Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(124)

“I apologize for arriving without an invitation,” Cynda replied.

“I am honored you did.”

As Cynda settled into a chair near Morrisey, she felt the woman’s eyes on her, assessing her. Adelaide resumed her own chair, perched like royalty, but behind the pretty face was a brain as sharp as a stiletto. Their eyes met and a simple gesture of respect was traded.

“Miss Lassiter has been in on this from the start, Adelaide, so we can be completely candid.” One of Adelaide’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly in what might have been protest. “She is the one who saved my life.”

Cynda kept her surprise hidden. Defoe wasn’t usually that open with compliments.

“I see. I thank you for that, Miss Lassiter. I am very pleased to see you survived your own ordeal.”

Cynda inclined her head. No need to tell the woman she was only paying Defoe back for all the times he’d saved her.

“I was explaining the Ascendant’s mission, at least what it was in the beginning.” She adjusted a stray fold in her skirt. “The Ascendant was charged with obtaining a wagonload of explosives with an eye toward providing them to certain parties in Russia. We felt that causing turmoil amongst the Marxists would be of benefit. Russia is growing more unstable, and some of us fear they will replace the Czar at some point.”

They got that one right. Though it would take another three decades before the Bolsheviks ushered in the future Communist state.

“Your Ascendant stole three loads of explosives,” Cynda pointed out. “That’s a lot of turmoil.”

“That is where he began to disobey us,” Adelaide conceded. “He was only supposed to acquire one load of dynamite. Involving the Fenians was his next error. He has been making too many as of late.” She paused, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though only the four of them were in the room.



“A vote will be taken tomorrow, once all of the Twenty have returned to London. He will be dispatched by the Lead Assassin, and a new Ascendant will take his place.”

A palace coup.

“Just as long as the next one leaves me alone,” Cynda muttered.

“Before the Lead Assassin completes his task, I will request that he learn the location of the explosives for us. I’m hopeful the Ascendant can be convinced it would be an honorable gesture to reveal that information before he retires.”

Now that’s a sales spiel: you’re going to die anyway, but here’s your chance to do the right thing.

A tap on the door. The butler appeared and whispered something in his mistress’ ear.

“Already?” she asked in surprise. “He wasn’t supposed to arrive until later. I shall come to him.” Adelaide turned toward her guests apologetically. “I have a visitor and must see him alone for a few minutes.”

Defoe’s brow wrinkled.

“It is the Lead Assassin,” she explained, as if divining his thoughts. “I must ensure he will not harm you, Malachi. If he agrees to that restriction, I feel we should include him in our discussions.”

“You trust him that much?” Defoe asked.

“For the moment.”

The moment she was out the door, Cynda posed the question. With the Victorians out of the room, she went informal. “Why would this guy want to hurt you?”

“It’s Malachi Livingston that’s on the Ascendant’s hit list. I have no idea why.”

“Why not? He’s trying to kill everyone else,” Cynda muttered.

The door opened.

“Yes, Mr. Livingston is present,” Adelaide answered cautiously. “There is to be no attempt under this roof, do you understand?” The newcomer nodded. “Good. Then we shall discuss the situation at length.”



Their hostess entered, then turned to make the introductions.

“This is Satyr, the Lead Assassin,” she began.

Cynda examined the newcomer. A solid white bloom encased his form. That wasn’t a surprise. The chief assassin would be en mirage.

Which means he could anyone.

She took inventory. Dark hair. Dark eyes. That matched her patchy memory. No macassar oil. That didn’t seem right.

He started in surprise the moment he saw her.

“You gave your word, Satyr,” Adelaide warned, taking her place next to Defoe. “None of my guests are to be harmed.”

The visitor didn’t answer, but let his gaze skip over the others, one by one. He frowned at Morrisey, whom he wouldn’t know. Then a predatory smile appeared. It didn’t match the face.

“How fortunate,” he said.

The voice sounded wrong.

“We’ve met before,” Cynda said, testing him. “At Effington’s party. Surely you remember.”

In lieu of a reply, he slid a hand into his coat pocket.

Before she could call out a warning, a sharp crack split the air. Adelaide staggered a few paces, bewilderment on her face. A vast crimson stain was forming on the front of her apricot dress.

Defoe was on the move before the rest of them. He caught his lover as she tumbled toward the floor, cradling her in his arms. Another gunshot, this one aimed at him. There was a bright burst of shattering glass, followed by a cry from Theo. A third slug tugged at Cynda’s hat as it flew by.

Her hands shook so badly that her first shot missed. The second clipped the assassin’s arm. He swore at the sudden pain, his form changing as he took off at a run, colliding with the butler in the long passageway.