Bingham had been at Wickford, locked in his bedchamber, indulging in a rather s.a.d.i.s.tic fetish with a beautiful but unemotional automaton, when he'd received a coded Teletype from Aquarius summoning him to London.

Three hours later, he sat in a dimly lit room surrounded by the secret society's members. Keen minds. Forward-thinkers. Yet they lacked his genius. His ruthlessness. They thought themselves bold because they plotted to a.s.sa.s.sinate the queen. He thought them pretentious k.n.o.bs. Visually and conceptually, they blended. Self-important New Worlders with a n.o.ble cause.

Delving for patience, Bingham pretended concern whilst Saturn explained that a valuable inside source was no longer willing to cooperate. Faces and voices blurred-a panicked muddle.

"How can we proceed with our plans if we are uninformed?"

"The Golden Jubilee is several months away. Surely the day's scheduled events will change between now and then."

"Did you offer our man more money?"

"Of course. Unfortunately fear overrides greed in this matter."

"Meaning?"

"Apparently his conscience got the better of him," Saturn said. "He's been haunted by nightmares where he is accused of treason and imprisoned in the Tower. Or worse."

Bingham suppressed a disgusted snort. Coward.

"Any chance his guilty conscience will prod him into confessing his sins to an a.s.sociate or the queen's adviser?"

"And bring his nightmare to life? I think not."

"Yet the possibility exists, in which case an investigation would lead to us."

"I am his only contact," Saturn said. "If anyone should worry, it is I."

"Who's to say you won't buckle under pressure and reveal our society and plot?"

"You dare to question my allegiance!"

Bingham closed his eyes as a heated argument ensued. Eight t.i.tled men hurling insults and exaggerated scenarios. How easily they were deterred. How easily frightened. How revolting. This past week had been fraught with incompetence and disappointment. Concetta. His Mod trackers. Dunkirk. Anger and frustration fueled his ruthless mind-set. Ah, yes. Some things he could control. He opened his eyes. "Eliminate the source."

He hadn't shouted, yet his words cut through the chaos.

Silence.

Saturn angled his head. "Say again, Mars?"

Bingham sighed as if his suggestion burdened his soul. "Think of all who will benefit should we succeed in silencing the woman who insists on halting progress. Think of the future. Of your fellow man. Beastly business, I confess. But it is our duty to proceed." He nearly choked on his feigned sincerity. "Eliminate the weak link. The cowardly inside source who could ultimately destroy us and, in turn, mankind." He waited a dramatic beat, then added, "Meanwhile, let us recruit a new source. Someone more...reliable."

More silence.

Knowing the power of patience, Bingham waited.

"How would we go about...eliminating the problem?"

They all looked to Bingham. Not wanting to reveal the full force of his devious side, he remained cryptic. "I know someone."

"Do you trust this person?"

"Implicitly." Bingham, or Mars, as they called him, looked to Saturn. "Write down the source's name and I shall ensure our anonymity and cause." He looked to the other seven, as if he truly valued their opinions. "Are we in accord, gentlemen?"

Venus, the spineless worm who fed off the boldness of others, raised his goblet. "To Aquarius."

After a few traded glances, all repeated the toast. "To Aquarius!"

Bingham drank deeply, then stood and procured the unofficial death warrant from Saturn. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

He left the room, anxious to distance himself from men who considered themselves his allies. He considered them p.a.w.ns, but extremely valuable. Hence he would protect them to the best of his ability, in the name of Aquarius. In the name of his own selfish goals.

Speaking of...Since he'd been summoned to the British Science Museum, he'd scheduled a meeting with Mr. P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee. The man's office was in this very building, albeit three flights up, but since Bingham wished to keep their relationship quiet he'd arranged to meet the exhibitions and displays manager in Kensington Gardens. A chance meeting in a public area. Since he had an hour to kill, he ducked into a private club to make a discreet telephone call regarding the elimination. Thereafter he indulged in a smoke and a brandy whilst perusing the London newspapers and eavesdropping on a conversation regarding commercial flight. He left the club congratulating himself on investing in a profitable air transport company six months prior. He fairly rubbed his hands together in wicked delight. "Fearless and forward-thinking. The gateway to success."

The winter air was frigid, the skies hazy and gray, thick with smoke from the city's numerous steam stacks, yet nothing blighted the verdant hills and dales and stately trees of Kensington Gardens. Strolling well-kept footpaths, Bingham bristled each time he spied a horse-drawn carriage. The queen had prohibited steam- and petrol-fueled cabs-even private automocoaches-from any of the parks. With luck, it would not be thus by summer. There was a fortune to be made on noiseless electric recreational coaches. Just one of the inventions he hoped to develop and introduce into society.

Mind racing, he nodded in greeting at the fashionably attired pedestrians he pa.s.sed along the way, his adrenaline spiking as he neared the Albert Memorial. It seemed fitting to meet a key employee of the science museum in the shadow of the prince consort, a progressive thinker who had championed technology. Were Prince Albert alive today, Bingham had no doubt the British Empire would be embracing instead of shunning twentieth-century technology.

