Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 9

Infuriatingly, Kit found herself responding to Strathmore's kiss. It was madness when they were sprawled on an icy roof and she had just committed a capital crime, yet the man's humor and sensuality were irresistible. His arms were a warm haven against the cruel night, his mouth and teasing tongue an invitation to erotic pleasures.

As her body softened, he released his steely grip and began caressing her. Even with layers of winter clothing between them, her skin tingled wherever he touched her. One large hand glided over her hip and under her coat, then began stroking the small of her back with a gentle rhythm that eased her tense muscles. Inch by inch, lips and hands and torso, she yielded, instinctively molding her body to his.

She didn't realize that he had tugged her shirt loose from her breeches until his bare hand touched her naked back. It would have been one more sweet delight if his fingers hadn't been ice cold. Mood shattered, she gave a squeak of shock and broke away. "This is absurd," she said crossly, as if she hadn't been an enthusiastic participant. "You can stay here if you like, but I'm getting off this roof before I freeze to death."

He raised his hand and brushed her cheek with gossamer tenderness. "I'll keep you warm."

As he tried to draw her face down for another kiss, she hastily pushed herself upright and sat back on her heels against the chimney. He was different tonight, moving and speaking with a lazy deliberation unlike the focused intensity of earlier occasions. Guessing the reason why, she said tartly, "You're drunk. No wonder you're behaving like an idiot."

He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "Not… not drunk," he said with precision. "Nitrous oxide."

That explained why she hadn't tasted alcohol when they kissed. "Degenerate," she muttered. "Though what else could one expect of a Hellion?"

"It's interesting stuff," he protested. "Makes one very frank. And frankly, my little felon, I want you." He sat up and reached for her again. "I've never kissed a criminal before."

She didn't know whether to laugh or push him down the slates. She settled for batting his hand away. "I'm not little-I'm as tall as many men. Now I'm going to take the rope and get down before whoever lives in this house hears us scampering overhead and sends for the watch."

He laughed. "The watch has too much sense to be out oh a night like this."

"Then we should show equal sense," she retorted. "Are you capable of climbing down without breaking your neck?"

He considered carefully. "I think so."

It was not a reassuring statement, but his strength and instinct for self-preservation and athletic skill had saved him before. Since climbing down the back of the house would put them in a walled garden, she took one end of the rope, checked that it was still securely tied to the chimney, then crawled to the side of the house that overlooked the alley.

No one was in sight and the windows were dark, so she wrapped the rope around her waist and prepared to descend. "When I reach the ground, I'll tug on the rope twice," she said to Strathmore, who had followed her. "Then you come down, and for heaven's sake, be careful."

After the tricky maneuver of swinging from roof to rope, she descended in a controlled slide, her leather gloves protecting her hands from being rasped raw. She reached the ground safely, only to slip on a patch of ice directly under the rope. Luckily she was still holding onto the line, which kept her from falling.

She stepped away cautiously, then signaled to Strathmore. As soon as he was on the ground, she would be away at a speed that would do credit to a frightened hare. The tipsy earl would be on his own, and good riddance.

He made the descent so quickly that she wondered about the condition of his bare hands. Telling herself that it was none of her concern, she gathered herself for flight. Then Strathmore hit the ice below the rope and went down hard. She winced at the violence of the impact. "Are you all right?"

"I believe so." He started to rise, then went down again as his right ankle folded under him. "Then again, maybe I'm not."

"Damn!" Kit said with feeling. "Have you broken your leg?"

"I don't think so." He probed the limb in question. "This ankle gives way whenever it's abused. In a day or two it should be fine." With the aid of the rope he pulled himself up, then leaned heavily against the wall of the house.

"Does it hurt badly?"

"My dear, nothing hurts at the moment." He chuckled. "I could have my foot hacked off with a dull knife and not notice. If I'm ever forced to submit to the surgeon's knife, I intend to saturate myself with nitrous oxide first." He took a cautious step and went down to his knee. "However, though my ankle doesn't hurt, it's showing a certain stubbornness about walking."

