Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(38)

“No, he will not.” The doctor tossed the cigar stub into the fire. “We are free of this danger, gentlemen. If we intercede, we risk revealing ourselves.”

Hastings gnawed on his cigar stub. “It may well be beyond that point, to be honest. I was only informing you as a matter of courtesy.”

“Courtesy?” Alastair rose, dusting off a cuff as he’d seen Livingston do more than once. He pitched his voice perfectly. “It would be best for you, Hastings, and for The Conclave, that the sergeant is left alone. He cannot reveal our secret if he cannot prove it. If he attempts to do so, he will sound mad to his keepers. As I indicated the last time we spoke of this matter, I will take it very seriously if anything should happen to the man.”

Hastings was staring at him intently. “Why?”



“Because if you’ll stab him in the back, eventually you may do the same to me.” Alastair took a gamble. “Warn your superior that it is not in his best interest to pursue this.”

Hastings looked away. “I can’t do that,” he muttered. “He’ll have one of his assassins after me in a flash.”

So it is the Ascendant who holds the ring in your nose.

“Better one of them than me, Hastings,” Alastair replied, putting just the right amount of malice behind the words.

He swept out of the room as Livingston would have done. He could hear hushed voices behind him. His threat had hit home.

As he donned his cape and hat, Ronald gave him an approving nod. Though the door was closed, the steward bent forward and whispered, “Well done, Doctor.”

“How—”

“The top hat. Mr. Livingston’s is from Oxford Street. Yours is decidedly not.”

“Oh.” Recovering, Alastair slipped Ronald a generous tip. “Do you have any notion where he is?”

“No. I’ve not heard anything of him.”

“When he does reappear, give him this, will you?” Alastair handed over one of his personal cards. “It’s my new address. I must speak with him on an urgent matter.”

“Most certainly, sir.” Ronald’s voice was louder now. “Good evening, Mr. Livingston.”

“Good evening, Ronald.”

Alastair made it only a block away before he found a dark corner and shifted to his own form. While the ordeal left his stomach churning, the weariness resolved more quickly than he’d expected. After flattening the top hat and wrapping it in the cape, he headed home. In the morning he would speak to Lord Wescomb about the threat to Keats’ life. In some perverse way his friend might be safest in a prison cell.

~??~??~??~



Monday, 29 October, 1888



Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

The report of Keats’ arrest had spread quickly, through the newspapers and by word of mouth. Alastair was not surprised to find the courtroom filling rapidly with an audience eager to see Keats in the flesh as he made his plea. It’d be worse when the actual trial began.

They love a show.

As he jostled forward in the crowd, he heard a voice call his name. For all the noise, it was remarkable he could hear it. He turned and was rewarded with a sight he’d never expected.

“Evelyn?”

She stood apart from the crowd, clad in an emerald-green dress edged in beige lace, her brown hair arranged stylishly under a matching hat. Behind her, he noted another woman. Her lady’s maid.

Up close, Evelyn Hanson looked more careworn than before. That wasn’t surprising, given that she’d been compelled to break two engagements within the span of a few months. Evidently, each personal disappointment had exacted a heavy emotional toll. When he finally reached her, he hesitated, unsure of how he might be received. What would her father think? Although Dr. Hanson recently had given him permission to see Evelyn again, his former employer had been the one to quash their engagement in the first place.

It would not hurt to be courteous. He owed her that much.

Alastair took her gloved hand and kissed it. Looking upward, he was pleased to note a subtle smile poised on her face.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“You,” she replied simply. “I read of your friend and knew you’d be here to support him. I thought you might like support of your own.”

She doesn’t hate me. Relief washed over him. It could so easily have proven the opposite. He’d openly challenged her father about who should be deemed worthy of medical treatment, and the vehement argument had led to Dr. Hanson ending the engagement.



As if that weren’t enough, Alastair had dashed Evelyn’s future with her subsequent fiancée, by confronting the young rake and warning him that he might have contracted syphilis from Nicci Hallcox. Lord Patton had refused to be examined for the disease, seemingly unconcerned that he may pass the infection to his future wife. To Alastair’s surprise, Evelyn had sundered that engagement on her own.

“Alastair?” she nudged.

“Sorry, I was thinking about…all that has come to pass between us,” he said.

“I hold no anger for you over Lord Patton,” she told him, as if divining his thoughts. “How can I dislike a man who saved my life?”

He felt humbled. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Perhaps I do.”