Dancing on the Wind Page 4

  "You may like scrawny females, but most men prefer a buxom wench with a bouncy backside." When he grinned, she said acidly, "You may think it's a joke, your bloomin' lordship, but that cotton stuffing puts three quid a week extra into my pockets."

  "I'm not laughing at you," he assured her. "I admire cleverness wherever I find it."

  She ducked her head, apparently discomfited by his compliment. In the silence that followed, he was very aware of her innate sensuality, which owed nothing to her fraudulent figure. He was close enough to see that the skin under her heavy paint was not pitted, and he guessed she was younger than he'd first thought. "You'd also be prettier without the paint."

  She raised her head and gave him a fulminating glance. "I didn't ask for your opinion, my lord. Believe me, I know me own business best."

  Her eyes were clear and light, though he couldn't identify the color in the dim light. Again experiencing a nagging sense of familiarity, he said, "I have the feeling I've seen you before. Have you ever been on the stage?"

  She looked horrified. "I may be a barmaid, but there's no call to be insulting."

  "Not all actresses are whores," he said mildly.

  "Most of 'em are."

  Before he could reply, a voice bellowed from the taproom, "Sally, where the 'ell are you?"

  She scooped up the bust improver, then ostentatiously turned away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to put me bosom back."

  He found that he was strangely reluctant to leave. Sally intrigued him, and he wanted to know more about her. The impulse was dismaying, for he had never been given to seducing servants. Lightly he said, "Tell Killer Caine that he's a lucky man."

  Yet as he left the tavern, he found himself hoping that Lord Mace would invite the barmaid to the next orgy, and that Lucien would be able to recognize her in a nun's robe.

  * * *

  Kit leaned back against the kegs, her heart racing. How could she have been so foolish as to trade quips with one of her suspects? Particularly Lord Strathmore, whose lazy-lidded eyes missed nothing, and whose charm made him doubly menacing. The tavern must be haunted by the bawdy spirit of some long-gone barmaid who had taken possession of Kit's wits and tongue, for she had been unable to refrain from bandying words with him.

  It must not happen again. Though Strathmore had not recognized her as the chambermaid from Bourne Castle, he had thought her familiar, and another meeting might be disastrous.

  She had come to the Crown and Vulture because she thought that an evening working among the Hellions would give her a better understanding of their individual characters. The usual barmaid, Bella, had not wanted to miss such a lucrative party, but Kit had promised to pass along whatever tips she would receive and five pounds over that.

  Tempted but wary, Bella had asked why a lady would want to do such a thing. Without so much as blinking, Kit had spun a glib tale about being the sister of one of the Hellions, and having made a wager that she could disguise herself so that her own brother wouldn't recognize her.

  Amused by the idea, Bella had told Kit what to do, then introduced her as a cousin who would substitute that night since Bella was feeling poorly. On the whole, the evening had gone well. Kit's witticisms had disguised her lack of experience, and no one had suspected that she was a fraud.

  "Sally!" the owner bellowed again. "Stop lazing in there and start cleaning the back room."

  After molding the bust improver into a convincing shape, she wearily went back to work. It was exhausting to play a part so different from her own nature, but at least, she thought sourly, she was getting used to being mauled by amorous, drunken men. Soon she would be an expert at escaping unwanted embraces.

  What would it be like to be kissed by Lord Strathmore? He would smile at her with those amused green-gold eyes, and his touch would be light and sure. A woman might not want to escape him....

  The thought made her shiver and quicken her step. One thing she knew: he would not be like the others.

  * * *

  After Kit had cleaned the empty back room, she returned to the main taproom. A few tenacious souls still slouched on settles by the fire. She was preparing to leave when a customer rose and approached. Her wariness dissolved when she recognized the burly, powerful figure. With a surge of hope, she said, "You're up late, Mr. Jones. Have you news for me?"

  He shook his head. "Nary a thing since our last talk. I came to escort you home."