Kit sighed. "I'll help you to Lord Mace's front door. Please don't knock until I've had a chance to get away."

"I appreciate the offer," he said politely, "but I'd really rather not return to Mace's house."

"If you stay outside in your condition without so much as a cloak to keep you warm, you'll be dead before dawn," she pointed out, trying to hold on to her temper.

"I live about two blocks away. Don't worry, I can hobble that far on my own." He attempted to demonstrate and almost fell again. If not for the wall, he would have.

Resigned, Kit slung his right arm over her shoulders. He was very large and very solid. "I'll help you home, if you think you can stay out of further trouble for that long."

"No guarantees, my dear." In spite of everything, there was laughter in his voice.

Trying not to think of the lean, hard length of his body, she headed toward the street. They must look like two drunks helping each other home. "If you hadn't interfered," she said acidly, "I would have been able to leave at my leisure and escape with my rope. Now I'll have to buy a new one."

"I'll buy you another." He considered. "Then again, maybe I won't. The last thing I want is to encourage you in your life of crime. Not that you need any encouragement. I'd wager that you didn't ask for directions to my house since you already found out where it is while planning your burgling schedule. Am I right?"

Since he was, she didn't dignify the remark with an answer.

At first he kept up a flow of nonsensical chatter, but soon he fell silent, his breath becoming more labored. At least the vile weather meant the streets were deserted.

Half a block from their destination, they hit another patch of ice and both of them went down. Kit wasn't hurt, but the earl gave a sharp gasp. As she helped him up, he panted, "The effect of the nitrous oxide is wearing off. Unfortunately."

The last two hundred yards seemed endless. When they finally reached his house, she frowned at the high marble steps. "I'll ring for your servants. It will take a couple of footmen to get you up to the door."

"There's a better way," he panted. "Down the alley."

By the time they reached a ground-level door at the rear of the house, she was so tired that she wasn't sure who was supporting whom. When he ordered, "Turn your back for a moment," she obeyed without even trying to cheat and steal a peek.

There was a sound of rasping stone, followed by a key grating in a lock. She turned back, curiosity revived. "If you keep a key hidden behind a brick, you must do this regularly. Why don't you use the front entrance like a proper earl?"

"I like to come and go unobserved sometimes." He opened the door into a drab hall lit by a small oil lamp.

"I'm beginning to think you're as big a sneak as I am." She helped him inside, thinking that it was dangerous to feel such comradeship with a suspect. "Since there's a cane in the corner, I assume that you can get upstairs on your own." She lifted the cane and handed it to him. "Good night, Lord Strathmore."

She had left escape too late. Before she could take a step, a long, powerful arm wrapped around her waist, stopping her in her tracks. "Not so fast, my felonious friend."

She tensed for battle, but he said reassuringly, "Truce, my dear, at least for tonight. It would be ungentlemanly to turn you over to the law when you saved my life."

"Then what do you want?" she asked warily.

"I want you to come upstairs and warm yourself so that you don't end up frozen in a gutter somewhere."

The earl was right; now that his warm body was no longer draped over her, she was shivering uncontrollably. After he closed and locked the door, she accompanied him up the stairs.

Though Strathmore leaned heavily on the cane, he managed quite well without Kit's help. She wondered if he had exaggerated his injury in order to get her to come with him. Very likely; it was obvious the earl was devious-exactly the sort of villain she was hunting for.

Yet in spite of her misgivings, she could not fear him. She felt an odd kind of rapport between them, a sense that they were kindred spirits. Rationally, she knew that the feeling was an illusion brought on by her need for companionship. She had never been good at being alone, and it was hideously tempting to turn her problems over to someone else. If only she dared trust Strathmore! She might take the risk if hers was the only life at stake, but she could not gamble with the safety of another.

Yet even if the earl was a monster, for tonight she was safe; rescuing him had given her a margin of grace. She winced at the memory of her terror when he was sliding to his death. Alarming and inconvenient Strathmore might be, but she didn't want him dead.

