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 appet.i.tes. "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 t.i.tle 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 bra.s.s-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 partic.i.p.ate 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 G.o.d 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!

Never would she voice these concerns, but Jules was hindered by his b.u.m leg, and Simon, despite his calm demeanor, must be distracted by the guilt of his failed project, the project that had compromised the family funds. She, however, was in prime condition physically and mentally, and, as Simon had pointed out, determined and resourceful. Twiddling her thumbs at Ashford was not an option.

Amelia paced the library, her mind spinning. She could not afford to purchase transport on one of the upscale public dirigibles. Only the very wealthy could.

Thanks to Simon, the Flying Cloud was no longer an option. Loco-Bug would take her only so far before she'd have to purchase water pa.s.sage across the channel and then a train ticket across France and beyond to Italy. It all seemed so costly and time-consuming. Also, a young woman traveling alone for such a long distance in the company of foreign travelers was risky.

Just then she had a vision of herself peddling across the skies. "Bess!"

Flying the kitecycle all the way to Italy would be a challenge, to say the least. But it would be most affordable, and if she tweaked the rocket blaster and steam engine, and if the winds and luck were with her, the journey would be more swift and less complicated. She would be in control, and she would not have to worry about propriety or unscrupulous traveling companions, as she would be traveling alone.

Except...the kitecycle required two pedalers. The dual-cycling mechanism enabled maximum thrust for lift. Once it was in the air, at least one person needed to pedal at all times. For such a long journey she required someone to share the workload. She needed a copilot. Additional manpower.

Blast!

A door slammed, causing Amelia to whirl toward the window. She'd thought to spy Simon striding off toward the aero-hangar. Instead she saw their former cook stomping along the garden path with her long, st.u.r.dy legs. Saw her lips moving as she blathered to herself, no doubt in her native tongue.

Eureka!

Amelia smiled as she hurried to catch up to Concetta. A copilot and, once upon Italian soil, a translator and guide. Her spirits lifted as she focused body and soul on a positive venture. Her pulse zinged at the prospect of soaring foreign skies and restoring Papa's reputation and the family fortune.

The Darcys would indeed prevail!

CHAPTER 3.

JANUARY 11, 1887.

SOMEWHERE OVER KENT.

Though a dense cloud bank obliterated what had started off as a sunny day, the winds were strong and blowing at the Maverick's stern. The topsails and mainsails were fully engaged, and the augmented blasterbeefs were operating at optimum capacity.

"Smooth sailing," Tuck noted as he approached the ship's wheel.

"At this rate," StarMan said while navigating the airship over Kentshire, "we'll be in Paris by morning."

"The sooner, the better." Their venture into that skytown two nights past had afforded them a lucrative job, but not without risk. Sky pirates and corrupt air constables would kill to get their hands on his current cargo, a shipment of contraband alcohol that would earn a fortune on the black market. Were he less scrupulous and lacking vision, he'd be tempted to abscond with the cargo himself. Instead, Tuck focused on making the delivery, collecting the second half of their fee, and spending a few days in a Parisian dove's bed before moving on to the next job.

His l.u.s.t stirred as he recollected the flexibility and enthusiasm of Chantel, a buxom brunette who operated out of Le Chabanais, a luxurious brothel near the Louvre. The last time he'd been in the City of Light she'd lit up his- A horn blasted.

"Dig ahead!"

Tuck and StarMan looked up through the transparent thermoplastic shield surrounding the c.o.c.kpit just as Birdman Chang leaned over the side of the iron-grilled crow's nest. "Incoming!" he announced through the amplified dual-purpose megahorn. "Starboard bow!"

Tuck peered through his spygla.s.s. "Hard to port!"

StarMan spun the wheel, veering the Maverick off a collision course at the same time as the two-person dirigible took a hard turn.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Tugging down his Stetson, Tuck strode to the starboard, where Eli and Axel had already gathered to watch the show.

"Came out of nowhere." The flaps of Eli's aviator cap whipped in the frigid wind as he leaned over the gunwale for a better look. "What is that thing?"

Axel whistled around the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. "Quart bottle of whiskey says they bite the dust."

Tuck focused his spygla.s.s. Sure enough, what looked like a cross between a motorized tandem bicycle, da Vinci's glider, and an oversize kite bucked and reared, then took a fateful nosedive.

"Cut the blasterbeefs," Tuck shouted to StarMan. "Bring to and hoist the bally." Trading his Stetson for a fly cap, he turned to Eli. "Grab three packs."

The person seated in the rear of the flimsy flying apparatus bailed, and soon after a parachute opened and billowed. That harnessed sail wasn't the only thing flapping in the wind. Skirts and petticoats caught the men's eyes.

"d.a.m.n," Axel said, squinting through his goggles. "That's a woman."

"Looks like the pilot's going down with the ship," Eli noted as the three men buckled on steam-and-nitrogen-powered Pogo Packs.

"Fighting to regain control," Tuck said while adjusting his harness and tank.

"Crazy as a loon," Axel said, tugging on gloves and gripping the hand controls.

Tuck disagreed. "b.a.l.l.sy." The three men fired up the deafening blasters and launched overboard. From what he could tell, that pilot had some impressive skills. Even so, the flying contraption continued a speedy descent. At the last second, the dirigible leveled off, but still hit the ground at a jarring speed, skidding, then rolling into a snow-covered embankment.

By the time the men touched down, that two-person flying machine was a tangle of twisted metal, hissing steam, ripped sails, and one b.a.l.l.sy pilot.

Hearing a whoosh and thud, followed by a stream of foreign ranting, the men turned and saw the woman who'd bailed, wrestling to escape the trappings of the ropes and canvas.

Eli shrugged off his still-hissing pack-"I'll get her, Marshal"-then trotted toward the caterwauling female.

"Least that one's alive," Axel said as he and Tuck moved in the opposite direction toward the crashed dirigible.

Tuck noted a pair of thick-soled boots sticking out of the mangled wreck, but no movement. As they drew closer he saw those boots were attached to some mighty shapely legs-legs clad in tight leather pants.

A feminine moan sounded from beneath the rubble, quickening both men's pace.

"d.a.m.n," Axel said. "That b.a.l.l.sy pilot's a woman?"

"Seems like." Tuck's respect for her flying skills doubled.

They unbuckled the c.u.mbersome Pogo Packs in order to dig her out. Just as they reached for the bent frame, a bird screeched and swooped close to their heads before settling on the wreckage.