  Swallowing her disappointment, she murmured, "Bless you. I wasn't looking forward to walking the streets alone."

  He cast an amused eye over her as she drew on her cloak. "You've grown, lass. I scarcely knew it was you."

  She smiled faintly. "That was the general idea."

  He lit the lantern he had brought and held the door open for her. Outside, she shivered and pulled her cloak closer against the chilling mist. "I'll go to Marshall Street tonight."

  He nodded and they set off side by side, their way illuminated by the dim glow of the lantern. When they were well clear of the tavern, he asked, "Did you learn anything useful?"

  "Only in a general sense. Most of the Hellions seem fairly harmless. My guess is that Chiswick, Mace, Nunfield, Harford, and Strathmore are most dangerous. The first four have a kind of coldness that makes them seem capable of any kind of wickedness." She paused to circle a particularly dank puddle. "I don't know what to make of Strathmore. There is something menacing about him, yet he was ready to intervene when one of the younger men cornered me in the keg room."

  Mr. Jones muttered a blistering oath. "You shouldn't be putting yourself in a position where you must suffer such insults, miss."

  Her mouth tightened. "I hope you are not going to waste our time by trying again to change my mind."

  "I should know better than that by now, shouldn't I?" he said wryly. "Don't discount Strathmore. He may have had a chivalrous moment, but of all that lot, he has been the hardest to investigate. All of my inquiries have come to dead ends. The man's a mystery, and that makes him dangerous."

  "Your report said that Strathmore hasn't been involved with the Hellions for long, so probably he isn't the man we want."

  "He's been with them long enough," Jones said grimly. "Not long ago, he killed two footpads, one of them with his bare hands. At least, he claimed they were footpads. You keep your distance from him, miss."

  She shivered a little, remembering the earl's feline eyes. "I intend to." After that, there was nothing more to say. When they reached the little house on Marshall Street, Kit invited Mr. Jones to have a quick drink against the cold, but he declined.

  "If I don't get home soon, my Annie will become suspicious." He gave a deep, rumbling laugh as he lit Kit's candle from his lantern. "She thinks that other women find me irresistible. Does my old heart good."

  "You'll let me know if...?"

  "Aye," he said gently. "If I learn anything at all, I'll notify you immediately."

  Kit locked the door after him, then leaned against it for a moment, feeling the silent rooms welcome her. As always, her wrenching fears subsided, and it was possible to believe that everything would be all right.

  She straightened when a small warm body stropped her ankles, purring loudly. "Don't try to turn me up sweet, Viola. You're only interested in your supper."

  Kit boosted the plump tabby cat onto her shoulder, then took the candlestick and made her way to the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. The flat was small but comfortable, with a sitting room and one bedroom. The upper floor of the house contained a similar apartment and was home to actress Cleo Farnsworth. Though Cleo was actually a little younger than Kit, she was a warmhearted soul who mothered both Kit and Viola.

  After feeding the cat, Kit built a small fire and wearily undressed. The flat's most unusual feature was a full wall of built-in closets. After hanging her garments, Kit opened the left closet, revealing several shelves of blank plaster heads. All but one supported a wig—all colors, all lengths, all styles.

  With relief, Kit remov
ed the garish red wig and ran her fingers through her own matted light brown hair. It was equally a relief to remove the padded forms that altered her figure and store them in the next closet, then scrub off her face paint.

  Finally, she crawled into bed, where Viola was already snoozing on one pillow. As she waited for sleep, Kit prayed that her dreams would bring the inspiration she desperately needed.

  * * *

  The old man raised his bushy brows when he admitted his visitor. "I'd not have recognized you, my lord. You look like a lamplighter."

  "Good. That is what I was trying for." Lucien took off his shapeless cap. "Thank you for receiving me so late."

  The old man chuckled as he ushered his guest into the library. "A moneylender grows accustomed to odd hours, for there are many who don't want to be seen. What can I do for you, my lord? I'll not believe you have need of my services."