When they reached the next floor, he led her to the library, where the coals of a banked fire glowed. Kit went to the fireplace and knelt to build up the fire while Strathmore used the lamp to light a branch of candles. Then he limped to a cabinet and brought out a brandy decanter and two glasses. He poured a generous measure into each glass and emptied his in a single gulp. After refilling it, he sat in one of the wing chairs that bracketed the fireplace and began to wrestle with his boots. The left one came off easily, but the one on his injured leg proved more difficult.

Once the fire was burning briskly, Kit took a mouthful of brandy. The potency made her blink, but it certainly was warming. After a more cautious sip, she went to help the earl.

As she bent to grasp the boot, she felt a light touch on her head as he pulled her scarf down around her shoulders. "This is finally your real hair color, isn't it? Pretty."

She looked up and her breath caught. His eyes were golden, the warmth more intoxicating than brandy.

Trying to sound nonchalant, she said, "It's merely light brown, as undistinguished as hair can be."

He brushed back the strands which had escaped from the knot at her nape. "You do your hair a disservice. It's like shot silk, shimmering with streaks of amber and bronze."

She shivered when his fingertips grazed her temple. As a rake, he was first class. Determinedly she bent and tugged at his boot, but without success. Hearing his sharp, painful inhalation, she said, "It might be best to cut this off."

"And ruin my best pair of top boots?" he said, scandalized. "Try again. I'll survive."

Kit shrugged, then pulled with all her strength, almost landing on the floor when the boot suddenly came off. A spasm crossed his face and he bit off an oath.

Gently she touched the swollen ankle. "Are you sure this isn't broken?"

"Quite." He removed his cravat and used it to fashion a crude bandage around the ankle. Then he pulled up an upholstered stool and rested his injured leg across it. "As I said, this has happened before. It's only a sprain."

"A pity you don't have any more nitrous oxide to blot out the pain."

He made a face. "It was an interesting experience, but not one I care to repeat. Nitrous makes one lose control, which is not a state I enjoy."

"That news does not surprise me." Feeling a need to fuss, she found a folded blanket on the sofa and spread it over the earl. Then she took off her damp coat and scarf, retrieved her glass and settled in the chair on the opposite side of the fire.

Strathmore slouched back with a sigh. "What a very strange night this has been." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I must congratulate you on your lying. I pride myself on being able to read people well, but you certainly fooled me at Chiswick's house. What the devil are you really up to?"

Her mouth tightened. "I should have known that you invited me in for an interrogation. It would have been wiser to take my chances with the cold."

"I'd have to be dead not to be curious," Lucien said dryly. "You were very convincing as a distressed sister. Do you really have a brother?"

She glanced down at the glass in her hands. "If I was convincing, it was because there was a… a core of emotional truth in what I said. However, the story was false. I have no brother, in the army or otherwise."

"Then why are you stalking the Hellions?"

She looked up again, her expression challenging. "Why should I answer your questions?"

"Does the fact that I am twice your size and notoriously ruthless count for anything?"

Sudden laughter lit her grave face. "Not tonight, my lord. Quite apart from having called a truce, you can't move fast enough to catch me."

He gave her a ferocious scowl. "It's a sad day when a man can't get any respect in his own home."

When she laughed again, he asked softly, "Who are you?"

She almost answered, but caught herself. "Diabolical man! Trying to disarm me with humor." She set her brandy glass down with a clink. "But you won't catch me that easily.'"

"Ah, well, it was worth a try." His levity faded. "There may be a truce between us tonight, but I can't allow you to continue your criminal activities. Quite apart from being illegal, housebreaking is a damned dangerous pastime."

"If you're so moral, why are you a Hellion?"

He had wondered when she would point that out. "I'm not an official member of the club, though I will be soon."

Surprised, she said, "Why are you bothering to join? That lot hardly seem to be your sort."

"I have friends of many kinds. The Hellions are amusing, in an uncomplicated way. For more cerebral companionship, I look elsewhere." He regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. "My excuse is low tastes, but what is your interest in the group? You've been amazingly persistent."

