Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(71)

“Excellent.” Wescomb rose from his chair. “Come on. My carriage should arrive in a few minutes.”





Chapter 22




“His lordship is here, Mr. Brown,” the maid called out, watching the street from the front window.

“Thank you, Marie,” he replied. She hurried past him, her task complete. The butler heard the swish of skirts on the stairs as Lady Sephora descended to meet her husband, as she did most evenings.

“Has Kingsbury arrived yet?”

“No, milady. He sent word that he was delayed and would be here closer to nine.”

“A long night indeed,” she replied.

Howard Brown adjusted his coat and then opened the front door, stepping outside. He scanned the streets as the coach came to a halt. It was after dark and a silvery mist hung in the air.

Wescomb waved as he exited the carriage. “Good evening, Brown!”

“Good evening, your lordship,” the butler called out.

“A bit damp, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord. It looks like rain.”

“He’s in high spirits,” Lady Sephora observed. “That bodes well. Perhaps I should have attended court today.”

Another man stepped out of the carriage. After a word from Wescomb, he headed for the front door.

“Dr. Montrose,” Lady Sephora acknowledged with a smile. “Welcome.”

“Good evening, your ladyship,” he responded, mounting the stairs to the house. He looked drawn, dark circles under his eyes.

“Go on in,” her ladyship told him. “Have a seat in his lordship’s study. I’ll ask Marie to bring you some tea to cut the chill.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Wescomb approached, smiling widely. “Good evening, my dear,” he called out, doffing his hat in a gallant gesture at the bottom of the stairs. “Today went well. I believe we may just prevail in this—”

There was the hurried sound of footsteps on the sidewalk.



“My lord!” Brown shouted.

The first shot spun Wescomb around like a top. The second missed, shattering a gas lamp farther down the row of houses. His lordship fell to one knee, his face a sketch of pain and surprise. The gunman boldly advanced on him, cocking the pistol, aiming at his forehead for the final coup de grace.

Three shots echoed in the street like cannon blasts. Brown’s first bullet missed, the second hit its mark, followed by the third. The assassin staggered toward the center of the street, clutching his chest as blood poured down the front of him. A hansom sped toward him, and for a second Brown thought it would strike him down. Instead, hands pulled the injured man inside. The driver whipped the horse unmercifully, sending sparks from the beast’s hooves as it flew away.

Sephora was the first to her husband. “John!”

Lord Wescomb gaped at her. “Hell of a thing, Sephora…”

Then he toppled over.

Alastair had just settled in a chair when he heard the shots. Bolting down the hallway and onto the street, he found his host cradled in his wife’s arms, white shirt thick with blood.

“We need to get him inside as quickly as possible,” Alastair insisted.

“Foster!” Brown called, beckoning to a young footman standing at the top of the stairs. “Help me with his lordship.”

Once the peer was laid on his own bed, Alastair moved forward.

“Staunch the bleeding as best you can,” he ordered as Lady Sephora leaned over her husband, her face alabaster and hands painted in blood. She pressed a cloth into Wescomb’s right shoulder, instantly staining it dark crimson.

Alastair stripped off his coat, tossing it aside with no care as to where it landed. “I’ll need hot water, bandages, any antiseptic you have,” he ordered.

The maid bobbed once and flew out of the room.

Alastair pulled a chair near the bed. “Let me have a look,” he said, taking Lady Sephora’s place. He pulled back the compress and gently examined the wound, taking care not to touch the injury directly.



Wescomb looked up at him with a sweat-sheened face. “Oh, there you are…young man. How bad is it?”

“Just determining that.” Alastair carefully manipulated the peer’s arm, eliciting a groan. “Sorry, my lord.” His initial examination complete, he gently replaced the compress. “It is as I hoped.”

“As you hoped?” Sephora asked, hanging on his every word.

“The bullet has gone completely through the fleshy part of his shoulder. Just continue pressing on the wound while I wash up.”

He rolled up his cuffs, poured water into the basin, and scrubbed furiously with a bar of soap that smelled of pine trees. The panicked maid scurried in with a basin of hot water, some of it sloshing over the edge onto the carpet.

“Excellent. Place it near the bed.”

The girl wavered on her feet, but did as he asked, full attention on her master. “The bandages are coming, sir.”

“Thank you.” Alastair dried his hands. “Please bring some hot tea with a tot of brandy in it for your mistress.”

“Yes, sir,” the maid said, curtseying. The door closed behind her and he heard the sound of running footsteps on the stairs.

Alastair sat next to the wounded man. “Do you feel well enough to assist me, your ladyship?”