Chapter 1
Thursday, 11 October, 1888
London
Firearms always add that certain something to a party.
Tonight had been no exception. Head spinning, Jacynda Lassiter pulled herself upright and hastily reassembled the last few seconds of memory. She'd heard a woman cry out, turned to see a man wielding a pistol, and reflexively leapt upon the gun's owner. They'd then tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap. She had always been that way--moving on split-second decisions that came back to bite her on the butt.
From the look of things, this one wouldn't be any different.
A few yards ahead of her, red-faced men in full evening dress wrestled with the assailant, their coattails fluttering like agitated gulls. It took five of them to hold him in place as they bound his arms with a drapery cord hastily snatched from one of the windows.
"My God, look at the Queen!" a voice cried.
Cynda stared up at the royal portrait above the marble mantelpiece. Queen Victoria's ample bosom sprouted a bullet hole where her left nipple should be.
"Oh, great," she muttered. Her time interface vibrated furiously inside a pocket, signaling that someone else from the twenty-first century was in the room. She gave it a surreptitious tap. It promptly started up again. A second tap silenced it.
A solicitous young fellow bent down to offer Cynda his hand.
"By heavens, miss," he exclaimed, eyes wide, "you could have been badly injured!"
He was cute ... for a Victorian. A bit too much macassar oil, but handsome nonetheless. Cynda forced a polite smile. That always seemed to reassure these folks. Using his hand as leverage, she rose from the floor with difficulty, attempting to straighten her gown in the process. Fortunately, nothing had torn--a miracle in itself.
"I just need to sit down," she replied as smoothly as she could under the circumstances. Adjusting her bustle as delicately as possible, she settled into a chair. "Thank you, sir."
The young man nodded and moved away, his task complete.
Lady Sephora Wescomb knelt next to her now, her face alabaster. "My God, are you all right? Should I call for a doctor?"
Cynda gingerly maneuvered her left shoulder. She chose to fib: to do otherwise would invite too much fuss. "I'll be fine."
With a quaking hand, the silver-haired matron brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen free from Cynda's bun. "I've never seen such a thing," she exclaimed. "He ... he could have killed the prince!"
Or anyone else, for that matter.
Though Cynda was the first to admit her job as a Senior Time Rover was anything but boring, keeping history on track did not usually involve tackling a murderously inclined guest in the middle of a posh Victorian dinner party.
But who was he after? That was hard to say; it was a target-rich environment. He could have chosen from the future king of England, the prime minister, his nephew Balfour, a slew of members of Parliament, a couple judges, and some very rich merchants.
The failed assassin was hauled roughly to his feet. As he turned to face her, Cynda gasped. She blinked in case her eyes were tricking her. The face didn't change. Every Time Rover knew this man like he was family. They called him the Father of Time.
"Fool!" he shouted at her. "Do you realize what you've done?"
It was his voice. She'd never met him before, but she'd heard him dozens of times in the Vid-Net interviews.
"You fool!" he shouted again.
With that, Harter Defoe, greatest of all time travelers, was frog-marched out of the room, his glower deepening with each step.
A chill crept through her. What had she just done?
"Miss?" a timid voice inquired. A maid offered her a dampened cloth.
"Thank you," Cynda murmured, pressing the linen to her throbbing forehead. Foreheads had a way of doing that after they'd impacted the floor. I'm getting too old for this.
"On your way, girl!"
The sharp command sent the domestic scurrying. Cynda raised her eyes to meet the irate face of Hugo Effington. Her host's jaw was set, eyes narrowed, spoiling for a fight. Given his sizeable build, he wasn't a man to cross.
Why are you pissed at me?
"Excuse me, sir," the butler interjected, "I've sent for a constable."
"What?" Then Effington was gone, dressing down the unfortunate person who'd made the report.
Oh, this is just peachy.
She surveyed the scene. It'd been pretty pleasant until the gun appeared. There'd been ample food and delectable gossip. The main topics had swirled around Sir Charles Warren's bloodhound tracking experiments in Hyde Park and the inquests of the latest Whitechapel victims. To hear the upper crust talk, you'd think that the West End was next on Jack the Ripper's itinerary.
Unaware that Cynda was not a contemporary, Lady Sephora had patiently coached her in the niceties of London society as a courtesy to someone supposedly from New York. Although she'd done her best, Cynda found Victorian high society too stilted for her comfort. Despite the bluebloods, the promise of a multi-course meal, and the sumptuous surroundings, she'd been truly bored. At least until she'd nailed Defoe.
Subtle, Lassiter. Really subtle.
She took in the scene again, taking mental notes for the report she'd inevitably file with her boss in 2057. T.E. Morrisey would want all the gory details, along with an explanation as to why she felt the need to be so "bold," as the Victorians would put it.
How do I explain this? Gee boss, your business partner, your best friend, just tried to kill someone and bugger history in the process.
She groaned at the thought. This was off the rails.
At the far end of the long room, near the fireplace and below the now-flawed portrait of his dour and sizeable mother, was the Prince of Wales, the future Edward the Seventh. He was surrounded by a group of grave men in evening garb. Known for his appreciation of the fairer sex, the prince's thickly lidded eyes were situated not on the men around him, but on a cluster of ladies nearby, each resplendent in a gown of unimaginable opulence. Then his gaze moved in her direction, followed by a faint nod. She returned it out of courtesy.
He thinks I saved his life.
Which didn't make sense. According to the Victorian timeline, there had never been an attempted assassination of His Royal Highness at a dinner party in Mayfair.
On the other side of the room, a pair of women busily fanned an elderly woman of immense girth who had sunk onto a couch, lolling back in a faint. She was clad in a rather unfortunate shade of orange, like a prize Halloween pumpkin.
Sephora held out a glass of sherry. Cynda shook her head. "Can I have some tea?" She noted that no one but her friend came close, as if her behavior were somehow communicable.
"Certainly. I'll see what I can do." Sephora downed the liquor and went for another, evidence the event had rattled even her usually unshakable composure.
At the door was a queue of couples keen to depart after the entertainment. As they waited, they shot nervous glances in her direction. One young woman was weeping on her escort's shoulder. Others just stared.
"Miss?"
She looked up into the eyes of a young man with a pinched face and small wire-rimmed glasses.
"Yes?"
"The prime minister offers his gratitude."
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