Indecision on her face, she rose and began prowling about the room, moving with lithe, unconscious grace. The masks she had worn in their previous encounters had dropped away to reveal a glimpse of the real woman.

Yet still she was a paradox. In his work he had met more than his share of daredevils-usually male but sometimes female-who thrived on danger and taking risks. Jane was not one of that number, for she seemed to find no pleasure in her bold feats. There was a diffidence about her that was very real, yet it was coupled with the steely, bone-deep strength that had sent her into the lions' den time and time again.

Decision made, she swung around to face him. "Since there is a truce between us, and you are not yet an initiated Hellion, I will tell you the truth. You show signs of a conscience-perhaps what I say will persuade you to withdraw from the group."

The nitrous oxide must still be affecting him, for he said irrepressibly, "The truth will be a pleasant change."

She scowled. "This is not a laughing matter. I am a journalist. I write essays and articles for several periodicals. I have been working on an expose of the Hellion Club. In theory it is no worse than any other group of privileged, debauched men, but I have received information that some of their practices surpass the wickedness of the original Hellfire Club."

"Such as?"

"Kidnapping and murdering innocent young girls as part of their ceremonies," she said bluntly.

He sobered instantly. "Appalling if true."

"I'm quite sure it's true."

He thought of the members he knew. Impossible to believe that young Lord Ives, for examples, would condone ritual murder. "I have trouble believing that most of the Hellions would participate in such activities."

"You're probably right. I think that the viciousness is limited to an inner circle."

"The Disciples?"

She gave him a hard look. "You are familiar with them?"

"I know only that the Disciples exist, not their identities or what their purpose is. Do you think they are using the larger group to disguise their activities?"

"Exactly. I have some evidence, but I want more before I write my article."

"What kind of evidence have you found?"

"I met a girl who managed to escape from where she was being held prisoner. She told me what she had heard from her abductors and from some of the servants. Because her information was limited, I have been trying to learn more."

He drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "It's rare enough for a young woman to be a journalist, but to pursue a topic like this strains credulity."

"In other words you think I'm lying again?" she snapped. "If there were more female journalists, there would be more writing on such subjects. England is full of women and children who have been brutalized, a situation many men consider normal."

Her words burned with conviction. They also produced a faint echo in the back of his mind. Something he had read… "What is your name? Perhaps I have seen some of your articles."

"Since no female essayist would be taken seriously, I write under several different names, depending on the publication."

That was plausible; most of the scribblers who wrote for the diverse, lively popular press had multiple identities. "I read widely. What is a name that you use regularly?"

She hesitated. "Do I have your word not to reveal it?" After he nodded, she said, "For the Examiner, I am L. J. Knight."

"Good God!" he exclaimed. The weekly newspaper she named was noted for its courage and reforming zeal; in fact, the two brothers who edited it were currently in jail for their disrespectful treatment of the Prince Regent. "L. J. Knight, the radical firebrand, is a young woman?"

"One doesn't need to be either male or old to see that there are many things in our society that need changing. In fact, my youth and sex are advantages, for I see the world differently from male writers," she said coolly. "I was twenty when I first submitted an essay to the Examiner. Leigh Hunt bought it immediately and asked for more."

Still not quite believing her, Lucien said, "I'm surprised that I've never heard that L. J. Knight is female."

"I communicate with Leigh Hunt and my other editors by post or special messenger."

Wanting to test her, he said, "I thought you were a bit hard on Lord Castlereagh in that piece you did on him last summer."

"You have confused me with another journalist. I've never written about the foreign minister." The ironic gleam in her eyes showed that she had recognized the attempted trap.

He considered more brandy, but decided that he needed all of his wits. "Have you learned much by burgling the Hellions?"

"Not as much as I would have if you didn't continually get in the way," she said, humor tempering her exasperation. "However, housebreaking is only part of my investigation. Evidence is mounting, and soon I'll be ready to write my piece."

"What have you learned?"

She shook her head. "I would be a fool to say more."

He studied the slim, feminine figure with respect. It took courage to challenge wickedness armed with only a pen. "My dear, you are a constant source of surprises."

