Dancing on the Wind (7 page)

"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 removed 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.

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 Chis-wick'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 knew that 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.