About the Author
Jana Oliver admits a fascination with all things mysterious, usually laced with a touch of the supernatural. An eclectic person who has traveled the world, she loves to pour over old maps and dusty tomes, rummaging in history’s closet for plot lines. When not writing, she enjoys Irish music, Cornish fudge and good whiskey.
Jana lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and two cats: Midnight and OddsBobkin.
Visit her website at: www.janaoliver.com
Photograph by Jennifer Berry, Studio 16
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Time Rovers ~ Book 2
JANA G. OLIVER
WWW. D R AG O N M O O N P R E S S . C O M
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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 frogmarched 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.
I appreciate that. Thank you. First the Prince, now the PM.
Next it’ll be the Pope.
A curt nod and the fellow retreated.
By the time the tea appeared, the prince had departed, as had the prime minister and his entourage. The remaining gentlemen were joking nervously and tugging at their collars. Every once in a while they would look over at her, shake their heads disapprovingly and return to their conversation. The only one to genuinely acknowledge her was Lord Wescomb, Lady Sephora’s husband. He gave her a quick wink. That made her smile.
Miss? A nondescript gentleman in a black suit approached, his face intense with concentration. He looked like a cop.
Cynda’s nerves ignited as she prepared to bluff her way through this mess.
Good evening, she said through a fake smile. Great party, isn’t it?
He crooked a brown eyebrow. I’m Inspector Hulme. I need to ask you some questions, miss.
I thought the little sandwiches were too salty.
The eyebrow rose a little higher. Miss?
The punch was really nice, though.
Miss…
Best get it over with. I’m sorry. Go on, Inspector.
Please tell me what happened, from your point of view.
Somebody just tried to rewrite history? We were about to go in for supper.
What happened then? he asked, penciling lines into a notebook. The sight made her wince. Rovers were not supposed to be part of history, and yet Home, or Holm, or whatever he was called, was busily putting her words on that piece of paper. Paper that might end up in a file for eternity.
The boss is going to blow a gasket over this.
She took a deep breath. I saw a gent with a gun.
Then what happened?
I threw myself at him.
Hulme frowned. Why didn’t you just raise the alarm?
I did, Cynda replied, irritated. There was no…male nearby, so I thought I could slow him down until someone could…ah…secure him.
I see. Do you usually act in such a rash manner?
You betcha. I’m an American. We’re…forthright, she replied, hoping that would serve as a suitable explanation. Behind the inspector, she saw Sephora’s anxious face. It had more color now.
Apparently, the sherry had helped.
Inspector Hulme issued a quick nod. Cynda felt sorry for the poor sod. He’d been brought into the middle of a dicey situation, as the Brits would say—one that could easily make or break his career.
The assassin spoke to you. What did he say?
He called me a fool.
Do you know him?
No choice but to lie. No, I don’t. Defoe had pioneered time travel; he knew the dangers of messing with history, and laid the ground rules for all Rovers. The man who’d pulled the gun was not the Defoe she knew.
Suddenly, another hideous thought reared its head. I would prefer my name not be in the newspapers, Inspector, she added.
His eyebrow crooked up again. You don’t wish to take credit for saving the prince’s life?
She shook her head emphatically. No, I don’t. I really don’t.
I think it’s only prudent, Inspector, Sephora chimed in. It is possible that the assassin was not alone in his plot. If Miss Lassiter’s name becomes emblazoned in the headlines, that might endanger her.
Cynda mentally thanked her friend, though it was entirely unlikely that Defoe had any accomplices. Rovers were loners by nature.
The inspector nodded thoughtfully. I shall do what I can to see you are left unnamed.
Thank you, Inspector, Cynda replied, and meant it. That might cut Morrisey’s displeasure a notch or two.
Just a Visitor, Never a Participant. Or at least that’s what they taught you in Rover School. In her experience, that was pure bull.
As the cop headed toward the group of men to hear their version of the incident, Sephora sat next to Cynda. Don’t worry, dear. It’ll get straightened out.
Hope so. How’s our hostess?
Taken to her bed, from what I hear. They’ve called for a doctor.
Cynda let out a stream of air through pursed lips. So much for a quiet evening.
It took some time before Inspector Hulme was satisfied. Once that moment had been reached, Cynda was allowed to leave with the admonition that she shouldn’t travel beyond London until the investigation was concluded.
We will need you for the trial, Hulme said, handing over one of his cards.
Trial? Cynda managed to squeak out.
Of course. We will need your testimony to convict this anarchist.
Harter Defoe in the dock?
It couldn’t happen.
There were hushed murmurs as she exited the house with the Wescombs. Near the front door she encountered the stone-faced butler, the fellow who’d taken the brunt of their host’s displeasure.
Good evening, Miss, he said. The dull sadness in his eyes told her that there was going to be hell to pay once the guests cleared out.
Good evening, she returned.
Thank you for what you did, he added in a lowered voice.
Behind them, Effington’s voice rose in angry protest, followed by the inspector’s equally vehement response.
Lord Wescomb glanced over his shoulder at the arguing pair and chuffed. Quite a dramatic scene. It’ll be the talk of the town by morning.
I suspect we will be persona non grata for a time, Sephora remarked once they were seated inside the Wescombs’ coach.
She turned toward Cynda. Is that how things are done in New York, then?
Cynda groaned. Not usually. I am so sorry. I just saw the gun and reacted.
I must caution you against such rash behavior in future, Lord Wescomb said with a deep frown. You could have been mortally injured. You should have left it to the men.
Wescomb was right, though not for the reason he believed. If she’d been mortally injured, her interface would have triggered the Dead Man Switch, as they called it, and she would have transferred to 2057 in front of forty-plus highbrow Victorians.
That would require a fix of epic proportions.
Sephora’s next question brought her back to the present.
How did he get into the party in the first place? Is he a friend of the Effingtons?
Her husband shook his head. Our host didn’t know him, and he wasn’t on the guest list. The butler had no notion how he got inside.
Not a problem for a Rover. Transfer in, give yourself a few minutes to adjust and you’re at the party. All you need is an empty room.
Do you really think he was after the prince? Sephora asked, smoothing her gown and then tucking her hands under the mantelet for warmth.
Don’t know, Lord Wescomb replied. There was a fine selection of notables there, any one of them worth a bullet.
John!
I’m serious, Sephora. However, I did find it amusing where the missile lodged, he added with a grin. I bet HRH thought the same. Probably wanted to do that for years. Can you imagine waiting around for your mum to die so you have a job?
John!
For a hereditary peer, Lord Wescomb was remarkably republican in sentiment. Cynda sniggered, appreciating the comic relief.
Wescomb adjusted his waistcoat over a slight paunch. I suspect that keeping your name out of the papers won’t prove too difficult.
Sephora turned toward him. I would have thought it would have been just the opposite.
Wescomb huffed and tugged on the waistcoat again, frowning in his wife’s direction. What man wants to admit that a young slip of a girl prevented an assassination while he was busy eyeing the ladies and snorting his host’s liquor? It does nothing for our reputation as gentlemen.
Sephora adopted a quizzical look. Where were you when it happened, then?
He cleared his throat. A call of nature, he muttered. Lady Wescomb tittered, causing her husband to glower at her.
Cynda looked out the window. Pity I wasn’t off powdering my nose.
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