"As are you. For a professional wastrel, you have a remarkably inquisitive mind." She cocked her head. "Do you call all women 'my dear'?"

"Only those I like. Which is quite a number, actually."

"One would expect that of a rake."

"I said like, not lust after," he said dryly. "Those are two entirely different things."

"It's rare, I think, for men to genuinely like women. Why are you different?"

"When I was a child, my closest companion was female," he replied after an infinitesimal pause. "Besides, I still don't know your true name, so 'my dear' is safely neutral."

She smiled a little. "I actually am named Jane."

"Lydia Jane Knight? Or Louise or Laura?"

"I've told you as much as I intend to, my lord, so you can stop asking questions." She gave him a level look. "Now that I've told you the truth, do you understand why I have been investigating the Hellions?"

"Yes, but I still don't approve. You're playing with fire."

"Then perhaps I'll burn." She stood and donned her coat, which had been gently steaming by the fire. "So be it. Good night, my lord."

As she started wrapping her scarf around her head, Lucien hauled himself from his chair, grabbed his cane, and limped over to her. "Not yet. As I said once before, I want to see you again. Where do you live?"

She sighed. "You're very persistent."

"It's a quality you should understand. And that is hardly the only thing we have in common." He raised his free hand and gently stroked the tender curve of her jaw with his knuckles. "We are not enemies, you know."

She stepped back. "I am less sure of that than you."

"Can you deny that there is an attraction between us?"

"Even I am not that good a liar," she said sardonically. "But attraction is a small, unimportant thing. It may be hard for you to believe that a woman can be more interested in justice and the life of the mind than in men, but that is the case with me. We live in different worlds, Lord Strathmore."

"Is this small and unimportant?" He drew her into his arms and kissed her, not with the drug-hazed delight he had felt on the rooftop, but with the emotions that had been building since they had met. Passion, yearning, hope.

Her hands came to rest on his forearms, opening and closing spasmodically as his hand circled her breast. Through the layers of fabric he felt her nipple hardening against his palm. She filled his senses, touch and sound and scent.

When he bent his head to kiss her throat, she whispered, "Don't, Lucien. I… I can't afford to be distracted by desire. You're just giving me more reasons to avoid you."

The delicious sound of his name on her lips obliterated the sense of her words. When she took a halfhearted step backward, he followed, then gasped as agony jolted through his forgotten ankle. "Damnation!" Sweat fuming his brow, he caught a chair to save himself from falling. "Remarkable how pain overcomes lust."

"If I'd known that, I'd have been tempted to kick you in the ankle earlier." Pulling her coat tightly around her, she headed for the door. "It's time for me to go."

He lifted a lamp and followed her. "I'll light you out." He gave her a smile that was as dangerously seductive as his kisses. "With a cane in one hand and a lamp in the other, there isn't much I can do in the way of seduction. Though if I think about it, perhaps I could come up with something."

"Then don't think about it," she said. Yet when they reached the stairs, she silently took the lamp so he could grasp the railing. It was another example of the odd way they worked together, an instinctive harmony she had known with only one other person.

They did not speak until they reached the side door. He turned the key in the lock, but kept one hand securely on the knob as he asked, "Where do you live, Jane?"

In the lamplight, his eyes were lucent gold. She was no match for a man like this, she thought despairingly. He was a master of mysteries she had never learned, and he used his knowledge with ruthless gentleness, beguiling rather than compelling her.

Knowing she must leave before her last grain of sense disappeared, she said rapidly, "Wardour Street. I have a flat at number 96. But what I said earlier was the truth, Lord Strathmore. There is no place in my life for you."

"Places can be created." He released the doorknob and stepped back, allowing her to slip past him.

The weather was even worse than earner. Luckily her destination was only a few blocks away. As she made her way through the silent streets, she found herself wondering again what it would be like to be free to reciprocate his interest. If his intentions were honorable, not villainous… if she successfully completed her mission--

Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not imagine them together in any meaningful way. She had played a variety of roles and would play more, but none of her identities belonged in the Earl of Strathmore's wealthy, glittering world.