Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(123)

“Come into the church. It’s raw out here,” the priest suggested.

Keats didn’t move. This had to be decided now.

“Yer a stubborn little fella, aren’t ya?” Flaherty grumbled.

“I don’t want those explosives used by you or anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t kill anyone,” the man replied. “I was after somethin’ bigger than a few dead coppers.”

“What?”

A look of pride stole across Flaherty’s face. “That bit of fancy glass. You know, the one the old cow’s stud built.”

It took Keats a moment to translate. “The Crystal Palace? You’d destroy Prince Albert’s masterpiece?” he asked, astounded and repulsed at the same time. Keats’ grandparents had taken him there when he was eight, and he fondly recalled the massive glass structure and the astounding dinosaur sculptures. He remembered standing inside the glass building, gazing upward into the sky, sure he’d been transported to another world.

“You are a barbarian, sir,” he shouted, his fists bunched.

Flaherty laughed. “Why not? It’d upset folks right proper. Get their notice. Maybe they’d finally let Ireland go free.”

“No, it’d just bring more laws down on our heads. They don’t think like we do.”

Keats realized what he’d said the moment after the words tumbled out of his mouth. We. Somehow he’d crossed over to Flaherty’s side without realizing it.

“Whoever made you steal those explosives won’t use them on that fancy bit of glass, as you call it,” Alastair argued. “They’ll kill people. Lots of people.”

“I know.” Flaherty’s good humor faded as he swore under his breath. He waved them forward. “Come on, I’ll show ya where the first batch is stored.”



“First batch?” Keats blurted.

“The explosives are spread all over creation, best as I can tell.”

Then it’s worse than we thought.

~??~??~??~



The hotel room was immaculate. Fresh flowers rested in a vase on the table near the window. The bed was made, and clean towels sat near the washstand. It was missing one thing: Theo Morrisey.

Cynda held her temper until the maid had departed and then let loose a stream of abuse under her breath.

“You did the same thing on your first trip,” Mr. Spider reminded her. “You left your handler and went off on your own. Got into trouble almost immediately.”

“But I’d been through the Rover Academy,” she argued. “I had a clue what I was facing. If he ends up hurt or dead…” She blew out a puff of air. “Where are you, you idiot?”

“Hunting Defoe?” the spider suggested.

Cynda gave her delusion a nod. “Exactly.”

She extracted the pendant and went to work. Defoe’s extreme reaction to Adelaide Winston was the best clue she had. A few minutes later, she was in a hansom cab heading toward the woman’s upmarket address. She’d made sure to take the necessary precautions: proper manners, nicest dress, pistol tucked in pocket.

Who says I don’t know how to act like a lady?

The courtesan’s butler was a solemn sort. Most of them were, but he probably had to be even more circumspect. This was a house in which the obscenely well-off got their requisite tumble with what was reported to be one of the most beautiful women in London. They paid handsomely for her time. And for her discretion.

Expertise always costs more.

He disappeared into another room. When he returned, Morrisey was right behind him.



“Ah, Miss Lassiter, good of you to join us,” he said, all formality.

She issued a tight smile in response. “I was concerned when you weren’t at the hotel,” she said sweetly, mindful of the butler. I’ll give you an earful later.

“Such things happen,” he tossed off lightly. “Mr. Livingston is in the drawing room.” He offered his arm and she followed his lead.

The other founder of the time immersion industry was in a room defying description. Everything was flawless: the carpet, the draperies, the furniture, and even the paintings. A Victorian scholar would have sold his children into white slavery to have a photo of this perfection.

Defoe was en mirage as that Victorian gentleman again. He gave a nod and then turned his attention to the other woman in the room. The moment his eyes lit on her, his expression changed to one of frank adoration.

It was easy to see why: Adelaide Winston possessed flawless skin, hair, the works. The gown was apricot silk and flowed around her like a cloud. Though she had to be Transitive to be one of the Twenty, there was no white outline. What you saw was the real Adelaide in all her glory.

Wow.

To her surprise, Cynda didn’t feel inferior. It was what the woman did best: she made you feel comfortable within your own skin.

“Which is why Defoe is in love with her,” Mr. Spider observed.

Love?

“Definitely. Look at his face.”

Her delusion was right. I’ll be damned.

The moment Adelaide rose from her chair, Defoe was at her side. Cynda stifled the snicker. Rover One was acting like a love struck teenager

“Adelaide, this is Jacynda Lassiter,” Defoe introduced.

“Good evening, Miss Lassiter,” Adelaide said. “Welcome to my home.” The timbre of her voice was pitched to command your attention without the need to shout.