she retrieved and read the formal invitation addressed specifically to her. “When did these letters arrive?”

“This morning,” Simon said.

“This is a
gift
!” Amelia exclaimed. “The answer to our misfortune. Were any one of us to succeed, we would bring glory to the Darcy name, restore honor to Papa’s memory, and be set monetarily, all of us, for life! How can you be so blasé?” she asked Jules.

“Have you ever known him to show exuberance?” Simon asked.

“I sent a Teletype to Waddington,” Jules said, “inquiring about specifics. I also contacted a friend within the science museum. I’m reserving my exuberance based on their responses.”

“If Ashford had a modern telephone, as does most every household in England,” Simon said, “you could have spoken to them directly.”

Her brothers, accustomed to the advanced technology still thriving in London, in spite of the queen’s efforts to suppress it, had also remarked upon Ashford’s use of
gas lighting when the house had been recently wired with electricity. Perceiving electricity as evil technology perpetuated by the Mods, their mother persisted in resisting the transition. As for the telephone…“You speak as though we live in the Dark Ages,” Amelia snapped, “whereas we simply live in the country. Yes, we have dodgy service, but the blame lies with the long-distance wiring, not our telephone.”

“Merely an observation,” Simon said.

“Unless you can talk sense into Mother where modern conveniences are concerned,” she went on, “or work miracles with the long-distance company, stuff your observations, Simon.”

He laughed, though his normally vibrant personality seemed muted by a cloud of gloom. “I believe she’s grown extremely willful this past year,” he said to Jules.

“She has always been willful.”

Amelia ignored them both, noticing for the first time that, though her brothers were drinking coffee, they’d barely touched their porridge. Odd, given their usually ravenous appetites. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Eliza prepared the morning meal,” Simon said.

Eliza, though an excellent housekeeper, floundered in the kitchen. “Why?” Amelia marched to the sideboard and frowned at the porcelain tureens boasting undercooked eggs and burned bacon. “What happened to Concetta?” Their cantankerous cook of nine months. Amelia had never warmed to her as a person, but as a cook, she had most impressive skills.

“Dismissed,” Simon said.

Amelia looked to Jules, who’d inherited their father’s title and troubles. “I understand we can no longer afford certain luxuries, but could you not have at least given her the standard month’s notice?”

“I didn’t do anything. It was Mother who trimmed the fat, so to speak, and she did offer Concetta notice, in addition to excellent references.”

“Unfortunately for us,” Simon said with a nod toward the watery eggs, “Concetta’s prideful. I venture she is packing as we speak. I heard her venting earlier, and though I am not fluent in Italian, I’m almost certain she mentioned going home.”

“To Italy?” Although Amelia was not truly surprised. Concetta consistently dithered about British ways. Why she’d remained in a country she abhorred was an utter mystery.

A bell sounded, announcing an incoming Teletype. Papa had fixed several key rooms with amplifying mechanisms so that one could be alerted promptly of incoming messages. Ingenious, if you asked Amelia. Pocketing her anonymous invitation, she scrambled for the library, her favorite room in all of Ashford, save for the carriage-house workshop, with Simon alongside her and Jules lagging behind. She slid over the parquet floor in her haste to reach the customized Teletype machine. Noting that the message was indeed addressed to Jules, she stepped aside and waited. Never would she tell him to hurry, but blast, she wished he’d make greater haste.

Simon perched on the edge of Papa’s rosewood desk, also waiting. He dragged a hand through his hair, longer and lighter than Jules’s, though they sported identical mustaches and beards. Closely trimmed. Impeccably groomed. His attire, however, was somewhat more casual than his brother’s, whimsical in comparison. As was his mind-set. Simon the freethinker. Jules the deep thinker. Two very different cogs in a clock, as Papa had been fond of saying.

Jules leaned his brass-tipped walking cane against a bookcase and pulled the paper from the machine. The tilt of his mouth, the angle of his head, and the gleam in his eye said it all.

“It is a legitimate contest,” Amelia said.

“With a daunting deadline,” Simon added. “Less than five full months to locate and deliver a prize-worthy lost invention.”

