Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(94)

Confusion clouded her face. “That does not follow with what he told me.”

Defoe didn’t bother to explain he had enemies in two different centuries. “Since when does the Lead Assassin speak so openly about murder?”

Adelaide sank into a nearby chair with an agitated rustle of silk. “I pray that you will forgive me for what I am about to tell you.”

She was afraid. Of me, or her master?

“I am a member of the Twenty, Malachi. I am the Intermediary between that body and the Ascendant. I do not readily reveal that fact to anyone. The longer I have known you, the more I’ve come to realize you’re an honorable man, and now I regret not having shared that confidence earlier.”

She sounds so sincere.

“Once this crisis is over, I intend to resign from the Twenty and go to Paris. I have already found someone to purchase the house and the furniture.” She looked directly at him, pleading in her voice. “I intend to start over, Malachi. I sincerely pray you will join me.”

He pushed aside her offer. “What crisis?”

She paused for a moment, struggling with the change that had come over him. “The Ascendant is playing us, one and all,” she explained. “If we do not have a satisfactory answer out of him by mid-week, he will be replaced. The Lead Assassin is in agreement with me on this point. We cannot risk exposure.”



“Who is he?”

He expected her to refuse him that information, but she did not hesitate. “His name is Hezekiah Grant. He is, by most points, a somber and pious man. However, as of recent he has begun to act quite oddly.”

“What is behind all this?”

“The Ascendant said that we had the opportunity to obtain some explosives that we might pass onto certain sympathetic Transitives in Russia.”

“Why stir up trouble with them?” he asked.

“We believe the rise of certain factions will not prove advantageous for Britain. Our loyalty is not only to our kind, Malachi, but also to our nation. The Twenty discussed it and decided the plan had value. Then he enlisted that anarchist, Flaherty, to steal the explosives, even going so far as to kidnap the man’s daughter to hold him in check.”

“That was not part of your plan?”

“Heavens no,” she said. “I can only imagine the terror in that child’s heart. We are very upset at this news. It is clear now that he does not intend to convey this merchandise to the appropriate people but has his own scheme for its use.”

“How many of the Twenty do you know by name?”

“Only a few. We hold privacy as our greatest shield. I suspect the Lead Assassin knows some of the others as well.”

“What of him?”

“I must admit I first thought him an abomination. My opinion has changed as of recent. His true name is hidden from us.”

Defoe had one last question. If he did not ask it, he would implode. “Do you truly love me, Adelaide, or was it all a ruse to make me trust you?”

Her eyes misted over as she nodded. “Yes, I do love you. I realized very early on that our trysts were more than just the pleasure between a man and a woman.”

In the beginning, he’d not come to this house for anything but time spent with a beautiful courtesan, one of the perquisites of the job. The nights he’d spent with Adelaide had changed his mind. A few hours in her arms were not enough. He wanted more.



“Does the Lead Assassin know of your feelings?” he quizzed, still unsure of her loyalty.

“I suspect he does.”

“Was he one of your gentlemen?” Defoe asked peevishly.

“Not that I am aware.”

“Will the Lead Assassin try to fulfill his contract against me?”

“He will have to, eventually, or face being killed himself. If he delays, there is no guarantee the Ascendant will not dispatch another. Apparently, he has already done so in another matter.”

“I see.”

Adelaide rose. “I will press for the Ascendant’s removal. I will not risk your life, Malachi.”

He drew her close to him, wincing when she put her hand on his healing wound. She laid her head on his chest. This was not a courtesan with a customer, but a trembling lover, fearing rejection. He had encountered many lying women over the centuries.

His heart told him that Adelaide Winston was not one of them.

~??~??~??~



Monday, 5 November, 1888

Newgate Prison

Keats stared at the ceiling, waiting. His pocket watch rested on his chest, the cover open so he could consult the dial. In a few short minutes it would be his birthday, but there was little cause for celebration. Last year he’d been a blissfully happy man, having just successfully completed a complicated case involving international forgers. Now he was thirty-three years old, and had fallen further than even his father could imagine.

The cell door opened and Alastair entered. Keats swung his feet over the edge of the bed, surprised to see his friend so early in the morning.

“I know you’re probably not in the mood,” Alastair said with a muted smile, “but I did want to visit you on your birthday.”



He remembered. “Not much to celebrate, is there?”

“That remains to be seen,” was the reply. The doctor turned to the two guards. “May we have some privacy? I need to examine the prisoner’s wounds.”