Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(72)

Sephora nodded weakly. “I do.”

“Your lordship, this is not going to be comfortable,” Alastair advised.

“You all say that sort of thing.” He eyed his wife, panting and gritting his teeth as Alastair set about cleaning the wound. A deep breath. “How did our…butler,” Wescomb asked in between hisses of pain, “come to…have a pistol…in his pocket, my dear?”

There was a noticeable pause before Sephora found her voice. “Brown is a gamekeeper’s son. He is familiar with firearms. I thought it prudent that he be armed, given the extraordinary pressure you’ve faced during Keats’ trial.”

Wescomb mustered a weak smile. “You’re a marvel, my dear.”



Sephora’s eyes moistened.

His lordship winced again. “Take my advice, Doctor. Marry a smart woman. If I had done otherwise, I would be dead.”

“I shall remember that, my lord,” Alastair responded with a smile. “There, the bleeding has slowed. A very positive sign.”

The maid hurried in with the tea tray. In her wake, the butler appeared at the door with a tray of bandages.

“Perfect,” Alastair replied. “Thank you.”

“My lord,” Brown began, “I have secured the house. I have an armed footman on each entrance and have sent for the police. I fear we’ll be thick with Blue Bottles very soon.”

“No doubt contributing to the chaos,” Wescomb muttered. “Excellent, Brown. When I’m well again, we’ll go shooting. I haven’t done that in ages. It appears to be a skill I must endeavor to polish if others intend to make me a target in future.”

The man was visibly startled. “I…I would be honored, my lord.”

The moment the butler was out of the room, Wescomb added, “Raise his salary, will you Sephora? Can’t lose that man to one of our neighbors.”

“Most certainly, John.”

“If you can hold his lordship’s arm steady, I’ll apply the antiseptic and then the bandages,” Alastair requested.

She clasped hands with her husband and placed a kiss on his damp forehead. Another grunt of pain issued from the injured man, and she winced in sympathy.

“You are going to win this case, John, or they would not have gone to such effort.”

Wescomb nodded. “The question is, dare I ask for a continuance? The jury is teetering on the brink. Give them a week and they may swing in favor of the prosecution.”

Alastair expertly tied off the bandage. “There, we’re done. If you have laudanum in the house, I would recommend a dose to cut the pain.”

“Not yet. Not until Kingsbury arrives. We must make war plans.”



“You’ve got a hole in your shoulder,” Alastair retorted.

“It’s better than a noose around the neck. No arguments; we’ll do our work, and then I’ll rest.”

Sephora abruptly rose and made her way to the chair near the fireplace, her face still ashen. When Alastair next looked at her, large tears glistened on her cheeks. She gave him a wan smile, her hands clutching a teacup.

“Sephora?” Wescomb murmured from deep in the bedcovers.

Suddenly, she was all attention. “Yes, John?”

“Dr. Montrose has not had anything to eat this evening. Can you ensure he receives a good meal?”

“Of course, dear.”

“It appears that Kingsbury is about to earn his spurs,” Wescomb observed.

“Is he up to the task?” Alastair asked.

The peer caught the doctor’s eyes. “He’ll just have to be, won’t he?”

~??~??~??~



2057 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

Morrisey rubbed his temples to ease the headache. It wasn’t working. In front of him, on the vid-monitor, was Dr. Weber waxing verbose about the dangers of untreated ARD. The aggrieved psychiatrist was making the rounds of Vid-Net talk shows. His message was simple: if his patient had been treated when she was younger, the incident would never have happened.

Fulham and Mr. Hamilton were watching over his shoulder. He could feel the mounting tension, at least from Jacynda’s oldest friend.

“That bastard,” Hamilton muttered under his breath “He should lose his license.”

“He hasn’t crossed the line yet,” Fulham advised. “As long as he only uses her initials and not her name, he’s fine.”

“Everybody will know it’s her,” Hamilton protested. “There are only seven or so women currently active in the time stream. You’d have to be stupid not to connect the dots.”



Weber’s voice rose from the speaker. “Untreated Adrenalin Reactives are a sincere danger to themselves and to society. I have learned this personally and am submitting a request for legislation to make treatment mandatory.” He touched his bruised jaw gingerly for emphasis.

Morrisey ground his teeth. The moment the interviewer invited listeners to send in their thoughts, the Vid-Net message boards went ballistic. Hamilton groaned, bringing up a second screen to scan them.

“What are they saying?” Morrisey asked. It would be easier to craft a response if he knew what the public thought of all this.

“Most of them are from the time groupies. Leave it to the Timers to spread a juicy rumor,” Hamilton grumbled. “One of them says Lassiter’s too far into Endorphin Rebound and went rogue. Another writes that she tried to kill Defoe.” He chuckled darkly. “This one says she tried to kill you, boss.”