  "You're right—it's not money I need, but information." He withdrew a list from his pocket. "I'd like to know which of these men have had recourse to you or your colleagues. In particular, are there any who needed money only after the emperor abdicated last spring? Or who had occasionally borrowed before, but have needed more lately?"

  The old man gave a shrewd glance, but refrained from voicing his deductions. After studying the list, he said, "I'll talk to my colleagues and have some information for you soon." Setting the paper on his desk, he said slowly, "There is a small matter. I hesitate to mention it, but..."

  When his voice trailed off, Lucien said, "Yes?" encouragingly.

  "A young man who owes me a considerable sum of money said that in eastern and central Europe, people like me often become victims of mob violence. A riot, a fire, and in the ashes, all outstanding debts are canceled." He spread his hands, his face troubled. "He pretended it was a joke, but I do not think he meant it as one."

  Lucien frowned. "That has not happened in Britain for centuries, but a mob is unpredictable. What is the young man's name?" After it was given, he nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Very well. You need not fear—he won't trouble you again."

  The old man said uneasily, "What are you going to do? I would not want a life on my hands, even that of a vicious, greedy young swine."

  "Nothing so drastic. Besides, if he were dead, he would be unable to repay you. I know something that will persuade the fellow to behave as he ought."

  Looking relieved, the old man said, "Do you have time for a pot of tea, my lord?"

  "Not tonight. I've several other calls to make in the East End. I'll come again three nights from now." After a handshake, he disappeared into the night.

  As he returned to his library, the old man wondered what sort of calls the earl would be making. Then he shrugged and opened a ledger book. He doubted that his imagination would stretch that far.

  Chapter 5

  Lucien placed the jumping mechanism inside the silver figurine and studied the fit. A bit too close in one place. Removing the device, he took a jeweler's file and began rasping down the tight spot. He was making a christening gift for his friend Nicholas's expected child and wanted it to be special. He also knew from experience that the concentration required for such work allowed the lower reaches of his mind to stew away until disparate pieces of data formed new patterns.

  Unfortunately, tonight his lower mind was making no progress. He was accumulating dossiers on all of the Hellions, a composite of careful financial investigations plus his personal impressions. Yet he was no closer to knowing which of them might be a spy than the day he had begun this quixotic investigation.

  His only evidence was a report that had come from one of his agents in Paris. In the files of Napoleon's chief of intelligence, the agent had found several cryptic references to a valuable English source of information. One reference implied that the informant was a member of the Hellions Club. It was all Lucien had to work with. He assumed that the spy was motivated by greed rather than political ideals. That didn't help much; it turned out that half the Hellions had financial problems brought on by gambling and spending beyond their means.

  Lucien finished filing, then leaned back and stretched his cramped muscles. Usually he was patient when he had to be, but he felt unaccountably restless. He was getting tired of spending so much time with the Hellions. In the morning he would be leaving for another hunting party, this time at the estate of Lord Chiswick. While not an official Hellion activity, the half dozen other guests were all senior members of the group. They were not a stimulating lot; it took considerable effort on Lucien's part to blend in and behave like one of them.

  The image of the saucy barmaid at the Crown and Vulture passed through his mind. With a wry smile, he realized that his restlessness was more basic: his body yearned for a woman. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was eleven o'clock. Not too late to go to one of the discreet brothels that catered to men of wealth and discernment, where the women were warm and willing.

  He hesitated, torn between lust and prudence, before shaking his head. His need was not yet strong enough to make such indulgence worth what it would cost him.

  For the thousandth time, he wished that he was like other men and could bed a woman without emotional repercussions. Unfortunately, for him that was impossible.

  As a lustful youth, he had enthusiastically pursued the pleasures available to a man of wealth. Passion was so intoxicating that it had taken him years to recognize that sexual gratification was invariably followed by depression.

