Tuck grinned. "Now we stack the odds in our favor."

"That why you're invading Miss Darcy's privacy, looking through her things?"

"Justifiable search, Doc." He tried like the devil to ignore her saucy unmentionables. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't linger. One thing was sure and certain: Amelia Darcy could pack a load of belongings into one moderately sized valise. Tightly rolled blouses, trousers, some sort of combined vest and cutaway skirt, a canvas bag stocked with tools and a.s.sorted cogs and bolts, hair combs, an astronomical compendium (basic, but sufficient; old, but interesting). Intrigued by the colorful collection of items, Tuck almost forgot he wasn't alone.

Doc cleared his throat, moved closer. "Yes, there's at least one Freak among Dunkirk's crew," he finally conceded. "Didn't see him, but I felt him. The ripple of two opposing dimensions."

Tuck looked over his shoulder. "So it's possible Dunkirk's Stormerator could be a man as opposed to a machine."

"Mingled with a few of my people when we were at port a few weeks back. Heard tell of a brewing rebellion among Freaks." Doc adjusted the band of the tinted wraparound specs that shielded his modified eyes. Freaks, the children of Mods and Vics, people from two different times and dimensions, were born with multicolored eyes. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope. Those who wished to conceal their mutant race wore specs or corneatacts-modernized lenses designed to fit directly over the cornea. Though corneatacts created the illusion of normal, singular-colored irises, they couldn't be worn for more than a couple of hours without causing extreme discomfort. More drastic and permanent measures involved surgery, which was what Doc's parents had chosen for him early on. Unfortunately, it was a risky and imperfect procedure.

"Everyone's fed up with being treated like monsters or curiosities or second-cla.s.s citizens at best," Doc said. "While some incorporate peaceful steps in their march toward equality, others plot more aggressive measures. Some, it's rumored, are going renegade, hiring out their special gifts to the highest bidder, not caring if that gift is used for ill."

"So Dunkirk's Stormerator could be one of these mercenaries."

"Which makes him very dangerous and Dunkirk quite powerful."

"I'll keep that in mind, Doc."

"You didn't hear it from me."

Tuck raised a brow. "We have a pact. Don't intend to break it." Given Doc's mysterious gift for accelerated healing, and the fact that he never removed his tinted specs or goggles, Tuck was pretty sure most of the crew suspected the man's true origin. The fact that no one called Doc out on it proved that they were accepting of the man and tolerant of his race. As far as Tuck knew, Axel was the only one aboard who got spooked by Freaks. Regardless, Doc chose to live his life as a Vic, and Tuck had promised to keep his secret. Knowing the h.e.l.l the kid's parents had gone through, as well as his brother's ongoing dilemma, Tuck couldn't blame Doc for being cautious.

Would the world forever be divided by racial and religious unrest? According to the Book of Mods, yes.

Jaw clenched, Tuck dipped back into the satchel and discovered a false bottom. "Here we go." He pulled out a glob of damaged clockwork, a pouch of money, two folded pages of a newspaper, and one letter.

Doc pointed to the mangled gold. "What's that?"

"Looks like it used to be a pocket watch." He pa.s.sed the timepiece to Doc.

"Been through h.e.l.l."

"Or a fiery explosion." Tuck read the contents of the first article, then pa.s.sed that to Doc as well.

"The article announcing the death of Miss Darcy's father." Doc shook his head. "Terrible thing. The accident and the cynical report. Implies her father and brothers are incompetent eccentrics."

Eccentric certainly described Amelia, but Tuck held silent, immersed in the second article. "'Royal Rejuvenation,'" he read aloud. "'A Global Race for Fame and Fortune.'" He read the rest to himself, then handed the article to Doc.

The man adjusted his specs and frowned. "So you think Miss Darcy knows the whereabouts of a"-he referred back to the article-"a 'lost or legendary technological invention of historical significance'?"

"Dunkirk's under that a.s.sumption." Amelia hadn't argued the pirate's claim. Instead she'd looked guilty as h.e.l.l. "Must be some truth to it. This letter relates the same information as the newspaper."

"A personal invitation to join the contest?"

"Seems like." Tuck's mind turned, latching onto pieces and working the puzzle.

"Seein' as she's related to Briscoe Darcy, perhaps she possesses or has access to information about his time machine," Doc mused. "Talk about an invention of historical significance. Although it can't be the actual machine she's after, since it's locked in the 1969 version of the British Science Museum. A prototype, maybe?"

"Or a replica."

"The Peace Rebels' Briscoe Bus?" Doc shook his head. "Destroyed in 1856, soon after the time travelers arrived. Doc.u.mented fact, Marshal. A story I heard time and again while growing up. They wanted to ensure no one from this century would travel to another and muck up their efforts."

"Mucked up their own efforts," Tuck noted, thinking about the Peace War and the escalated racial and political unrest that lingered.

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...h.e.l.l, 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."

CHAPTER 9.

WICKFORD MANOR.

KENT, ENGLAND.

London had twisted Bingham into a knot of seething resentment. The ma.s.ses 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 a.s.sociation. Bingham had thoroughly researched the matter.

In 1851 Darcy had been thirty summers old to Ashford's eighteen, but they'd shared a common pa.s.sion for science, and that pa.s.sion 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 b.u.mpkin 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 mult.i.tudes 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gyrocompa.s.s. 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sociate 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 bypa.s.sing 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 c.o.c.k 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sumption."

"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 const.i.tuted 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated 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 d.a.m.ned. He was methodical.

Just as he pa.s.sed a gla.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed the man a sherry. After settling in for their clandestine meeting, he proposed a toast whilst quelling a sneer: "Long live the queen."

CHAPTER 10.

"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."

Amelia saved the eye roll until after he left. She had no intention of antagonizing Dunkirk or any member of his crew. A lone woman amongst twenty-something men? Unsavory pirates? She was smarter than that. In fact, in the last hour she had striven to think like Jules, who was indeed brilliant. What would he, a decorated military man, do in this circ.u.mstance?

First, he would keep his head and try to outwit them. She was sure of it.

She had something Dunkirk wanted. Or at least she would once she reached her destination-although in truth there were no guarantees. Amelia was operating on history, optimism, and her memory. Long ago, in a moment of unguarded fancy and too many gla.s.ses of port, Papa had shared a story with her involving a secret note and a secret room-secrets revealed to him by Briscoe Darcy. She'd listened in wide-eyed wonder.

"Why can we not go there and see for ourselves, Papa?" she'd asked.

"Because it is dangerous."

"I'm not afraid."

"You should be." Then Papa had lectured her on human nature. He'd quoted from the Book of Mods and explained the importance of moral responsibilities. None of this had quelled her desire to see the two marvels hidden within that secret room, but the lecture did indeed influence Amelia's political and social views. Panicked that he'd burdened his ten-year-old daughter with such a volatile secret, Papa had begged her to forget their conversation. Not wanting to upset him, she'd agreed, but the best she could do was stifle the knowledge. She had cherished and guarded that secret for ten long years.

Amelia tamped down a flutter of guilt. Reginald Darcy would not approve of this venture. But she would be careful and, above all, responsible. She would not tamper with the marvel Papa had feared. She would not touch it. She would not even look upon it. She was, in fact, obsessed with the other invention. The one that could do no harm and only bring glory to the Darcys.