Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(102)

She chuckled. “You’re an old fox.”

“I’ll hold ya to that bargain, missy,” he declared, his voice suddenly taut. “I want my daughter back, one way or another. Ya hear?”

Cynda nodded.

The anarchist had crossed sides tonight, putting both his life and his daughter’s on the line. No matter what happened, they owed him, even if Keats didn’t survive.

~??~??~??~



The change into the posh clothes was the easy part. She made a point of wearing the necklace the prince had sent her in gratitude for supposedly saving his life. That event seemed so long ago now, though it had only been a few weeks by the 1888 calendar.

Now came the hard part—taking on Victorian society at one of its most stalwart locations—the gentlemen’s club. It took a great deal of negotiating skill to even get her inside the door and parked in a sequestered room away from the main part of the establishment. Theo Morrisey-level skill, to be honest. She’d kept calm, explained her purpose, and then refuted every one of the objections, including the one concerning her sex.



“If this is some ploy to garner the prince’s interest—” the club steward warned, brows furrowed.

“I am involved in an investigation.” She produced the Pinkerton card with her name on it, the one Ralph had created.

The steward stared at it, dumbfounded.

“The case involves stolen explosives. A large amount of which could be used against the Royal family.”

The man kept staring at the card. She opened her mouth to give him hell, but then closed it. He was working through the options, and none of them looked attractive from his point of view. If he chucked her out the door and she was legit, he was in for it. If he annoyed the future king with a crazy woman, he might well lose his cushy job.

She greased the wheels. “I consulted on this very issue earlier this evening with Chief Inspector Fisher of Special Branch and Lord Wescomb, a member of Parliament.” Fisher’s and Wescomb’s cards traded hands.

Those cards tipped the scales in her favor. “I shall speak with the prince’s equerry,” the steward announced before heading into the den of nineteenth-century testosterone. She settled on the couch, a heavily brocaded thing with lilies carved into the walnut back. She’d half expected it to have nude nymphs instead.

“Amazing,” her delusion announced, sidling along the piece of furniture. “I figured you’d be out of here in a flash.”

Second miracle of the night.

“This one’s a long shot,” the spider added. “He didn’t answer your note.”

Doesn’t matter. I have to pull out all the stops.

Seven minutes later, the steward returned with another man. She guessed him to be the prince’s equerry and in his hand were the calling cards.

Fortunately, he recognized her from Effington’s party, which was good. She didn’t remember him.

“Miss Lassiter,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”



“Thank you,” she said, itching to get on with this. “I need to speak to the prince, or at least pass a message to him.”

He gave the steward a look and the man took the hint, leaving them alone.

“His Highness received your message this morning.”

“And did not answer me,” she said directly. “With all due respect, sir, this is far beyond polite correspondence.”

As succinctly as possible, Cynda presented the equerry with an overview of why Keats must live to see another day, including Flaherty’s testimony.

Meanwhile, the man fingered the three calling cards. “What is Lord Wescomb doing about this new evidence?”

“He and Fisher are speaking with anyone who will listen to them. They want a stay of execution so the new evidence can be presented. It should lead to Keats’ exoneration.”

“Why would this anarchist come forward?” the man asked bluntly.

“To save his daughter’s life,” she responded.

By the time she’d finished telling him about Fiona, she realized they were not alone. Someone stood at the doorway. How long he’d been there, she was uncertain. Cynda remembered the face from the photos she’d studied in the carriage on the way over. She rose and curtsied deeply. “Your Royal Highness. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

“Miss Lassiter,” the Prince of Wales acknowledged, his heavy-lidded eyes traveling the length of her in frank appraisal. “You are a very persistent woman.” He indicated the cards in his equerry’s hand. “I was not aware you are with Pinkerton’s.”

“We have kept it rather quiet.”

“So it would appear.” When he moved into the room, the equerry shut the door behind him. “You must know that it would not be proper for me to interfere with the courts.”

“I know, Your Highness; however, if it were known that you are watching this case with considerable interest, there might be a better chance that Sergeant Keats would receive justice.”



His eyes narrowed. “You make it sound as if he has enemies besides the anarchists.”

This is where it got dicey. Bertie had a reputation as a consummate womanizer and he might well have been one of Nicci’s paramours, though according to Alastair, the prince’s calling card was not one of those found in her possession.