Free His Clockwork Canary by Beth Ciotta

back and stared up at the ceiling. Still and naked.
     Quiet and waiting for her next order. In many ways, Renee was the perfect woman. Especially
     for a man with sadistic fetishes. Most especially for a man who despised opinionated
     women with utopian ideals. New Worlders like Amelia Darcy.
    “To think I’d contemplated marrying that outspoken liberal,” he said aloud, then sneered.
     “Although I would not mind taming her.” Not wanting to obsess over the female Darcy
     and her role in the Triple R Tourney, he fondled Renee’s pleasing assets whilst contemplating
     the latest developments in London.
    “Maintaining anonymity and multiple aliases is essential to my well-being and master
     plan,” he said to the cold-skinned robot. “But I confess I sometimes wish that I had
     a confidant. Someone with whom to share my assessments and brilliance. My impatience
     and frustration.”
    “Confidant,” she repeated in a monotone. “The Dowager Viscountess Bingham.”
    “Ah, yes. Mother. Indeed I trust her with my secrets, but her intrusive manner and
     incessant nagging grows tiresome.” He rolled to his side and propped on one elbow,
     looking down at Renee’s attractive albeit engineered face. “I, Lord Bingham, viscount
     and visionary and, it might be said, nefarious entrepreneur, appoint you, a programmed
     minion and acceptable lover, as my number two confidant.” He quirked an arrogant grin.
     “I do not know why this did not occur to me before, as
you
, my dear, are the perfect sounding board.”
    “Sounding board,” she said. “Experiment to test new idea.”
    “Indeed. Let us see how you do. I shall now sound off, as I have much on my mind,
     much to assess. I would ask that you at least nod occasionally to indulge my venting.”
    She nodded.
    “Well done.” Bingham smoothed a hand over his impeccable hair and considered the last
     two days filled with surreptitious deeds. He was most pleased and impressed with his
     efforts. “Given the nature of my ambition, I am not often at liberty to conduct business
     as myself. I’ve been
Mars
as well as
Strangelove
for two different yet connected reasons: to dominate the global market of Modified
     products. Weaponry, communications, and transportation. Thus far, my plan is on target.
     Although this latest trip to London taxed my patience on many levels. Shall I tell
     you why?”
    His number two confidant nodded.
    “Let us start with Aquarius.”
    “Eleventh astrological sign in the zodiac, originating from the constellation Aquarius,”
     Renee recited from her data resource implants. “Age of Aquarius. Mod terminology pertaining
     to period of transition—inventions, machines, worldwide organizations, international
     collaboration, and the fellowship of humankind.”
    “Or in this case,” Bingham said, “a secret society, comprised of nine titled men of
     science and industry, united in an effort to embrace and cultivate Mod technology.
     Men of peace, all but me, yet they plot to assassinate the queen. A nasty but necessary
     endeavor.”
    “Queen. Queen Victoria—”
    “A simple nod would suffice.” When she complied, Bingham pushed on, his annoyance
     rising. “Queen Victoria remains rigid and polices progress with an iron fist. She
     continues to blame the Peace Rebels for the death of her beloved Prince Albert, banning
     time-traveling devices and other Mod products. As if by slowing time, she could go
     back in time,” he snapped in disgust. “Romantic rubbish.
    “The divide between Old Worlders and New Worlders widens by the day,” he went on.
     “Meanwhile, a Freak rebellion brews in the background. Astonishing that an altered
     race believes themselves worthy of equal rights,” he said with a derisive snort.
    Renee jerked her head right, narrowed her eyes.
    By Christ, had he hit a nerve? Automatons had no nerves. No feelings. Surely he was
     mistaken.
    “Old Worlders,” she said. “Conservatives who shun futuristic