Amelia pounded a determined fist to her palm. “Between the three of us, one of us will succeed.”

“You mean between the two of us,” Jules said. “This is no venture for a lady.”

Amelia huffed. “I’m not a lady. I’m…a member of this family. And, as I was influenced by Papa and his obsessions, an expert of sorts on inventions.” She glanced at Simon. “Speak sense to him. Our chances are greater if—”

“Sorry, Little Bit. I stand with our brother. Your place is here at Ashford with Mother.”

“That is so very…Old World!”

“It is sensible.” Jules offered a tender smile.

“But I received an invitation,” she persisted. “A personal invitation!”

“Curious, that,” Simon said.

“And very New World,” Jules said. “To invite a female to participate in a potentially dangerous mission.”

Amelia harrumphed. “I call it fair. I am qualified.”

“You are also our sister,” Jules said. “How do you expect Simon and me to function properly if we are worried about you out in the world getting into God knows what trouble?”

“But—”

“It is settled.”

When pigs fly.
Rather than argue the point, which would get her nowhere, Amelia clenched her fists and bit her tongue. Meanwhile her mind fixated on a very special invention indeed. Historical. Legendary. Thanks to her obsession with Leonardo da Vinci and his investigations into flight, Papa’s extensive catalog of scientific journals, and a secret letter, she knew exactly—well, almost precisely—where to find it. Or at least where to search. Unfortunately (or fortunately, considering it would entail a grand adventure), it meant traveling to Florence, Italy.

“Time is of the essence,” Simon said.

Amelia’s thoughts exactly.

“I have a significant object in mind,” Jules said.

Simon nodded. “As do I.”

That makes three of us!

“So we’ll—”

“Absolutely. And upon occasion—”

“Naturally.”

“Twin conversations are both vexing and rude,” Amelia pointed out. Although they did not look exactly alike, Jules and Simon frequently knew each other’s thoughts, and therefore unfinished sentences were all the rage between them.

Mouth quirked in a semblance of a smile, Jules nabbed his walking cane and ambled toward the door. “After speaking with Mother, I’ll leave directly for London. Harry can drive me to the station in Loco-Bug. Coming with?” he asked Simon.

“No. I’ll be taking—”

“Of course. Good luck with that.”

Amelia refrained from pulling out her hair. “Good luck with what?”

“The
Flying Cloud.
”

“What?”
Amelia fairly pounced on her big, fairer brother’s back. She had planned to utilize the
Flying Cloud
—a salvaged and modified clipper ship fitted with a hot-air balloon and steam-engine components. An airship constructed by Papa and occasionally flown by Amelia, it rarely traveled far without breaking down, but she had new ideas on how to amend that.

“You won’t be needing her,” Simon said with a brow raised in warning. “Although I do not doubt your determination and resourcefulness, Amelia, your strength and calm are needed here at Ashford. Mother is fragile.”

Amelia started to argue the point, but was forced to concede that Anne Darcy was indeed stricken low. Learning that she was a widow, and then, worse, a disgraced, penniless widow, had thrown her into a severe tizzy, sending her bouncing between sobs and rants and dramatic swoons. As
she was someone who cared greatly about keeping up appearances, the fact that her mother had dismissed a valuable servant was testament to her desperate mood. Although Amelia was most often at odds with her mother, in this instance she was very much attuned to the woman’s misery.

All the more reason for Amelia to triple the Darcys’ chances of winning that astounding jubilee prize. Amelia’s alleviating the family’s financial woes would serve her mother far better than would her vexing company. No, she would not debate their mother’s mind-set. She would attack from another, wholly reasonable direction. “Although you are a skilled enough pilot, Simon, the
Flying Cloud
is unreliable.”

“She won’t be after the upgrades.” He kissed Amelia’s forehead, then hurried after Jules.

“What upgrades? Where are you taking her? Where are you off to? What invention…?” Her questions went unanswered as the household flourished with activity. She knew most certainly and dreadfully that within the hour her brothers would be on their way and she would be left behind, feeling helpless and frustrated beyond measure. She could not bear it!