  An ancient epigram said post coitus, triste: after intercourse, sadness. But what Lucien felt went far beyond the sorrowful sense of mortality that other men sometimes experienced. His attacks of bleakness were deeper, and they lasted for hours, sometimes days.

  After probing the darker corners of his mind, he had concluded that the problem was the false illusion of intimacy provided by mating. When the encounter ended and he returned to his essential aloneness, desolation followed.

  Once he realized what a high price he was paying for a few minutes of pleasure, he had regretfully chosen a more monastic existence. Occasionally, when passion and his longing for closeness overwhelmed his self-control, he would seek out a woman. He always hoped that this time it would be different; that he would be able to give and receive pleasure and wake with a smile the next day. But that had never happened.

  His gaze went to the framed charcoal sketch of himself and his sister, Elinor, drawn two years before her death. The sketch had been dashed off by the artist who had come to Ashdown, the Strathmore estate, to do a formal oil portrait of the whole family. The painting was handsome, and it had a place of honor, but Lucien preferred the sketch, which did a better job of capturing Elinor's fey, delicate charm.

  He studied the two blond heads held so closely together. Both wore the carefree expressions of children who had been born of loving parents and who had never known want or cruelty. It was hard sometimes to remember that he had ever been so happy.

  Face tight, he bent over his workbench and reached for his narrowest screwdriver. With enough concentration, he could lose himself again.

  * * *

  Kit had practiced Henry Jones's instructions diligently, and it took her only a few minutes to pick the simple lock on the French doors. After slipping into the dark library, she held her breath and listened hard. Soprano giggles sounded in the distance. Lord Chiswick was nothing if not hospitable; he had brought ten whores all the way from London to entertain his guests. The evening was young, so she should have time to search most of the guest rooms.

  She was becoming a better criminal; this time, illegal entry left her merely terrified rather than quivering with panic.

  Quietly she made her way up the backstairs to the guest rooms. She had been unable to obtain another chambermaid position, but her inquiries in the village had led her to a disgruntled former footman of Chiswick's. For a modest sum, the fellow had described the customs of the household and sketched a floor plan. He had also told her that Chiswick always brought doxies to his
house parties, to the scandal of the neighborhood.

  That had given Kit the idea of dressing like a tart and slipping into the house to continue her searches. A blond wig and a modified version of the padding and cosmetics she had worn as Sally made her look like a proper slut.

  Any guests who saw her would assume she was part of Chiswick's entertainment. She frowned when she saw that this time there were no cards to identify the occupants of the guest rooms. She would have to look for identification as she searched.

  Palms damp, she glided into the first room.

  * * *

  Lucien realized the orgy was beginning when the voluptuous redhead seated at his right climbed into his lap. "You look lonesome, ducks," she cooed. "Let Lizzie cure that." She twined her arms around his neck and gave him a wine-flavored kiss.

  She was a charming armful who reminded him of the barmaid Sally, though the cut of Lizzie's gown left no doubt that her curves were genuine. As the kiss lengthened, he considered accepting her offer. It had been a long time since he had had a woman—too long. Perhaps Lizzie's jolly directness would prevent him from slipping into melancholy afterward.

  But that was desire talking, he realized ruefully. Mindless coupling with a stranger produced the worst depressions. He would regret succumbing to temptation the instant it was over. His interest wasn't great enough to make it worthwhile.

  On the other hand, celibacy was conspicuous in the midst of an orgy. If he didn't participate, he must at least give the impression of doing so.

  Matters had progressed while he and Lizzie kissed. When a deep masculine groan issued from under the table, Lucien glanced down and saw a woman demonstrating her professional skills on Roderick Harford. His arms around two blondes, Chiswick was weaving his way into the adjacent drawing room, where the carpet was softer and the fire warmer. Nunfield lay on his belly sucking the toes of a dark-haired doxy. The other guests were also pairing off in various quiet corners.