Bingham approached the monument precisely on time. Anxious for an updated report on the global race, he hoped Waddington was equally punctual. Indeed the man waited on the designated park bench nearby. Bingham smoothed his greatcoat and eased down on the bench next to his scholarly-looking a.s.sociate. "Beautiful day," he said by way of a formal greeting.

"Indeed."

"How fares the Triple R Tourney?"

Waddington dipped into the inside pocket of his frock coat. "I have a list of partic.i.p.ants. Some mentioned the invention they are seeking. Some did not. Do you know one man bragged he would return with Noah's Ark? Extraordinary." He discreetly pa.s.sed Bingham three sheets of typed notes. "We have almost two hundred official doc.u.mentations. Then, of course, there are those who merely inquired but did not commit."

Like Jules Darcy. In an earlier meeting Waddington had mentioned the eldest brother as one of the first to call. The science fiction writer had asked specifics and offered nothing in return. Always in the shadows, that man. Bingham had learned easily enough that the other Darcy siblings had joined the race, although, skimming the list, he saw neither had officially registered. What did catch his eye were at least two scores of compet.i.tors citing the Briscoe Bus's clockwork propulsion engine as their target invention. The bus itself had been destroyed soon after arriving in this century; however, it was rumored that a rogue Peace Rebel had absconded with and hidden away the precious time-traveling engine. That engine alone would be enough to advance Bingham's personal agenda.

He smiled.

Waddington nodded. "As I said. Extraordinary."

"You'll alert me the moment any partic.i.p.ant contributes a significant invention for the committee's approval."

"Before or after we examine and authenticate the item?"

"Upon delivery. Mr. Waddington," he said, prompting the man to shift and meet his gaze. "Given my position as benefactor and as a loyal servant of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, surely you can understand why I would want to be involved in the entire process regarding authentication and merit."

The man blinked, his voice quiet but animated. "But of course, of course."

Just then Bingham's telepager vibrated in his inner vest pocket. Someone had important news. He returned the list to Waddington. "You have my contact information." When the man nodded, Bingham stood. "Thank you for meeting with me." He forced an easy and amiable smile. "Good day to you, sir."

Without looking back, Bingham circled the monument, then set off down a deserted footpath. He pulled the wireless telepager from his pocket. An ingenious contraption he'd purchased on the black market and spent weeks customizing. There were still glitches and bugs, but the communications device worked more often than not. He flipped open the bra.s.s cover and stared at the incoming code. The first digit indicated that the message was from an informant. The next segment-the phone number to call for details. The final portion of the code relayed the reason for the page.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, yes! A Freak informant had knowledge of Miss Darcy's whereabouts.

Bingham snapped shut the cover and set off at a brisk pace. His day was looking up, and Captain Dunkirk, the insolent b.a.s.t.a.r.d, was about to earn his money.

CHAPTER 20.

Upon boarding the Maverick, Amelia had been greeted by a very vocal and seemingly happy Leo. The falcon had flown out of the surrounding woods and swooped in, eager for her attention. Whilst she was stroking her friend's feathers, Tucker had brushed past her, motioning to StarMan and Axel and demanding a report regarding the airship's condition.

Considering he'd just returned from a recreational visit to Paris, she sensed that his terse mood took his men by surprise. Not Amelia. The tension between them had been building all morning. He'd admitted to caring about her, which had rattled her far more than she'd let on.

What confused her most was that he had once again made it clear that he could offer no more than a momentary dalliance, yet he seemed irritated that, as of this morning, she'd initiated a physical and emotional retreat. For all his intelligence did he not recognize forward, logical thinking? Because of her liquor-induced ramblings, she'd intimated she was falling in love. Never mind that she had already fallen deeply and madly. Did he not see the wisdom in ending a casual affair that now involved caring and fervent affection? Did he want to crush her heart?

Crikey.

How arrogant she'd been. How ignorant of true love. Foolishly she'd believed she could keep company with a man she'd worshiped for years and then walk away at a moment's notice with an unscathed heart. She'd realized her folly in that honeymoon bed. After a restless night, she'd awoken with one clear thought: Preserve your integrity and heart by establishing a professional relationship. No romping. Just business.

Unfortunately, he'd stalled when she'd suggested they strike an agreement regarding his transport and courier services. Heart-pounding intimacy still sizzled between them, even though she'd erected a mental wall, even though she'd embraced each and every reason to find fault or to pick a fight with the man. She'd just have to push harder, stand stronger. I no longer wish to explore the sensual universe with you. Thank you most kindly. Moving on.

The tricky part was that she could not alienate Tucker entirely. She needed him. She needed the Maverick. Focus, Amelia, focus. Mount Ceceri. The workshop. The ornithopter. She had to win the jubilee prize for the sake of her family. In the name of her father.

Amelia jerked straight and Leo flew away, watching over her from Birdman Chang's iron-grilled crow's nest. She knew the falcon sensed her agitation as she reviewed her agenda and focused on a timeline. Had it been only ten days since Papa had pa.s.sed? Less than two weeks, and yet she'd savored an adventure of a lifetime and the attentions of a famous outlaw?

