His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 27

JANUARY 24, 1887 QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

Bingham blinked up at a white ceiling, smelled antiseptic, and heard the steady thwacking of a ceiling fan. He’d expected to wake up in purgatory or hell, but a quick glance about confirmed that he was lying in a small, although private—thank God—hospital room.

“Doctor said you’d rouse sooner or later this morning. Glad it was sooner,” Austin Steele said as he pushed through the door. “Don’t fancy cooling my heels in Cunnamulla a third day.”

Bingham tried to push himself up into a sitting position and almost passed out in the process.

“Easy, mate. You were gutshot. Lost a lot of blood. Lucky you’re alive. If your bodyguard hadn’t found you when he did—”

“That bitch shot me.” Bingham palmed his sweaty brow and tempered his labored breathing as his last memories cleared. They’d been under attack. He’d commanded Renee to shoot at the enemy and she’d bloody well shot him. “She’ll pay for this.”

“Something tells me she paid in spades up front.” Steele was hovering bedside now and scowling down at Bingham. “You hired me to deliver you to Queensland and I did. Even more so, I saved your sorry life. No need to thank me, mate, just pay me the other half of what we agreed on and I’ll be on my way.”

Bingham fisted clammy hands at his sides. “You can’t abandon me in this godforsaken place.”

“Cunnamulla’s not as civilized as, say, Perth or Brisbane, but it is on the map and as close as I could get you to the last coordinates you gave me without forgoing professional medical aid. Your bodyguard, for all the good he is, alerted your captain of your location and situation. Northwood, I believe his name was, said to assure you he will be here within forty-eight hours. Don’t rush recovery, do as the doctor instructs, and you may be up and around by then.”

Bingham gritted his teeth. “My personal possessions.”

Steele opened the drawer of the tall table next to the bed, handed Bingham his thick wallet.

“I’m surprised you didn’t help yourself,” Bingham said upon noting his booty was still intact.

“Not my way.” Steele pushed his sweat-stained hat to the back of his head as Bingham counted out several large banknotes. “Just so you know, as a bonus for saving your life, I’ll be taking Renee off your hands.”

Bingham shot him a look. “She’s a menace and you’re a fool.”

“I don’t see it that way,” the insolent man said whilst he tucked away the money. “Then again, I don’t intend to bugger Renee. I like my women warm and willing and I sure as hell don’t abuse them.”

Bingham made a mental note to eviscerate this man at some point in time. Just now he simply wanted him out of his sight. “I don’t suppose you garnered the information I asked for.”

“Did better than that,” Steele said as he strode to the door. “Found your Mod Tracker and roped him in. Job complete. Wish I could say it was nice knowin’ you, Bingham.”

He blew out the door and a second later another man crossed the threshold. “Lord Bingham.”

“Crag.” Finally something was going right. Maybe. “Can you adjust this bed, these pillows? Something to elevate me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Crag was every bit as rugged, weather-beaten, and common as Steele, but he, at least, was respectful. After cranking the top portion of the bed so that Bingham was no longer lying flat out, he poured Bingham a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

Bingham took the glass, vexed that his hand was shaking and rattled by the severe pain in his abdomen. Fortunately Renee hadn’t aimed higher or, God help him, lower. Considering, he supposed he was lucky she hadn’t shot off his manhood. “What of Professor Merriweather?”

Crag swiped off his hat and sleeved sweat from his brow. “Sure you’re up to hearing this?”

Bingham braced and soothed his parched throat with the cool water. “I take it you’ve lost him.”

“More like someone stole him.”

“Excuse me?”

Crag fingered the brim of his hat. “Merriweather was holed up in a makeshift compound with his daughter. That compound sits in the middle of a barren tract of land. Man nor beast could approach from any direction without being seen. Using a high-powered telescope, I kept watch from a secluded copse of trees. Traded shifts with my partner, Boyd. No one got past that fence without the gate being magically opened from the inside of the house. Merriweather must be some sort of technological wizard.”

“Go on,” Bingham said, fairly salivating at the thought of picking Merriweather’s genius brain.

“Day before yesterday, a dark-haired man limped up to the gate.”

Jules Darcy.

“I don’t know where he came from. No land or air transport that I could see. He just appeared at the gate. Then . . .” Crag scratched his jaw, gave a nervous chuckle. “This will sound crazy. Next thing I knew . . . he disappeared before my very eyes.”

“You’re right,” Bingham said, palming his bandaged stomach. In addition to the pain he was beginning to feel ill. “That is a preposterous statement.”

“I scanned the area with my telescope, with my naked eye, and then with my binoculars. Know where I found the cripple? In the house. Speaking with Merriweather. Have no idea how he got in there. But I can tell you one thing. He never left.”

“But you insinuated Merriweather is missing.”

“He is. Along with the professor’s daughter and the cripple. They were all in that compound. Now they’re not. Boyd and I kept watch. Never saw them leave the grounds. But then as of yesterday, there wasn’t a lick of activity within the house. Boyd and I even approached the fence, skirted the grounds, used our optical scopes to spy in every window. Either those three are dead on the floor or they’re gone.”

“Why didn’t you go inside?”

“Can’t get past that electrified fencing.”

“Find a way,” Bingham said. “Either they’re in there or they got past you in the dead of night. Secure Merriweather, Crag. If you’ve lost him, find him. At the very least secure the contents of that compound. I intend to inspect that house for myself as soon as I’m on my feet.”

Crag tugged his hat back on. “Whatever you say, Lord Bingham.”

“Open that drawer,” Bingham told the man, pointing to the table where Steele had procured his wallet. “Do you see my telecommunicator?”

Crag handed him the device, then moved to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

“See that you are.” He waited until Crag was gone, then thumbed a threatening coded message. He hadn’t flown halfway around the world and survived a deadly storm, cutthroat bushrangers, and a gunshot wound to lose this race. If Jules Darcy had indeed absconded with Professor Merriweather, then it was time to light a fire under Wilhelmina Goodenough’s sweet arse.