Flushed with guilt, Amelia stalked past Tucker, StarMan, and Axel. She circ.u.mvented Eli, merely nodding at his "Welcome back, miss." Nearly tumbling down the ladder in her haste to get to the lower deck. The kitecycle. Never had she been so determined to conquer the impossible. She had to resurrect Bess.

"Her hair's pink."

Tuck ignored Axel's observation as Amelia stormed past. "So the blasterbeefs are in top form?"

"For now. Can't say what'll happen once we take off. What with a woman aboard and all."

"Don't start."

"She seems upset," StarMan said. "Maybe you should-"

"b.u.t.t out."

Axel whistled. "Talk about rotten luck."

Tuck raised an inquiring brow while trading his Stetson for a flight cap.

"You're sweet on Miss Crazy Pants."

"One more derogatory remark about Miss Darcy, Axel, and I'll knock you on your a.s.s."

"If that don't beat all." The thick-necked engineer plucked a fat stogie from his pocket and clamped it between his teeth. "Of all the women in all the world," he muttered while scuffling toward the engines.

"Want to talk about it?" StarMan asked.

"About as much as I want to roll around bare-a.s.sed in a nest of red ants." Tuck rounded the thermoplastic shield of the c.o.c.kpit, inspected the wheel and controls. He noted a few upgrades and repairs. Axel was no slouch, but Gaston's mechanics were exceptional. "Have Eli saddle Peg. I'll ride out and thank the duke for his hospitality while we're waiting for Birdman and Doc to return."

"The Duke of Anjou left last night on unexpected business. Asked me to bid you farewell and good luck."

"Something we could all use, if you ask Axel."

"Not that I'm buying into that particular superst.i.tion, but you have to admit we experienced an unusual amount of malfunctions and crises last time we flew with Miss Darcy."

Tuck shot him a look.

"Right. I'll have Eli ready the bally. Birdman boarded about an hour ago. He's below nursing a baijiu binge. Soon as Doc joins us we can cast off." StarMan moved to his custom-made station. Charts, maps, an iron-based globe, and a navigational and astronomical s.e.xtant were just a few of the items crowding the rear of the c.o.c.kpit. He rooted himself, then looked to Tuck. "Where in Italy?"

Sensible question, especially for his chief navigator. In order to plot a course he needed a destination. "Tuscany."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Not at the moment." Tuck had been stewing on Amelia's invention of historical significance ever since she'd confided in him about the secret room. What was the connection between Briscoe Darcy's time machine and Leonardo da Vinci's ornithopter, if any? Why had Darcy left the miracle invention hidden where he'd found it? Why tell Amelia's pa about the secret vault, and why did Lord Ashford keep it a secret all those years? One thing was for sure and certain: Amelia knew more than she was letting on. He sensed something big. Something dangerous. Until he knew more, he figured it was best to keep his crew in the dark. The more they knew, the greater the risk of a leak. Given the money and notoriety at stake, this could be the discovery of a lifetime. Not that he didn't trust his crew, but- "Sorry I'm late. Lost track of time. You know how it is in a skytown." Doc Blue adjusted his goggles and sleeved sweat from his brow. "Axel said we're clear for takeoff." He gestured to the globe. "Still heading for Italy?"

Tuck nodded.

"Miss Darcy clue you in on what we're after?"

"Why?"

Doc jammed his fingers through his spiky white hair. "Just curious, is all. I mean, we were pondering on the matter, you and me," he said to Tuck, "and I...I was just curious." After an awkward moment, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll help Eli with the bally."

The anxious man trotted off nearly as fast as he'd blown in.

StarMan raised a brow. "What's going on with Doc?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Tuck couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been up to no good with his fellow Freaks. Nor could he dismiss Doc's nervous interest in their destination. Given his usually calm demeanor, his anxious behavior was d.a.m.ned suspicious.

"Maybe he finally danced the mattress jig." StarMan shook his head and returned his attention to the map. "Only Doc would get all fl.u.s.tered and self-conscious about bedding a woman."

Tuck didn't think that was it, but what the h.e.l.l did he know? Maybe Doc had finally let his guard down, relaxed and indulged with one of his own kind. The woman in the shadows-maybe she'd been his first lover. He didn't want to suspect Doc Blue of ill intent. No, he did not.

Tuck heard the blasterbeefs firing up, saw the bally inflating via the steam engine. Soon they'd be in the air, and maybe his G.o.dd.a.m.ned head would clear.

"You want the fastest or safest course?" StarMan asked.

"I want a long way 'round." Tuck moved in, placed his palms on the map, and studied the terrain alongside his friend. "If Dunkirk or anyone else is tailing us, I don't want to broadcast our destination."

"We could lose them in the Alps."

"Make it so." The long way around would also buy Tuck more time with Amelia. One way or another they were going to discuss what burned between them. They were sure as h.e.l.l going to have a frank and detailed discussion about the Time Voyager and the ornithopter. He aimed on giving her the s.p.a.ce she claimed she wanted. For now. Meanwhile he'd work out matters in his mind and determine a course of action. He'd outsmarted some of the most brilliant criminal minds in America, for chrissake. He could sure as h.e.l.l handle Flygirl.

"You've been at the wheel for hours."

Tuck ignored StarMan, even though he hovered.